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Happy Mothers Day from Evergreen Washelli

Friday, May 3rd, 2013

Feel free to drop by our Seattle location for your complimentary bookmark – Our way of helping you celebrate mom this Mothers day.

 mothers day poster

I’ll Celebrate Instead of Cry

                                               by Kelly Roper

Another Mother’s Day is here,
And I still miss having you near.
You were the best mom you could be,
And I never once doubted your love for me.

I could spend each Mother’s Day in sorrow,
Crying and wishing you were here,
But instead I choose to celebrate your life,
A life I still hold so dear.

I know you’d rather see me smile
Than stand here with tears in my eyes.
So I’ll do my best to honor your memory,
And you’ll live on as long as I am alive.

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Posted in Acknowledgments, Community, Grief, Uncategorized | Comments Off

A Pinch of Sand

Tuesday, October 30th, 2012

“Those who died on Omaha Beach on the longest day are not forgotten and still live in the hearts of free men everywhere”

Written by Gregory “Skip” Dreps

I was a geology student at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale in the 1960s before I was drafted into the Army for duty in Vietnam. I was asked by an instructor to find the richest known mineral deposit on Earth. It was a single question final exam that we had all term to answer. Little did I know that for weeks I searched for the answer with a forensic eye for value based on riches. Was it where there was diamonds, oil, uranium, gold or fossils?

The question begged to define the word richest and it wasn’t in the ground where I would find its answer, but in my heart.

I grew up in Chicago and was blessed that my public education included periodic visits by World War II veterans. There I learned that the most expensive piece of Earth was in France in a place called Normandy. I remember clearly a pinch of that sand was worth many a man’s life or limb, and on the longest day in history it was worth the world.

My argument was worth a passing grade my instructor lamented after the term, but it was clearly not the answer for a course in forensic geology. The instructor remarked it was an abstract solution and suggested I should change my major to philosophy. I postulated that if I had a sample from Omaha Beach, and a day with an electronic microscope, I could prove the sand contained the richest mineral deposit in the remains of war where the greatest price was paid for my freedom and a free world. It would be another twenty years until my proof was discovered.

Earle McBride and Dane Picard were traveling across France conducting geologic fieldwork in 1988 when they took time out to play tourists at Omaha Beach, site of one of the most ferocious battles during the D-Day invasion more than forty years earlier. It was a miserably cold and blustery day. They tarried just long enough to scoop a sample of beach sand into a little baggie.

McBride, a professor emeritus in the Jackson School of Geosciences at the University of Texas at Austin, collects sand pretty much any chance he gets. By analyzing sand from modern dunes, beaches and rivers from a wide range of sites around the world, he can link the mineral compositions of ancient sandstones to the kinds of environments that forged them.

A few years after the French trip, he put the beach sand under a microscope and discovered tiny metal shards mixed in with the ordinary bits of quartz and other materials that he expected to see. Those shards turned out to be shrapnel from the famous World War II invasion. On closer examination, he also found iron and glass beads that had resulted from the intense heat unleashed by explosions in the air and sand.

“It is of course not surprising that shrapnel was added to the Omaha Beach sand at the time of the battle, but it is surprising that it survived forty-plus years and is doubtless still there today,” wrote McBride and Picard, currently a professor emeritus at the University of Utah, in an article for Earth magazine last year.

In the early hours of June 6, 1944, more than 160,000 Allied troops poured from planes and ships onto the heavily fortified shores of Normandy, France. Omaha Beach was one of five Allied landing points along a fifty-mile (eighty-kilometer) stretch of coastline.

“The battles were bloody and brutal,” wrote McBride and Picard, “but by day’s end, the Allies had established a beachhead.” It proved to be the turning point of the war. McBride was just twelve years old in 1944. I had not yet been born.

To analyze the sand, McBride first mixed the tiny grains with a blue epoxy, making what amounted to artificial sandstone, and then sliced it into thin sections. Under an optical microscope operating in transmission mode (in which light passes through the sample), he could see opaque grains.

In the 1960s, detectives with the Texas Department of Public Safety brought Earle McBride a sample of sand collected from the pant cuff of a murder suspect. They wanted to know if the suspect had been to the Rio Grande. Within seconds, McBride could tell that the sand was from the Colorado River near Austin. Some telltale signs: It had pink potassium feldspar grains derived from granite in the Llano region, which are commonly found in the Colorado River but not in the Rio Grande; and there were no sand grains derived from volcanic rocks, something common in sands from the Rio Grande but not from the Colorado.

“Unfortunately, that wasn’t the answer the police wanted, so I got dismissed,” he said. “That was my first foray into forensic science.” McBride’s sand collection is carefully stored in hundreds of bags and bottles in row after row of metal drawers in the basement of the Jackson Geosciences Building.

Adding another light source to see reflected light, the grains of sand from Omaha Beach appeared shiny, an unusual feature for naturally occurring minerals. The shard-like angularity of the grains suggested these were not naturally formed. Ordinary ocean wave action along the shore tends to blunt sharp edges. Other tests showed the metal shards contained large amounts of iron and were magnetic. At this point, he had no doubt these were pieces of shrapnel.

McBride reported that four percent of the sand is made up of these bits of shrapnel, ranging in size from very fine to coarse (0.06 to 1 millimeter). Because the beach surface is continually being reworked by wind and waves, a sample taken on another day might have yielded a different abundance.

He also found trace amounts of spherical iron beads and glass beads. Some iron beads were broken, revealing hollow centers. Using a scanning electron microscope, he was able to study the shape, texture and size of all three explosively produced structure types in greater detail.

McBride and Picard published their full results in the September 2011 edition of The Sedimentary Record, a quarterly journal of The Society for Sedimentary Geology (SEPM).

“Today, the only visible indications of the horrific battles fought at Omaha Beach are some concrete casements above the beach and nearby cemeteries that quietly mark the thousands of lives lost,” wrote McBride and Picard.

Gone are the wrecks of planes, ships and tanks, the shell casings, the scraps of rotted boot leather, and all the other detritus of war long since spirited away by generations of beachcombers. And so it fell to a pair of geologists to pluck one last relic from the sand, hidden under the feet of thousands of tourists every year.

Unlike the global layer of radioactive fallout from the 1950s atomic bomb tests that geologists and others now use to calibrate their tools for dating geologic materials, the microscopic fingerprint of the D-Day invasion probably won’t endure long.

McBride says the iron-rich shrapnel shards could probably withstand the scouring action of waves alone for hundreds of thousands of years. But studying the shrapnel grains under high magnification, he observed particles of iron oxide, or rust, created by a chemical reaction between saltwater and iron. Waves churn the iron fragments, which rubs off some of the rust and exposes fresh material, which is more amenable to rusting, which in turn gets rubbed off, and so on.

“The net result is these things will get smaller and smaller and then finally get carried away by storms or hurricanes and be taken out of the beach,” says McBride, “so their time is numbered.”

“The combination of chemical corrosion and abrasion will likely destroy the grains in a century or so,” wrote McBride and Picard, “leaving only the memorials and people’s memories to recall the extent of devastation suffered by those directly engaged in World War II.”

My military experience took me to Normandy twice in the 1970s. The first time was when I was selected as a jumpmaster to re-enact the 30th anniversary of the D-Day parachute assault in Eindhoven. Following the jump, a couple of us earned a three-day pass and headed off to visit the American Cemetery in Normandy and visited Omaha Beach. We walked the 7,000 yards of pristine sand alone; it took us a couple hours and we hardly said a word. The experience was so overwhelming we all forgot to take some sand, but we left with a memory that we would never forget.

We walked on the most expensive beach in history. The price paid there could not be measured in the more than nine thousand white stones in the cemetery or the families that they left behind, or never had; or the way that they could have changed the world, but didn’t get a second chance; and the cost for that longest day could not be measured in the years it took to plan for that moment when the first boat in the first wave hit the beach that started to turn the ocean red.

My second time in Normandy was a year later after I finished French Commando training in Kiel. Another three days free, following training patterned after the tactics developed by the French Resistance in World War II, I was determined to see the beach again to give my body time to heal from the three week school in urban warfare that included a brutal course in escape and evasion. My other classmates went to Paris and I travelled alone across France.

This time I didn’t walk the beach; I just sat for a long time in one spot and watched the waves meet the sand. I wanted to focus into a single pointedness my memory of the moment so I would never forget. Soon I made contact of sound with the sense organ of the ear; then by contact of smell with the sense organ of the nose; by contact of taste with the sense organ of the tongue; by contact of touch with the sense organ of the body; and by contact of mental objects with the sense organ of the mind.

It became clear that each grain of sand on that empty beach was not inert, but filled with life. A life-energy had been burned into it with a countless baptism of heroic spirit. If I could see into a grain of sand the 360 degrees of cutting surface with an electronic microscope, then I would also see in a grain of Omaha Beach sand forensic evidence that there had been a great battle fought here. Looking at it with my mind’s eye, I could see countless faces between every degree in every grain and in every face there was a peaceful smile.

I returned to my unit and left France for my station in Italy without a grain of sand from the beach, but with a new sense of what was important in life. I was a richer man for the experience. My travels had taken me twice to a place that contained the richest minerals in the world in a single grain of sand on a beach that was miles long and feet deep. I felt like I gained the wisdom of the richest king in the Bible; the greatest gift in life is freedom and that is what each grain of sand from Omaha Beach means to me.

It is a great comfort to know that even if in a hundred years, or thousands, all the grains of sand on Normandy’s Omaha Beach that witnessed the longest day disappear and are replaced, purified by Nature, we will still remember in stone in the cemetery the sacrifice to make Omaha Beach sand the richest mineral on Earth. One day, far away, when Nature turns even that stone to sand and disappears from beach to ocean, our children’s children will still remember.

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Posted in History, Veterans | 1 Comment »

Reminding Teachers About A Loss

Sunday, August 26th, 2012

When dealing with a loss, going back to school can be especially difficult

Thank you to Hello Grief for this article 

As summer winds down, many families are preparing for the annual pilgrimage that is “Back to School” time. Some children and teens are excited for the new school year, some are nervous, and some are just unhappy to see their days of sleeping late come to an end. Regardless of where your kids fall on this spectrum, there are some additional things to take into consideration if they have had a loss. 

Many physicians, counselors, and friends will encourage a parent or guardian to speak with school personnel immediately following a death in the family. Taking time to do so can help teachers and administrators to understand the challenges your child may be facing upon their return to school, and help them to know when to reach out to the family. Teachers who are aware of a loss are more likely to be sensitive to a student’s feelings around particular holidays, such as Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, and help to present alternate activities when needed. 

But what if the loss was not recent? What if the loss occurred 4, 5, even 10 years ago? Children and teens continue to move through their own grief with each passing year. Something a parent or guardian can do to support this process is to meet with teachers and school administrators before the beginning of each school year. We may assume that the information about a child’s loss will be shared with new teachers, but this is often not the case. A new school year is hectic for teachers, just as it is for families, and all too often, this important information can be lost in the shuffle. As class sizes grow, school districts change, and new teachers are hired, it is important for each parent or guardian to act as an advocate for their child. 

As each year passes, children and teens will develop new understandings of their loss, and new realizations of how it impacts them. A child taking their first algebra class may feel pangs of regret that they never took up Dad’s offer to coach them on their math skills. A teen entering high school may realize for the first time that their big sister will not be there on the first day to help them find their locker. Things that cause mild anxiety for some students may manifest as huge stressors for a child or teen who has suffered a loss.  Making teachers and administrators aware of these losses can go a long way in making sure these grieving students are supported during their school year. 

If it isn’t possible to meet personally with your child or teen’s teachers, it can still be beneficial to share this information through a simple email or a letter. Even sharing the basics, such as who died, when the loss happened, and how your child or teen does/does not like to discuss it can be valuable information to a teacher. No matter how you share the information, it will offer an opportunity for teachers to better understand your child, and to be mindful of the loss during the school year. 

Most teachers and school administrators would prefer to know about any special challenges a student has, and grief can certainly be counted as such. Taking the time to be an advocate for your child or teen can help to set them up for a successful school year, every school year.

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How Did GRIEF Get an Expiration Date?

Monday, June 25th, 2012

Don't put a time limit on grieving

Thank you to Lynne B. Hughes and HelloGrief.org for this article

Certain things need an expiration date. Milk, eggs, mayonnaise, meat, fish… there is a time we need to be done with them, and throw them away… I get all that. But does grief have an expiration date? For some reason, there seems to be an acceptable shelf life—6-12 months—and then grief should be off the shelf, out of the home and permanently removed with the weekly trash service. If it was only that simple…

The “grief expiration date” myth must come from people who have never experienced a close death – otherwise they would know the truth. Everyone fears facing such a loss. They are hopeful that should death touch their world, it will only take 6-12 months to recover. No one wants someone they love to die. So, until faced with the reality, it’s easier to think ‘this won’t happen to me, AND if it does it will only be bad for a finite, short amount of time and then…there’s an expiration date and it is magically all gone.’ What a wonderful world that would be.

I’ve heard time and time again there is a societal expectation to “get over” grief in 6 months, and at the longest, a year. Those who aren’t grieving believe it, and often those who are also believe it – this sets grieving people up for false, and ultimately disappointing, expectations.

The one year mark looms like some golden carrot over the heads of those who are grieving. It is a symbol of hope that if they make it to the one year mark they will be in a much happier and pain free place.

The reality is they won’t be over it, nor should they be. If someone spent years loving another person, the pain of that person’s death simply will not be removed due to a date on the calendar.

The opposite actually might happen – people who are grieving may feel even more pain in year two because the initial numbness, which often serves as a protective barrier at the onset of loss, has worn off and they begin experiencing the full intensity of their feelings and grief. This is accompanied by the realization that life with loss is their “new normal.”

I lost my mother at 9 and father at 12. I remember feeling the expectation of a grief expiration date myself. I remember being 15, five years after my mother died and three years after my father died. If I had a tough day missing my parents, people looked shocked, or avoided the subject, or avoided me. Sometimes I would hear insensitive comments, like “aren’t you over that?” Or when someone experienced a more recent loss, I would get “Oh, poor [so and so]. What a tragic loss. Aren’t you glad you are over that now?”

I remember beating myself up and doubting how well I was coping. If you allow yourself to believe there is an expiration date for grief, you will start to think you aren’t doing well if you still miss your loved one 5, 10, 20, 40 years after the loss. In reality – it’s normal. And it’s okay.

This is what I know to be true:

Grief IS a life-long journey. An emotional handicap you get up, and live with everyday. It doesn’t mean you can’t lead a happy life, but it is a choice, and takes work.

The frequency and intensity of those grief pangs/knives should lessen over time, but the reality is every now and then for the rest of your life, you will feel those pangs. Everyone grieves at their own pace, and in their own way. There is no one way to grieve, and no certain order, and no timeline. There is definitely not an expiration date.

Grief will take on different forms in different people. Not everyone cries; others cry all the time. Some exercise a lot. Others talk about it a lot. Many seek counseling or join a support group, and enjoy the company of a good and understanding listener.

If years after your loss, thinking of your loved one missing a special day or milestone in your life, makes you sad, puts you in a funk, or makes you cry, don’t beat yourself up. Allow yourself the ability to grieve the loss of memories not created. As long as the frequency and intensity of grief eases—even if it is slowly over time—you are coping in positive ways. Alternatively, if years after the loss, you can’t bear the mention of your loved ones name, you sleep all day, you aren’t participating in your normal everyday activities, you do things to “numb” or escape your grief, those are warning signs that you are not coping well, and should seek the assistance you need to begin healing.

Grieving in a healthy manner, taking steps to move forward, and rebuild your life with a new normal, doesn’t mean you won’t have those tough days or tough moments.

There is no expiration date. Grief never fully goes away. That doesn’t have to mean you can’t and won’t live a happy and productive life. What it does mean is the love you shared with loved ones lost, doesn’t have an expiration date either.

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Promises to Keep

Wednesday, May 2nd, 2012

Thank you to HelloGrief.org for this article

Grieving is a very personal and individual experience

By Hello Grief

When I was a child traveling with my family by car, my mom would read billboards and street signs out loud. I don’t believe she knew she was doing it. Yet whether singing Gershwin while cooking brisket, or sharing her opinion on topics ranging from troop levels in Afghanistan to the strength of the Phillies bullpen, if Mom thought it, or read it, she said it.

This was especially true of issues she felt strongly about.

A few summers ago, while my mother and I were driving to my aunt’s vacation home on Long Beach Island, Mom paused from narrating billboards long enough to mention a book she recently read about end–of-life issues.

Even though I was driving, and Mom was in good health, she pulled the book from her beach bag and asked me to read it when I had time. She said it echoed her philosophy of keeping gravely ill patients well informed of their condition, so they could make meaningful treatment decisions. My mom believed that doctors and families were often biased towards extending life, even at the expense of a person’s quality of life, and she was not interested in such compromises.

Since this wasn’t the breezy summer conversation I was expecting, I nodded politely and reached for the radio. But before I touched the power button, Mom grabbed my hand, turned to face me directly, and said, “Cheryl, if I am ever in that situation I want you to promise me two things: first, that you will be honest with me no matter what.”

“And,” still holding my hand, “That you will pluck the hairs on my chin if I can’t do it myself.”

Never more eager for her to resume narrating billboards, I quickly assured her that I would follow her wishes, never imagining that a little more than two years later I would be called to honor them.

My mother was a healthy, vibrant, non-smoking, 67 years old when she was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer.  Only six-and-a-half months later she was dead.

It is still impossible to know whether it was the cancer, its treatment, or the side effects, that contributed to her swift, merciless decline. Because she fought so hard from the get-go, striving with all her might to make it two more years to celebrate her 50th wedding anniversary and her grandson’s Bar Mitzvah, Mom didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on death.

The moment I learned about her cancer, I vowed to myself to accompany her on this rocky march into mountainous territory in a way that allowed her to feel emotionally supported, physically cared for, and loved. And of course, to keep the promises I made just a few years earlier.

About two months into her treatment, I noticed that one of the steroids Mom was taking increased the growth of her facial hair. I agonized about mentioning something as seemingly insignificant as propagating chin hairs; after all, by this time she was too weak to walk to the bathroom, so I doubted she had looked in the mirror in weeks, and the thought of giving her even a moment’s worth of additional discomfort made me cringe. Yet I also knew Mom’s only two vanities were maintaining her Candy Apple Red fingernails, and fuzz-free chin.

So because I had those promises to keep, I went to the nursing home the following Sunday afternoon when I knew no one else would be visiting. I fed her a Wendy’s Chocolate Frosty – her favorite icy indulgence. Afterwards, I massaged her hands and feet with the Crabtree and Evelyn rose-scented lotion a friend had brought, and listened to her sensical and nonsensical musings with equal levels of interest.

Then I took a deep breath and asked,

“Mom, do you remember asking me to pluck your chin hairs if there was ever a time you couldn’t do it for yourself?”

Yes, she replied. And before I could utter another word, she pleaded with me to pull them out.

So I reached in my purse for the tweezers I packed that morning, just as she offered up her chin – reminding me of my 15-year-old cat when she presents her whiskered face hoping for a scratch.

My hand trembled as I grabbed hold of the first hair, then counted “one…two…three” out loud, closed my eyes, and pulled. I felt as nervous as a novice heart surgeon. But compared with the battering and bruising Mom had already endured, this was as benign as brushing her teeth.

In fact, she quickly began cheering me on, insisting that I wasn’t hurting her, and imploring me to get every last unwelcome hair.

My hesitancy turned to determination. And with Mom’s confidence, and my mighty Tweezerman, we worked as a team to remove every last hair. Just as importantly, we achieved a momentary yet satisfying victory over the indignity of cancer.

The next promise was more difficult to keep.

Three months later, my dad and I met with the oncologist to discuss my mother’s condition. She had not responded well to her recent treatment, and we were concerned both about her steep decline and whether she was strong enough to endure a second round of chemotherapy.

The doctor, who at our first appointment, proclaimed, “I’m-in-it-to-win-it,” looked at mom’s recent test results, and conceded that further treatment would not be possible. He estimated she had between two and four weeks to live.

Silently, my dad and I retreated to his car to absorb the un-absorbable. Dad began crying, and I began biting the inside of my cheek so as not to cry; one of the unilateral rules I had made for myself was that I wouldn’t cry if he was crying.

A few minutes later, I said we should go tell Mom this news. Until now, my parents and I had consistently agreed on next steps, so I was unprepared when my father said, “No. We can’t tell Mom. It’s better if she doesn’t know.”

And I, thinking of what Mom asked of me just two summers before, inhaled deeply and said, “We have to tell her – it’s what she wants.”

After a long, staggering silence, my dad put his head in his hands and said, “Cheryl, I couldn’t live with myself if I told her.”

But because of the promises I made, I whispered, “Dad, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”

My mom was a first-rate planner. It was as predictable as it was comical that on our way home from visiting my brother in Georgia for Thanksgiving, she would start discussing where we would gather next year, and who would begin scouting hotels and air fares. Still, nothing could have prepared me for what happened when my dad and I visited that afternoon, both still rattled from our earlier conversation.

We arrived to find my mom’s older sister Sandy sitting at the end of the bed. Mom quickly greeted us, and announced, “Good, we’re all together. There are some things I want to discuss.” And without the slightest hesitation, began talking as if she had been in the doctor’s office with us that very morning.

I prayed that my Dad would not change the subject to something – anything – more tolerable. And to his credit, he listened intently and began gently stroking Mom’s arm.

She began raising previously taboo questions: How will I know I’m dying? What do I do when it’s time to die? Will you be here with me at the moment of my death?

Next, she dictated a list of the lists she wanted made: Who will make meals for Dad when I am gone? Which caregivers should I write thank-you notes to? Who can I ask to speak at my memorial service? Who should receive specific pieces of my jewelry? And what phone numbers will Dad need to help him take care of the house?

Mom was the most lucid she had been in weeks, and the most lucid she would be again.

Dumbfounded and horrified that we were actually having this conversation, I forced myself to stay composed and address each of her questions and concerns with all the honesty and clarity that I could muster. Just as I promised.

At one point, when I realized I was holding my breath, I reached for my Aunt’s hand, and wiped away some of my long-denied tears. It was impossible to believe this was actually happening. My mom was fervently yet gently telling us she was ready to turn her fierce fight for life into a conscious surrender to death.

This was my mother’s last conscious gift of care-giving. Mom knew, perhaps before we did – perhaps even before the doctor did – that she was dying. The signs were as clear to her as the billboards she read on our road trips.

She also knew Dad and I would need each other in unprecedented ways after she died. So she stepped in and resolved the conflict that just hours before had threatened our trouble-free alliance.

Clearly, Mom too, had promises to keep.

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A Grief Journal for the Non-Writer

Friday, March 2nd, 2012

A Grief Journal for the Non-Writer

Thank you to HelloGrief.org for this article.

Keeping grief journal can be very helpful for those who are grieving the loss of a loved one. Yet for many, writing is not something that comes easily.

Does this sound like you?

I wouldn’t know where to start.

I don’t like writing, it’s not something that comes naturally to me.

I’ve tried and it was just so overwhelming, my emotions were in overdrive.

I don’t want to be reminded of my pain every time I start writing.

I can’t spell, I’m not good with words.

I don’t have time, it’s hard enough trying to look after my family when I feel so sad.

If you can relate to the above, then check out my list below where I give you some easy and different ways to use a journal. It’s my no fail way for the non-writer to give it a go.

With journaling remember there are no rules, it’s your journal. You don’t even have to write, you can paint, color, glue and create. You can use one or many. If the word itself turns you off, call it a scrapbook instead. The only thing I would suggest is that you date the page.

9 Easy Ways to Get Started:

1. Use pictures instead of words. Cull your magazines and cut out images that mean something to you right now. Glue them in or make a collage. It could be a picture that represents a feeling, it could be a picture of a place you would love to visit at some stage in the future. It could be words you see in the newspaper. Start a file for your cuttings.

2. Take a quote you’ve seen on Facebook, in the paper, in a book, or in a blog and write it in your journal.

3. Make a memory of a day you spent together. Put in some pictures of special moments shared, a card you may have if it was a birthday for instance. Add a small caption, such as “I love this picture, we were at the ……….”

4. Use two words only. One of my fellow writers has a “Two Word Wednesday” feature – you add a comment, using 2 words only. It’s amazing how powerful those 2 little words can be. Your words might be “Feeling Blue” or “Remembering Birthdays.”

5. Pick a theme, such as “The meaning of their name” and write a couple of words, paste in quotes and pictures that reflect that theme.

6. Choose a song and as you listen to it, draw out some shapes which flow with the music for you.

7. Use color to represent what your loved one means to you. As you think of them, what color springs into your mind, try paints or pastels to put the colour onto the page of your grief journal Once dry write a special message for them.

8. Write a quick list of 10 special memories you have.

9. Use smiley face to give a picture to your feelings. There are so many and they say so very easily in an image what would take us ages to write. It’s a way of expressing your emotions without feeling overwhelmed by the process.

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The Valentine’s Challenge

Saturday, February 4th, 2012

 

Grief may resurface on Valentine's Day

 Special thanks to Bill Cushnie and HelloGrief.org for sharing this article.

Special days like anniversaries, birthdays, and major holidays bring a mixed blessing to those who have lost a spouse or significant other. They are, of course, a reminder of the loss and the sadness attached, but also a time to relish sweet and happy memories. 

For many Valentine’s Day returns thoughts to pre-children/family romance and couple bonding. That’s what makes it different than those “other” memory stirring days. And it is a reminder for some that there’s not that special romantic connection at present. 

Since I’ve not personally suffered the loss of a spouse, I’ve had to consult with those who have to explore ways of coping. I do have a few ideas of my own to share, but they are rooted in working with those who have lost a spouse and not personal experience. Here are a few ideas for helping get through the Valentine’s Day challenge. 

Go to the dark place for awhile. I’m a believer that moving towards the pain is important for healing. Allow yourself to feel the sadness before moving on to some of the other things you might do. But do move on to other things. 

If you are a “card keeper” take out those Valentine cards and read them. My mother did this when my dad died, and did so for another 20 years. It was a dark place to begin with, that she transformed into precious memories that she shared with me and my brother. 

Spend some time with a best friend – lunch, or dinner perhaps. Swap funny stories about your early couple days. Laugh a little, cry a little. 

Pamper yourself with the gift of a massage, manicure or pedicure. Treat yourself gently. 

Talk with your children and let them in on the romantic side of your life before they were born. That’s something very few children know about their parents. It gives them another way to connect with you, as well as the person they lost. They may learn something important about commitment, too. 

Gift yourself flowers. Orchids are not only beautiful flowers, but they last often for months. Give yourself one, or drop a hint to a family member or an older child if they need a “suggestion” for a gift. 

Remember the rule, “If you want something, ask for it.” Friends and family are usually only too happy to respond. Learning to do that is a gift that keeps on giving. Not only do you receive what you want or need, but others have the opportunity to demonstrate their love and care. People are afraid of doing the wrong things when someone close to them has lost a loved one. You can help guide them by saying what you need. 

Most importantly, take care of yourself. Allow yourself to feel what you need to feel. 

  

 

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Helping Others to Help Us During the Holidays

Saturday, December 31st, 2011

Coping with loss during the holidays

A Story by Tom Zuba

At the time in our life when we need people the most – following the death of someone we love – most of us feel abandoned. When people should be rushing in to hold us, support us, accompany us, and love us, most run in the opposite direction or at best are paralyzed, not certain what to do.

Most want to help. They simply don’t know how. I sugggest that you copy the list below and give it, with love, to the people who love you.

Ten Things You Can Do to Help Make This Holiday Season More Bearable for Me, As I’m Learning to Live With the Death of a Person Love.

1.) Please mention the person I love by name. I’m already sad…nothing you can do will make me sadder…unless I think you have completely forgotten the person I love.

2.) Extend an invitation. And another. And then another. Sooner or later, I will say yes. Don’t abandon me. I often already feel abandoned and alone.

3.) Realize that, at times, I don’t really know what I want to do for the holidays. Some days, it changes hour to hour. Be flexible and patient. Accompany me as best you can. Let me take the lead. Don’t force me to do anything. Don’t make me feel guilty. I’m doing the best I can. I know you are, too.

4.) Offer to bring me to Holiday Church services. Again, be flexible. I may change my mind again and again.

5.) When you send me a holiday card, write a note. Mention my loved one by name. Share your favorite memory or story.

6.) Search through your photos and videotape. Find a picture of the person who has died and mail it to me. Better yet, deliver it to me in person.

7.) Remember – you don’t know how I feel. But you can ask me – “What is it like to be you today?” After you ask, make sure you set aside time to LISTEN!

8.) Expect me to cry. It’s okay and healthy. You can cry, too. Crying helps us heal. Crying together validates our feelings.

9.) Don’t work too hard at trying to “cheer me up.” It’s okay to be sad. Do spend time with me, though. Let me talk. Or we can sit in silence.

10.) Don’t forget to bring over a home-cooked meal and some cookies. Love comes in many forms.

For additional grief support resources, please visit our website.

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Grandmother Reinvests in Life

Monday, December 26th, 2011

Starting Over on New Years Eve

A Story by Nina Bennett

When I was young, New Year’s Eve was always magical. It was the only night my brother, sister and I were permitted to stay up late. We would watch the ball drop in Times Square on television. We made New Year’s resolutions, even though we had no idea what a resolution was.

As I moved through my teenage years, New Year’s Eve presented a dilemma. I wanted to go to parties with my friends and the special someone in my life, but families I baby-sat for throughout the year were willing to pay what at that time seemed exorbitant amounts. By then, I knew what a resolution was, and I actually wrote them in a notebook.

As my siblings scattered across the country, we started calling each other at midnight local time, stretching the end of one year and the beginning of the next over the three-hour time difference.

When I had children of my own, New Year’s took on a new magic as I recreated the traditions of my childhood. I made hot chocolate and we snuggled on the sofa. I saw the drama of the ball dropping through their eyes . Eventually there came a year when midnight found me sound asleep and my brother woke me up when he called to say “Happy New Year.” I realized that each new year meant that twelve more months of my life were over, months in which I didn’t always feel as though I had accomplished much.

Some years I couldn’t wait for December 31, thinking that the next year certainly had to be better than the one drawing to an end. Resolutions now were sweeping statements written in holiday cards about spending more time with family and friends. Always, there was the symbolism of New Year’s Eve, a night given almost mythical meaning in terms of renewal and second chances. It was as though the end of one year erased all of the bad things that had happened, and with the beginning of a new year came the opportunity to correct poor decisions.

Time passed, and once again I found myself baby-sitting on New Year’s Eve. My pay for this baby-sitting job was the unconditional love and devotion of my grandchildren, their warm, soft bodies melting into my arms as they fell asleep.

When my youngest son and his wife announced their first pregnancy, I was overjoyed. As the mid-November due date approached, my family was busy making holiday plans that would accommodate a brand new baby. Those plans came to an abrupt halt on November 12, when my granddaughter, Maddy, following a healthy full-term pregnancy and normal labor, was born still.

Our family was stunned; we had no idea how to even begin to pick up the pieces of our now shattered plans. The holidays that year passed me by. I alternated between numbness and hysteria. I dreaded the approach of New Year’s Eve. I felt as though each day that passed was taking me further away from Maddy. I did not want to move forward into a year that didn’t include my granddaughter. The symbolism of the New Year, of leaving the past behind and embracing the time ahead, left me even more bereft.

Reluctantly, I progressed through my Year of Firsts. Bereaved families use this term to describe the first year after their loss; the events are not just widely recognized holidays, but dates such as the day in March when my son called to tell me of their pregnancy; the first time my daughter-in-law felt the baby move, the shower we planned.

I found myself becoming even more introspective as the long sweltering days of summer subtly started changing. The evenings seemed shorter as daylight faded at an early hour, the nights no longer held the heat, and mornings were crisp and clear.

November 12 finally came. It was the day I should have helped a one-year-old blow out candles on her birthday cake. Instead, I was lighting a memorial candle. I made a pot of coffee, read, and wrote in my journal. I realized that much of what I was writing sounded familiar, like the resolutions I used to make.

The anniversary of Maddy’s stillbirth was imbued with all the symbolism of New Year’s Eve. I found myself thinking about how this experience had changed me. I thought about the actions I could take which would honor my granddaughter, and I contemplated my need to have her remembered. My task for that first year was to grieve; every ounce of energy I could muster was spent mourning.

Now I faced what in some ways seemed to be an equally monumental task. I needed to redefine normal as it pertained to my life, and find a way to incorporate my grief journey into my life journey. I acknowledged that the other members of my family deserved more than a shell of a daughter, sister, mother, grandmother. If I lost my way, I was also losing Maddy. By permitting myself to be held captive in the quicksand of despair, I was effectively eliminating any chance of exploring the life lessons presented by Maddy. It occurred to me that the truest, most heartfelt way in which I could honor my granddaughter was to reinvest myself in living.

As the months accumulate into years, I am determined not to lose sight of the resolutions I made on the first anniversary of Maddy’s stillbirth. I am certainly changed, but in ways that aren’t readily visible.

My new normal includes a conscious appreciation of the beauty in my daily surroundings. I take delight in sunrises and sunsets. I am astonished by the brilliance of the stars in the velvety black night sky. I realize that to fully engage in living does not mean forgetting about Maddy; she leads me every step of the way, showing me that life is indeed beautiful and worth living. I approach each day with the joy and hope her parents had during the nine months they spent with her. Maddy has taught me a vital life lesson-the ultimate beauty is found not in the destination of the journey, but in the scenery along the way.

At first, I thought of Maddy’s birth date as my personal New Year’s Eve, a time for reflection and insight. However, I have come to understand that for people making their way through the twists and turns of grief, every day is New Year’s Eve. Each new day is another chance to make the resolution to fully engage in living a joyous life, which is the ultimate act of remembrance. As I continue on my journey, Maddy is not left behind. Her heartbeat is contained within mine, my exhale becomes the breath she never drew, and her voice will be heard through my words.

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Dealing With Grief During the Holidays

Monday, December 19th, 2011

Contact Evergreen Washelli for local grief support resources

For many people who have lost a loved one, the mere thought of celebrating a holiday is overwhelmingly emotional.  Holidays and other distinctive days can be extremely difficult, especially during the first year after the death of a loved one.  It is important to understand that feeling this way is a natural part of the grieving process.  The following advice is respectfully offered as a way to help cope with grief during a trying time of the year.

First and foremost, be sure to take care of yourself.  Exercise can help to reduce stress and to increase your sense of well-being.  Also, give your body the proper energy it needs by eating a healthy and balanced diet.  Be watchful of overdoing the intake of any medications prescribed by a physician.  Anti-anxiety medicines can sometimes be beneficial when dealing with a loss, but the excessive use of drugs or alcohol will only delay the sorrowful feelings, not eradicate them.  Additionally, allow yourself the chance for adequate sleep, as the mind and body require rest to deal with mental and physical stress. Finally, find someone to talk to, whether it is a friend, family member, or grief counselor.  Finding someone you can confide in and speak freely around will be extremely valuable during the healing process.

Every person deals with grief differently, but knowing some of the common physical and emotional responses experienced by grieving persons might aid in the ability to handle a loss. Some universal physical responses include difficulty breathing, muscle weakness, headaches, lack of energy, trouble sleeping, variation in eating habits, and hyperactivity.  The emotional aspect could manifest itself as shock, disbelief, sadness, loneliness, guilt, anger, anxiety, nightmares, crying, and lack of concentration.  No matter your own personal reactions to grief, know that it is okay to feel sadness, and conversely, it is okay to feel happiness.  Even without the loss of a loved one, the holidays can be an emotional roller coaster, filled with pressure and fatigue.  Allowing yourself to feel the way you do, whether that be crying at a poignant memory, or laughing at a fond one, is an integral part of grieving.  Another important facet of the grieving process is giving yourself permission to cry.  Don’t worry about having to “be strong” and not cry.  Crying is similar to exercising, because both can reduce stress and ameliorate physical and emotional anguish.

Some of the usual activities participated in around the holidays may seem necessary, yet challenging to undertake.  Shopping, sending letters, accepting invitations, and dealing with traditions each have their own unique worries, but can be handled one step at a time.  Shopping can be done online or through catalogs, or by enlisting the help of a friend or confidant to assist with the task.  It is not the end of the world if holiday greeting cards are not mailed, so evaluate your level of energy and omit the cards this year if you do not feel up to it.  Also, accepting every invitation received, even if you feel an obligation to attend, may cause undue stress.  By accepting just a select few, you may find enjoyment and even comfort in the company of others without feeling overtaxed.  Perhaps the largest hurdle to overcome is the holiday tradition.  A death in the family could mean not knowing whether to proceed with a much loved tradition.  Remember that new traditions can always be started, and then stopped, if they are not working out.  Perhaps a twist on an old tradition, such as changing the menu on a dinner normally served, or opening gifts at a different time, could ease the pain associated with that particular holiday staple.  Communicating with other grieving family members to determine everyone’s needs and wishes is helpful, and reaching a compromise on how to deal with a sorrowful tradition is healthy for all involved.

Choosing a special and personal way to memorialize your loved one during the holidays could prove to be therapeutic as well.  Some suggestions include planting a tree, lighting candles, sharing memories with family members, offering a dinner prayer or toast, and purchasing a gift or putting the money towards a charitable donation in the name of your loved one.  Although special tributes like these can be intensely emotional, they are usually helpful in dealing with grief during the holidays.  Grieving children may also find participating in activities like these particularly meaningful, and letting them choose what kind of memorial can be especially comforting to them.  Remember that the death of a loved one is very difficult for a child or adolescent, and patience is crucial to their recovery.  Whatever is decided upon, the deeply personal choice of how to memorialize a loved one is an endeavor the whole family can participate in.

Holidays are, without a doubt, an extremely difficult time when dealing with the loss of a loved one.  Please remember that you are not alone, and that there are many people able and willing to help.  Turning to a pastor, counselor, friend or relative can be encouraging and therapeutic.  The guidance provided and support given will be helpful when feelings of discouragement and sorrow seem overwhelming. Allowing yourself to grieve in your own way will help ease the pain of holidays without a loved one.

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