I joined a Grief Support Group.
... and found myself surrounded by people who totally get it.
Which is not at all strange, as each of them has someone very dear to them who is not sharing this life of ours any more.
Each of us has chances to tell our story, and to talk about our dear one. We are encouraged to talk about what we are feeling, share "ah-HA!" moments, and tell how hard the holidays, and anniversaries, were, and what changes or accommodations our friends and family have made.
At the last meeting in each series, the group members bring photos of their dear one, and pass the photos around the circle while we talk.
In addition to pictures, I brought an audio snippet of Margret's voice, and her giggle.
Here, I'll let you listen, too. Clicky
Showing posts with label grieving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grieving. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Saturday, May 2, 2009
She Is Their Sister
When Margret died, a daughter vanished, leaving a huge hole in my life, leaving me drowning in sorrow. I can say it now without bursting into tears, "I have four daughters, three living, one died when she was 37."
When Margret died, my four living daughters became three. From their lives, the lives of these three, was ripped someone they grew up with, someone who had influenced, from the very beginning, who they grew up to be. She was the first one, and she loved her little sisters. They loved her right back.
Their loss is no less than my own. Just different. They were close to Margret, closer in some ways than I was. I know C was terribly upset, and found some comfort in a book. The book she read, and recommended, is:
The Empty Room
Surviving the Loss of a Brother or Sister at Any Age
by Elizabeth DeVita-Raeburn
I read it, and found it fascinating. I found comfort, too.
I read how, before World War I, a Victorian widow or widower wore mourning clothes, or possibly a locket with a bit of hair from the person for whom they grieved, for a year or longer. Neimeyer* and Attig** have a theory that is "an enhanced version of what the Victorians used to believe: We have a continuing relationship with the dead. The premise that moving on means letting go is wrong." (TER p.145)
YAY! I can move on, and still have Margret with me, if not at breakfast every day, at least in my mind, my memories, who I am.
This next passage moved me profoundly. Reading it felt rather like throwing back a set of dark, heavy drapes to let sunlight stream through the window.
"Until you resolve the core issue of what you're going to do with the love you still have for this person, there will be a huge reluctance to move on and engage with the world," said Attig. "The world is there, waiting for you to engage with it again. Why not bring the person with you and appreciate how different you are for having known him? Why not make some difference in your other relationships with other things in the world, in part because of having known him? Why not do that in appreciation of the continuing contribution he's making to your life?" (TER p 146)
My daughters influenced one another as they grew up. They loved one another. They argued with each other. When someone outside the family threatened one of them, they stood united. I don't know what they would be like if Margret never was. I don't know what I would be like.
Recently I had an attack of the What Ifs. What If I had been more biddable when the pediatrician said I should send Margret to an institution? When he said "Don't get attached" suppose I had listened? I would have known there was another sister. I would have known that I relinquished my responsibility to my first child. I suspect that Margret's life would have been a lot shorter, probably a lot less happy. I believe I did the right thing, keeping my child. I believe my life, the lives of her sisters, and the lives of the people she touched, even briefly, are richer; me for having raised her, her sisters for having grown up with her, all those others for having met her.
When Margret was an infant, I had a dream in which she was a walking child, looking like a typical four year old, dressed in a cute outfit of shiny red satin, a long sleeved jacket and shorts just below the knee, with a round cap of the same material. She sang, over and over, a string of nonsense syllables, in a high sweet voice I can hear in my mind's ear to this day, and beckoned, indicating that I should follow her up a flight of stairs. When we reached the top, she pushed open a pair of casement windows, and gestured that I should look out. There before us lay a new, wide, colorful world. I could see bright orange tile roofs, and tree canopies in dark and medium green. There were walls of pink or yellow, cream or blue, pastel green or aqua.
Prophetic? Nah, just vivid and unforgettable.
Margret was not a saint. She had flaws. She could drive me crazy. She could drive her sisters crazy. But I am pleased to think the world a better place for having had Margret in it.
*Robert Neimeyer, Ph.D., a professor of psychology at the University of Memphis and editor of the journal Death Studio
**Thomas Attig, Ph.D., a philosopher whose specialty is the theory that we continue relationships with those we have lost. (TER p 140-1)
When Margret died, my four living daughters became three. From their lives, the lives of these three, was ripped someone they grew up with, someone who had influenced, from the very beginning, who they grew up to be. She was the first one, and she loved her little sisters. They loved her right back.
Their loss is no less than my own. Just different. They were close to Margret, closer in some ways than I was. I know C was terribly upset, and found some comfort in a book. The book she read, and recommended, is:
The Empty Room
Surviving the Loss of a Brother or Sister at Any Age
by Elizabeth DeVita-Raeburn
I read it, and found it fascinating. I found comfort, too.
I read how, before World War I, a Victorian widow or widower wore mourning clothes, or possibly a locket with a bit of hair from the person for whom they grieved, for a year or longer. Neimeyer* and Attig** have a theory that is "an enhanced version of what the Victorians used to believe: We have a continuing relationship with the dead. The premise that moving on means letting go is wrong." (TER p.145)
YAY! I can move on, and still have Margret with me, if not at breakfast every day, at least in my mind, my memories, who I am.
This next passage moved me profoundly. Reading it felt rather like throwing back a set of dark, heavy drapes to let sunlight stream through the window.
"Until you resolve the core issue of what you're going to do with the love you still have for this person, there will be a huge reluctance to move on and engage with the world," said Attig. "The world is there, waiting for you to engage with it again. Why not bring the person with you and appreciate how different you are for having known him? Why not make some difference in your other relationships with other things in the world, in part because of having known him? Why not do that in appreciation of the continuing contribution he's making to your life?" (TER p 146)
My daughters influenced one another as they grew up. They loved one another. They argued with each other. When someone outside the family threatened one of them, they stood united. I don't know what they would be like if Margret never was. I don't know what I would be like.
Recently I had an attack of the What Ifs. What If I had been more biddable when the pediatrician said I should send Margret to an institution? When he said "Don't get attached" suppose I had listened? I would have known there was another sister. I would have known that I relinquished my responsibility to my first child. I suspect that Margret's life would have been a lot shorter, probably a lot less happy. I believe I did the right thing, keeping my child. I believe my life, the lives of her sisters, and the lives of the people she touched, even briefly, are richer; me for having raised her, her sisters for having grown up with her, all those others for having met her.
When Margret was an infant, I had a dream in which she was a walking child, looking like a typical four year old, dressed in a cute outfit of shiny red satin, a long sleeved jacket and shorts just below the knee, with a round cap of the same material. She sang, over and over, a string of nonsense syllables, in a high sweet voice I can hear in my mind's ear to this day, and beckoned, indicating that I should follow her up a flight of stairs. When we reached the top, she pushed open a pair of casement windows, and gestured that I should look out. There before us lay a new, wide, colorful world. I could see bright orange tile roofs, and tree canopies in dark and medium green. There were walls of pink or yellow, cream or blue, pastel green or aqua.
Prophetic? Nah, just vivid and unforgettable.
Margret was not a saint. She had flaws. She could drive me crazy. She could drive her sisters crazy. But I am pleased to think the world a better place for having had Margret in it.
*Robert Neimeyer, Ph.D., a professor of psychology at the University of Memphis and editor of the journal Death Studio
**Thomas Attig, Ph.D., a philosopher whose specialty is the theory that we continue relationships with those we have lost. (TER p 140-1)
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Saying Goodbye
Margret knew the end was coming. She knew it before I did. I suspected, but I didn't want to know. It broke my heart when she said, "Please let me go." I put my head down on her tummy there in the hospital bed and I cried. She patted my back, and said, "Don't cry mommy. I love you."
On Sunday, the doctor stopped after rounds to tell me they would not be changing her treatment any more because she was "end stage". Her sister C who planned to go home Sunday night changed her plans. C arranged for D to come from the other coast. On the first plane she could catch. Because we did not know how much longer Margret had left. C did it because I said I couldn't handle the details. Really? I couldn't. Besides, I didn't want to leave Margret's side.
I called family. I called friends. On my cel phone. From the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. D arrived around 1 am with her 5 week old baby. I held the baby on the bed, and put Margret's hand on the tiny feet. The feet wiggled. She moved her hand off. I said, "Those are the baby's feet. Aren't they tiny?" She put her hand back on the little feet. I talked. She kept her hand on those precious feet. D took the baby and leaned him across Margret's tummy, his Auntie's tummy, and put Margret's hand on his back. She said, "That's the baby you're holding, keep your hand there so he doesn't fall." She talked to her sister, and Margret kept her hand on the baby's back.
The last sister, B, the second oldest, arrived with her family around 2am. She came up and hugged Margret, and talked a bit, but the sedatives and morphine did their work and Margret was finally sleeping. We all went to sleep. Morning came. The nurse taped a picture of a white flower onto the door, where once, before her virus screen came back clear, were directions to mask and gown as a precaution against contagion. Friends arrived, and my husband.
We all tell Margret how much we love her, how wonderful she is. We tell our favorite stories again, one last time. We remember our favorite Margret Quotes. Mine is "I'm only fat around the edges." The doctor comes in, and the chaplain, and the Advanced Care team, and our social worker. They stand in the back.
The nurse gives a dose of morphine so Margret won't feel panic as her carbon dioxide level starts to rise. She turns off the monitor.
The RT and I take the hated ventilator mask off. "No more mask, Margret," I say. She raises both arms straight up, as if to say, "Hallelujah, the mask is off!!"
I take her hand, (the RT has turned off the ventilator, no more tweetling vent alarms), husband puts his hand on her arm next to my hand. She looks at me, looks at him. D starts singing, "I'll Fly Away". Most of the folks in the room join in. I can't. My throat has closed up, and the tears run down my face. I look up to see tears in the chaplain's eyes. I see two sisters holding her other hand. Several hands on her legs belong to the other sister, friends. Letting her know by touch that she is loved, and not alone. Not alone. She breathes slower. The song ends. Voices trail away. Slower. Stops. So peaceful. She looks asleep.
The doctor listens with his stethoscope. Looks at the clock, "time of death... 1:45PM."
On Sunday, the doctor stopped after rounds to tell me they would not be changing her treatment any more because she was "end stage". Her sister C who planned to go home Sunday night changed her plans. C arranged for D to come from the other coast. On the first plane she could catch. Because we did not know how much longer Margret had left. C did it because I said I couldn't handle the details. Really? I couldn't. Besides, I didn't want to leave Margret's side.
I called family. I called friends. On my cel phone. From the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. D arrived around 1 am with her 5 week old baby. I held the baby on the bed, and put Margret's hand on the tiny feet. The feet wiggled. She moved her hand off. I said, "Those are the baby's feet. Aren't they tiny?" She put her hand back on the little feet. I talked. She kept her hand on those precious feet. D took the baby and leaned him across Margret's tummy, his Auntie's tummy, and put Margret's hand on his back. She said, "That's the baby you're holding, keep your hand there so he doesn't fall." She talked to her sister, and Margret kept her hand on the baby's back.
The last sister, B, the second oldest, arrived with her family around 2am. She came up and hugged Margret, and talked a bit, but the sedatives and morphine did their work and Margret was finally sleeping. We all went to sleep. Morning came. The nurse taped a picture of a white flower onto the door, where once, before her virus screen came back clear, were directions to mask and gown as a precaution against contagion. Friends arrived, and my husband.
We all tell Margret how much we love her, how wonderful she is. We tell our favorite stories again, one last time. We remember our favorite Margret Quotes. Mine is "I'm only fat around the edges." The doctor comes in, and the chaplain, and the Advanced Care team, and our social worker. They stand in the back.
The nurse gives a dose of morphine so Margret won't feel panic as her carbon dioxide level starts to rise. She turns off the monitor.
The RT and I take the hated ventilator mask off. "No more mask, Margret," I say. She raises both arms straight up, as if to say, "Hallelujah, the mask is off!!"
I take her hand, (the RT has turned off the ventilator, no more tweetling vent alarms), husband puts his hand on her arm next to my hand. She looks at me, looks at him. D starts singing, "I'll Fly Away". Most of the folks in the room join in. I can't. My throat has closed up, and the tears run down my face. I look up to see tears in the chaplain's eyes. I see two sisters holding her other hand. Several hands on her legs belong to the other sister, friends. Letting her know by touch that she is loved, and not alone. Not alone. She breathes slower. The song ends. Voices trail away. Slower. Stops. So peaceful. She looks asleep.
The doctor listens with his stethoscope. Looks at the clock, "time of death... 1:45PM."
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Something I've been trying to do
I have been trying for months to write about saying goodbye to Margret. The task has defeated me. Either I start crying and have to leave off writing, or I am not satisfied with what I have written. Or else what I have written seems OK, but I wasn't ready to share what I wrote.
There have been many attempts, many almost successes.
Over time my mantra for Margret's care evolved into "the best quality of life with the least invasive treatments". Because there comes a time where you are no longer doing things FOR a person, but you are doing things TO them. That's what the doctor said when Margret collapsed, and he wanted to know what measures we wanted taken on her behalf.
We all got a reprieve when she sat up and talked to her sisters the following day.
He had put into words my worst fear: that there comes a time when there is no more hope. Hope is gone, and soon to follow are the smiles, the joy, the wicked sense of humor, the courage, the adventurous spirit that said, "I want to see Ricky Martin perform live. I want to go on a cruise."
The hardest part, I think, is facing down the day that my hopes died, and then having to do it all over again. Every attempt to write about it brings that sorrow back full force.
There have been many attempts, many almost successes.
Over time my mantra for Margret's care evolved into "the best quality of life with the least invasive treatments". Because there comes a time where you are no longer doing things FOR a person, but you are doing things TO them. That's what the doctor said when Margret collapsed, and he wanted to know what measures we wanted taken on her behalf.
We all got a reprieve when she sat up and talked to her sisters the following day.
He had put into words my worst fear: that there comes a time when there is no more hope. Hope is gone, and soon to follow are the smiles, the joy, the wicked sense of humor, the courage, the adventurous spirit that said, "I want to see Ricky Martin perform live. I want to go on a cruise."
The hardest part, I think, is facing down the day that my hopes died, and then having to do it all over again. Every attempt to write about it brings that sorrow back full force.
Monday, March 23, 2009
It's a Matter of Perspective
Not long after Margret died, I was talking to a young man of my acquaintance. He said he was sorry for my loss.
Then he thought for a bit, sizing me up, and said I was going to think he was a bad person, but if it were him, he would be rejoicing at being released from the equivalent of a prison sentence.
Perspective.
It's just a matter of perspective.
I don't think he's a bad person, just deprived of the right perspective. All he could see is the down side. Only having met Margret briefly, and on a day when she wasn't feeling up to her usual cheer, he couldn't know the up side.
I knew how loving Margret was, how empathetic. He never had a day with her when she was about four years old as I did. I was sad about something, and she came over and hugged me, and laid her head on my lap. She let me know that whatever was wrong, she was there for me, and loved me. I had not said a word about the wrong thing, I was not crying, she just knew, and wanted to make it right as best she could.
He never knew how strongly she cared about her sisters, and how much they cared about her. Or how loyal she was to her friends.
It's his loss.
Then he thought for a bit, sizing me up, and said I was going to think he was a bad person, but if it were him, he would be rejoicing at being released from the equivalent of a prison sentence.
Perspective.
It's just a matter of perspective.
I don't think he's a bad person, just deprived of the right perspective. All he could see is the down side. Only having met Margret briefly, and on a day when she wasn't feeling up to her usual cheer, he couldn't know the up side.
I knew how loving Margret was, how empathetic. He never had a day with her when she was about four years old as I did. I was sad about something, and she came over and hugged me, and laid her head on my lap. She let me know that whatever was wrong, she was there for me, and loved me. I had not said a word about the wrong thing, I was not crying, she just knew, and wanted to make it right as best she could.
He never knew how strongly she cared about her sisters, and how much they cared about her. Or how loyal she was to her friends.
It's his loss.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count the Ways. IV
I miss your comings and goings.
I miss the hustle in the morning making sure you're up on time, have your morning meds and your breakfast, and that your lunch is packed. I miss watching you decide which jacket or coat to wear to suit the weather. Sometimes you consulted me, and asked which I thought would be better, but mostly you peeked out the door, and decided for yourself. I miss helping you wrap your scarf to cover your nose in winter.
I miss waiting by the door with you for your ride. I miss the last hug before you go out the door. I miss the aides who picked you up on Monday and Friday, and the Metro van that came the other three days. I even miss the times that your van didn't show up as expected, when I would call the van service and let you tell the dispatcher your concerns. You were unfailingly polite to the dispatcher, and always said, "Thank you, have a nice day," to end your conversation. Sometimes I gave you a ride when the van would have been extremely late, because you liked to be on time. If you were late on Meals on Wheels day, you'd miss most of it, and have to sit at the center waiting for the rest of your group to get back for lunch.
I miss when you come in, returning from your busy day and call, "Hi Mom!" and hang up your coat, and stow your gear, and rummage for a snack in the kitchen. I miss Yoga day, when your teacher brought you home. She set up the mats while you changed into your yoga clothes and ate a yogurt. After class, you would do your shivasana, the last, meditating pose, in bed while your teacher read to you from one of her books or magazines. You'd go from yoga meditation into a nap, which was fine, in bed because it was more comfortable for a nap than the floor.
At first I found myself watching the door at return time, half expecting you'd be coming in at your normal times but I knew it wouldn't happen. A surreal feeling, that.
The rubbermaid step you used for climbing into tall vehicles is still in the closet by the front door, along with your umbrella. An oxygen wrench still hangs on the peg by the keys, and the wooden keyfob, your name in three dimensions. I remember when you got that, the wood crafter made it special for you because he didn't have any already made up. Right next to that is the lanyard with your volunteer photo ID. You took that with you on Fridays, and reminded me to pack no lunch then, because volunteers got lunch at the hospital cafeteria.
I miss the hustle in the morning making sure you're up on time, have your morning meds and your breakfast, and that your lunch is packed. I miss watching you decide which jacket or coat to wear to suit the weather. Sometimes you consulted me, and asked which I thought would be better, but mostly you peeked out the door, and decided for yourself. I miss helping you wrap your scarf to cover your nose in winter.
I miss waiting by the door with you for your ride. I miss the last hug before you go out the door. I miss the aides who picked you up on Monday and Friday, and the Metro van that came the other three days. I even miss the times that your van didn't show up as expected, when I would call the van service and let you tell the dispatcher your concerns. You were unfailingly polite to the dispatcher, and always said, "Thank you, have a nice day," to end your conversation. Sometimes I gave you a ride when the van would have been extremely late, because you liked to be on time. If you were late on Meals on Wheels day, you'd miss most of it, and have to sit at the center waiting for the rest of your group to get back for lunch.
I miss when you come in, returning from your busy day and call, "Hi Mom!" and hang up your coat, and stow your gear, and rummage for a snack in the kitchen. I miss Yoga day, when your teacher brought you home. She set up the mats while you changed into your yoga clothes and ate a yogurt. After class, you would do your shivasana, the last, meditating pose, in bed while your teacher read to you from one of her books or magazines. You'd go from yoga meditation into a nap, which was fine, in bed because it was more comfortable for a nap than the floor.
At first I found myself watching the door at return time, half expecting you'd be coming in at your normal times but I knew it wouldn't happen. A surreal feeling, that.
The rubbermaid step you used for climbing into tall vehicles is still in the closet by the front door, along with your umbrella. An oxygen wrench still hangs on the peg by the keys, and the wooden keyfob, your name in three dimensions. I remember when you got that, the wood crafter made it special for you because he didn't have any already made up. Right next to that is the lanyard with your volunteer photo ID. You took that with you on Fridays, and reminded me to pack no lunch then, because volunteers got lunch at the hospital cafeteria.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count the Ways. III
I miss watching Dancing with the Stars with Margret.
I watched it this past season without Margret. I found it difficult at first, but then found myself turning to hubby and saying, "Margret would have liked that" about some dance move, or some costume detail, or some bit of shenanigans that went on. I think Margret might have been voting for Cody Linley, because he was a cast memeber on Hanna Montana, but I also think she would have clapped her hands and squeeeeed for some of the Cloris Leachman moments.
Her favorite star was Billy Ray Cyrus. She wanted me to cast my votes for him so intensely that I made a login for her on the DWTS website so she could have her OWN votes. Other seasons, she enjoyed watching; she had favorites, but that was the first season she had a preference strong enough that she wanted to vote! As a Hanna Montana fan, Margret got to see Billy Ray with his daughter on the Disney Channel's programming, but there he was, learning how to do ballroom dancing.
Husband watched DWTS with us, too. He and I tried to guess what the judges scores would be before they gave them. He was right a surprising number of times, too, more often than I was certainly. We also tried to guess at the beginning of the results show which couple was going to be eliminated. Margret never wanted to join in that guessing session.
When we watched tv together, Margret often sat between my feet, as I sat in a chair. I'm not sure how that habit got started, but it did. Then too, it gets chilly down by the tv, so I would have an afghan wrapped around me, and she would wrap one around her. She kept my feet warm, I kept her afghan/shawl from sliding away. It was a companionable feeling.
In fact I miss watching any tv show with Margret. She clapped her hands, laughed out loud, commented on the action, got up and walked away or muted the sound during the food commercials "because they make me hungry when I'm not". Smart lady.
I watched it this past season without Margret. I found it difficult at first, but then found myself turning to hubby and saying, "Margret would have liked that" about some dance move, or some costume detail, or some bit of shenanigans that went on. I think Margret might have been voting for Cody Linley, because he was a cast memeber on Hanna Montana, but I also think she would have clapped her hands and squeeeeed for some of the Cloris Leachman moments.
Her favorite star was Billy Ray Cyrus. She wanted me to cast my votes for him so intensely that I made a login for her on the DWTS website so she could have her OWN votes. Other seasons, she enjoyed watching; she had favorites, but that was the first season she had a preference strong enough that she wanted to vote! As a Hanna Montana fan, Margret got to see Billy Ray with his daughter on the Disney Channel's programming, but there he was, learning how to do ballroom dancing.
Husband watched DWTS with us, too. He and I tried to guess what the judges scores would be before they gave them. He was right a surprising number of times, too, more often than I was certainly. We also tried to guess at the beginning of the results show which couple was going to be eliminated. Margret never wanted to join in that guessing session.
When we watched tv together, Margret often sat between my feet, as I sat in a chair. I'm not sure how that habit got started, but it did. Then too, it gets chilly down by the tv, so I would have an afghan wrapped around me, and she would wrap one around her. She kept my feet warm, I kept her afghan/shawl from sliding away. It was a companionable feeling.
In fact I miss watching any tv show with Margret. She clapped her hands, laughed out loud, commented on the action, got up and walked away or muted the sound during the food commercials "because they make me hungry when I'm not". Smart lady.
Friday, January 30, 2009
How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count the Ways. II
I miss getting my back scratched and rubbed.
Margret would come up behind me while I was sitting at the computer, or at the table reading, and scratch my back without being asked to do so. She had a great sense of where I liked having my back scratched, so the requests "Up a little," "Over to the left a bit," were fairly minimal.
Sometimes when I was tired and achy, I would say, "Margret, would you rub my shoulders please?" and she would come over and do it. She usually started rubbing with just one hand, and that was pretty good. I'd ask her to use both hands, and she'd usually oblige me. I could request that she concentrate on my neck, or work her way down my back, and she did. For someone who wasn't formally trained, and not working professionally as a masseuse, she was very good.
I showed all my daughters how to rub backs to my taste when they were little, and I was working as an upholsterer who got aches in my back and shoulders rather often. C still twits me about paying them a quarter to rub my back.
The backrubs were not a one way street. I rubbed her back too. I rubbed her back to comfort her when she was unhappy. I rubbed her back when she was sick, because it seemed to make her feel better. Sometimes when I was hugging her, I would add a little massage up and down next to her spine, and she liked that. She didn't ask for a back rub very often, mostly I volunteered to do it, or put my hand on her shoulder and started a massage. If she turned so I had easier access, I continued, with both hands.
The last few days before she went to the hospital for the last time she asked me to rub her back. She said her lower back hurt, and that the rubbing helped.
Margret would come up behind me while I was sitting at the computer, or at the table reading, and scratch my back without being asked to do so. She had a great sense of where I liked having my back scratched, so the requests "Up a little," "Over to the left a bit," were fairly minimal.
Sometimes when I was tired and achy, I would say, "Margret, would you rub my shoulders please?" and she would come over and do it. She usually started rubbing with just one hand, and that was pretty good. I'd ask her to use both hands, and she'd usually oblige me. I could request that she concentrate on my neck, or work her way down my back, and she did. For someone who wasn't formally trained, and not working professionally as a masseuse, she was very good.
I showed all my daughters how to rub backs to my taste when they were little, and I was working as an upholsterer who got aches in my back and shoulders rather often. C still twits me about paying them a quarter to rub my back.
The backrubs were not a one way street. I rubbed her back too. I rubbed her back to comfort her when she was unhappy. I rubbed her back when she was sick, because it seemed to make her feel better. Sometimes when I was hugging her, I would add a little massage up and down next to her spine, and she liked that. She didn't ask for a back rub very often, mostly I volunteered to do it, or put my hand on her shoulder and started a massage. If she turned so I had easier access, I continued, with both hands.
The last few days before she went to the hospital for the last time she asked me to rub her back. She said her lower back hurt, and that the rubbing helped.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count the Ways. I
I miss Margret hugs.
When someone offers me a hug these days, I almost never turn them down. I can always use the hugs.
I don't get nearly so many hugs now, because that was one of the things Margret did: she hugged. She hugged me, she hugged other family and she hugged her friends. She liked being hugged as well as giving out the hugs.
She'd hug me in the morning, before she left for her program. She'd hug me when she got back, too, and other random times during the day.
I got special extra hugs when I tucked her into bed at night, too.
When someone offers me a hug these days, I almost never turn them down. I can always use the hugs.
I don't get nearly so many hugs now, because that was one of the things Margret did: she hugged. She hugged me, she hugged other family and she hugged her friends. She liked being hugged as well as giving out the hugs.
She'd hug me in the morning, before she left for her program. She'd hug me when she got back, too, and other random times during the day.
I got special extra hugs when I tucked her into bed at night, too.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Still Amazed
It still amazes me how fast 6 months passes, and how slowly it goes, all at the same time.
There are a lot of good days, but there are an abundance of moments where something reaches out and touches me, and starts the tears. Quiet tears, and usually only a few, as I think of yet another thing I won't be sharing with Margret.
Some of the memories even bring a smile, and sometimes a chuckle, as this photo of Margret going GRRRR!!! and telling me she wanted to strangle me for taking her picture after wrapping her up to to the tip of her nose.
It was really cold out, and we had only recently realized how much breathing very cold air affected her oxygen saturations, and her feeling of well being. She was used to being bundled up warm, but not so much around her face and head, just a quick wrap up, and done.
It took several trials before we got the scarf high enough to suit me that she would be breathing through it, and low enough to suit her that she could see over it. She hated the amount of time I spent fussing to make sure it was right, but she appreciated that I wanted her to be comfortable.
There are a lot of good days, but there are an abundance of moments where something reaches out and touches me, and starts the tears. Quiet tears, and usually only a few, as I think of yet another thing I won't be sharing with Margret.
Some of the memories even bring a smile, and sometimes a chuckle, as this photo of Margret going GRRRR!!! and telling me she wanted to strangle me for taking her picture after wrapping her up to to the tip of her nose.
It was really cold out, and we had only recently realized how much breathing very cold air affected her oxygen saturations, and her feeling of well being. She was used to being bundled up warm, but not so much around her face and head, just a quick wrap up, and done.
It took several trials before we got the scarf high enough to suit me that she would be breathing through it, and low enough to suit her that she could see over it. She hated the amount of time I spent fussing to make sure it was right, but she appreciated that I wanted her to be comfortable.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Six Month Anniversary
Yesterday I was terribly out of sorts, and could not go to sleep last night for the disturbing visions of Margret in the hospital that were dancing in my head. I ended up sitting reading, legs wrapped in a sleeping bag and lap robe around my shoulders, all night.
As the first tentative rays of sunlight explored my front window, it dawned on me that this is the six month anniversary of her death.
In my head I've been composing something I call, How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count The Ways, but I can't get it to shift from inside my head to paper or file. *sigh* One of these days I'll get it to make the transition.
I've been processing feelings about the holidays for a while now, and still working on it.
The drive to see family for Thanksgiving was peculiar, both going and returning home. I kept having little moments of panic that I had forgotten to pack something extremely important. The first time or two, I could not pin it down; I went over a mental list of my packed items and could not see anything missing. Another time when it happened, I glanced in the mirror to see how Margret was doing, and realized it was herself I was missing. Understanding did not banish the moments, but they were lessened.
Travel at Christmas I only had one or two such moments, and only on the way there.
During both holidays, it was wonderful seeing family again, and spending a little time together.
On a very much more mundane note, winter has set in. We have cold and snow, and in such weather I quite prefer the indoors. I've been reading books by Sharyn McCrumb, both the Ballad novels and a few of her Elizabeth MacPherson stories, from the public library.
As the first tentative rays of sunlight explored my front window, it dawned on me that this is the six month anniversary of her death.
In my head I've been composing something I call, How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count The Ways, but I can't get it to shift from inside my head to paper or file. *sigh* One of these days I'll get it to make the transition.
I've been processing feelings about the holidays for a while now, and still working on it.
The drive to see family for Thanksgiving was peculiar, both going and returning home. I kept having little moments of panic that I had forgotten to pack something extremely important. The first time or two, I could not pin it down; I went over a mental list of my packed items and could not see anything missing. Another time when it happened, I glanced in the mirror to see how Margret was doing, and realized it was herself I was missing. Understanding did not banish the moments, but they were lessened.
Travel at Christmas I only had one or two such moments, and only on the way there.
During both holidays, it was wonderful seeing family again, and spending a little time together.
On a very much more mundane note, winter has set in. We have cold and snow, and in such weather I quite prefer the indoors. I've been reading books by Sharyn McCrumb, both the Ballad novels and a few of her Elizabeth MacPherson stories, from the public library.
Friday, November 14, 2008
I Can Hardly Believe It Has Been Four Months
I found this verse on a message board:
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
and it made me cry. The person who posted it also said "It is always hard for those left behind because to them falls the grieving."
That would be me. And a lot of other people. We're the "left behind" and "grieving".
I can imagine Margret in Heaven, because she was a believer. Her Heaven would be a place where the weather was warm and she didn't have to bundle up in sweaters and coats and hats, and snow boots, and wrap scarves around her neck and face to warm the air she breathed. There would be friends to converse with, too. Margret would talk to anyone, and she made friends easily. There would be babies to play with; Margret loved babies, and they loved her right back. There would be pools to swim in, parks to walk through with flowers to pick, and there would be horses to ride; she liked all those things. Food, don't forget the food! There would be all sorts of meals, and restaurants, and gatherings with food at the center. I miss her saying, "Mom, do you know what's for dinner?" I tried all the ways I could think of to get her to say, "I'm hungry," or "I want something to eat," but she insisted on asking "Do you know what's for lunch?" or dinner, or breakfast, or snack. It was a frustration, but it was how she let me know hunger was on her mind.
Margret, I love you. I miss you. I will remember you, always, as the most incredible gift of my life. Right now I grieve for you. Please don't be unhappy with me, it's such a big change from you here, hugging me, coming through the door of an afternoon with a smile and "Mom, I'm home!" to having the house echoing with your absence.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
and it made me cry. The person who posted it also said "It is always hard for those left behind because to them falls the grieving."
That would be me. And a lot of other people. We're the "left behind" and "grieving".
I can imagine Margret in Heaven, because she was a believer. Her Heaven would be a place where the weather was warm and she didn't have to bundle up in sweaters and coats and hats, and snow boots, and wrap scarves around her neck and face to warm the air she breathed. There would be friends to converse with, too. Margret would talk to anyone, and she made friends easily. There would be babies to play with; Margret loved babies, and they loved her right back. There would be pools to swim in, parks to walk through with flowers to pick, and there would be horses to ride; she liked all those things. Food, don't forget the food! There would be all sorts of meals, and restaurants, and gatherings with food at the center. I miss her saying, "Mom, do you know what's for dinner?" I tried all the ways I could think of to get her to say, "I'm hungry," or "I want something to eat," but she insisted on asking "Do you know what's for lunch?" or dinner, or breakfast, or snack. It was a frustration, but it was how she let me know hunger was on her mind.
Margret, I love you. I miss you. I will remember you, always, as the most incredible gift of my life. Right now I grieve for you. Please don't be unhappy with me, it's such a big change from you here, hugging me, coming through the door of an afternoon with a smile and "Mom, I'm home!" to having the house echoing with your absence.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Missing Margret
The first week, I felt a sort of numbness, which made going through the motions, writing her obituary, setting up the funeral, and attending it somewhat unreal. The second week I kept looking at the door at the time she would normally come through it, home from a day of volunteering.
I wrote the following on August 20th, on a message board where I am a member:
This past week has been a really tough... the 14th was one month since we went home without Margret. It's hard to keep going, doing 'normal' stuff, because I keep finding things that make me cry. The first time I came home from grocery shopping after Margret died, I blubbered. Why? Because Margret would always look in all the bags to see what I had gotten, and comment on it, and put the yogurt in the fridge. The first time I put all the dishes away myself was difficult, because emptying the dishwasher was Margret's chore, and she took great pride in making sure all the silverware was arranged just so. I still have not been able to sit down and write thank you cards yet. I will get there eventually. I understand that it takes time to make my way through the grief process and get to the other side. The only way out of it is to go through it. I want to thank everyone who sent a card to her in the hospital. Know that the cards and wishes helped. I want to thank everyone who sent me a card, after, or signed Margret's guestbook. Each sentiment expressed makes the weight on my heart a little less.
I find each week brings its own challenges. Little things send me into tears. A tv show with a reference that hits a tender spot. While shifting things around in the coat closet I found myself in tears, hugging Margret's winter coat. There is a tray of greenware angel ornaments in the craft room. Margret and I picked them out so she could paint them for Christmas presents; I'm going to finish them for her, and that thought makes me cry. They may not get done for Christmas, because tears and greenware don't mix well.
Last week's episode of Grey's anatomy where Izzy keeps seeing the spectre of Denny, and the bit about unclaimed bodies set me off. The episode of Life on Mars had a little girl die; that set me off too. Little snippets of memory pop up here and there: "Please let me go," is a sad one. The excited hugs she exchanged with Aunt Peggy is a happy one. Maybe overall there is a balance, maybe a balance I can find. *sigh*
Mundane moments, transcendant moments, memory and imagination, crazy mixture. I am capable and decisive one moment, vunerable and can't make up my mind another. I have time to sort through my feelings. I'll take it.
Some days I am mostly OK. Some days I am mostly not. I keep going. I manage. I've decided I'm not going to die of a broken heart.
I wrote the following on August 20th, on a message board where I am a member:
This past week has been a really tough... the 14th was one month since we went home without Margret. It's hard to keep going, doing 'normal' stuff, because I keep finding things that make me cry. The first time I came home from grocery shopping after Margret died, I blubbered. Why? Because Margret would always look in all the bags to see what I had gotten, and comment on it, and put the yogurt in the fridge. The first time I put all the dishes away myself was difficult, because emptying the dishwasher was Margret's chore, and she took great pride in making sure all the silverware was arranged just so. I still have not been able to sit down and write thank you cards yet. I will get there eventually. I understand that it takes time to make my way through the grief process and get to the other side. The only way out of it is to go through it. I want to thank everyone who sent a card to her in the hospital. Know that the cards and wishes helped. I want to thank everyone who sent me a card, after, or signed Margret's guestbook. Each sentiment expressed makes the weight on my heart a little less.
I find each week brings its own challenges. Little things send me into tears. A tv show with a reference that hits a tender spot. While shifting things around in the coat closet I found myself in tears, hugging Margret's winter coat. There is a tray of greenware angel ornaments in the craft room. Margret and I picked them out so she could paint them for Christmas presents; I'm going to finish them for her, and that thought makes me cry. They may not get done for Christmas, because tears and greenware don't mix well.
Last week's episode of Grey's anatomy where Izzy keeps seeing the spectre of Denny, and the bit about unclaimed bodies set me off. The episode of Life on Mars had a little girl die; that set me off too. Little snippets of memory pop up here and there: "Please let me go," is a sad one. The excited hugs she exchanged with Aunt Peggy is a happy one. Maybe overall there is a balance, maybe a balance I can find. *sigh*
Mundane moments, transcendant moments, memory and imagination, crazy mixture. I am capable and decisive one moment, vunerable and can't make up my mind another. I have time to sort through my feelings. I'll take it.
Some days I am mostly OK. Some days I am mostly not. I keep going. I manage. I've decided I'm not going to die of a broken heart.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Battling Demons in my Mind
Doubts, and fears, and demons in your mind are a part of grieving. They will subside with time. Knowing that doesn't make it any easier to deal with them and the pain they bring.
Days are pretty good, mostly. The worst time is evening when I would tuck Margret into bed, give her a hug and a kiss and talk about what we had planned for the next day.
In the daytime, I am not bothered by doubts about what I did and did not do while Margret was at the hospital. I did my best. I acknowledge that I am only human, and not infallible. But when I close my eyes for sleep, some contrary part of my mind throws up images from those days, and asks me, "Are you sure? Are you really sure? Might it have been better if...?"
One of the images is walking back into Margret's room into a flurry of masked and gowned activity, and seeing Margret in bed, with a nosebleed, looking absolutely terrified, the flow of the oxygen around the nasal cannula making drops of blood fly. I went right to her, ducking around and under busy people, took her hand, told her "Mommy's here!" and comforted her as best I could. When I had gone off for breakfast, all was quiet. That contrary part of my mind thinks I should have been in her room holding her hand at the start of the nosebleed, comforting her.
I know perfectly well that I had to take care of myself, eat, sleep, take breaks, or I would be no good to Margret. No blame attaches to me... for any of it... but that insidious little part asks if I really needed to talk so long on the cel after eating? Would I have made a difference if I had been back sooner? Would Margret have been less terrified? I don't know. What happened, happened. I have to learn to live with it, and not pick myself apart over things I cannot change.
Another image, one I've come to terms with, is Margret's wide eyes above the nasal pillow mask, and her saying, "Please let me go!" I asked her where she wanted to go, and she answered, "I want to go home." I responded by saying we would go home when she was better. It struck me at the time that she wanted to die and go to heaven, but I didn't want to be hearing that. Later the same day she said, "I want to go," and when I asked "where?" she pointed towards the ceiling and said, "Up" Would it have been better to let her go right then? No. the doctors were hoping a few more days would allow the virus to burn out and let her body begin to heal. No family were there right then but she and I, and C, for one, would be seriously unhappy not to be present. During the day, awake, I could accept my decisions and the way events played out. In the dark of the nights, asleep, the accusing demons in my mind threw this one up again and again, and would not let me go.
The final time, I got up, weeping, went and sat in Margret's bedroom, on the edge of her bed, and talked to her as if it were bedtime and we were chatting as I tucked her in. I said I was sorry she had to be so uncomfortable, but wasn't she glad to have seen D again? and to have held the new baby? I told her that D would have been devastated to miss seeing her alive one last time. D has regrets already, she doesn't need any more. I said, "Please understand that I was afraid. For both of us. I wasn't ready to let you go." Then I went back to bed, and fell asleep, with no more scary images that night.
Margret wanted a hot pink robe she saw in the Bath & Bodyworks Catalog last Christmas, and my husband bought it for her. She offered "I'll share it with you, Mom" and I think I'll take her up on that offer now. Snuggling into the robe reminds me of her generosity, her warmth, her thoughtfulness. Happy memories, weapons to slay the demons in my mind.
Days are pretty good, mostly. The worst time is evening when I would tuck Margret into bed, give her a hug and a kiss and talk about what we had planned for the next day.
In the daytime, I am not bothered by doubts about what I did and did not do while Margret was at the hospital. I did my best. I acknowledge that I am only human, and not infallible. But when I close my eyes for sleep, some contrary part of my mind throws up images from those days, and asks me, "Are you sure? Are you really sure? Might it have been better if...?"
One of the images is walking back into Margret's room into a flurry of masked and gowned activity, and seeing Margret in bed, with a nosebleed, looking absolutely terrified, the flow of the oxygen around the nasal cannula making drops of blood fly. I went right to her, ducking around and under busy people, took her hand, told her "Mommy's here!" and comforted her as best I could. When I had gone off for breakfast, all was quiet. That contrary part of my mind thinks I should have been in her room holding her hand at the start of the nosebleed, comforting her.
I know perfectly well that I had to take care of myself, eat, sleep, take breaks, or I would be no good to Margret. No blame attaches to me... for any of it... but that insidious little part asks if I really needed to talk so long on the cel after eating? Would I have made a difference if I had been back sooner? Would Margret have been less terrified? I don't know. What happened, happened. I have to learn to live with it, and not pick myself apart over things I cannot change.
Another image, one I've come to terms with, is Margret's wide eyes above the nasal pillow mask, and her saying, "Please let me go!" I asked her where she wanted to go, and she answered, "I want to go home." I responded by saying we would go home when she was better. It struck me at the time that she wanted to die and go to heaven, but I didn't want to be hearing that. Later the same day she said, "I want to go," and when I asked "where?" she pointed towards the ceiling and said, "Up" Would it have been better to let her go right then? No. the doctors were hoping a few more days would allow the virus to burn out and let her body begin to heal. No family were there right then but she and I, and C, for one, would be seriously unhappy not to be present. During the day, awake, I could accept my decisions and the way events played out. In the dark of the nights, asleep, the accusing demons in my mind threw this one up again and again, and would not let me go.
The final time, I got up, weeping, went and sat in Margret's bedroom, on the edge of her bed, and talked to her as if it were bedtime and we were chatting as I tucked her in. I said I was sorry she had to be so uncomfortable, but wasn't she glad to have seen D again? and to have held the new baby? I told her that D would have been devastated to miss seeing her alive one last time. D has regrets already, she doesn't need any more. I said, "Please understand that I was afraid. For both of us. I wasn't ready to let you go." Then I went back to bed, and fell asleep, with no more scary images that night.
Margret wanted a hot pink robe she saw in the Bath & Bodyworks Catalog last Christmas, and my husband bought it for her. She offered "I'll share it with you, Mom" and I think I'll take her up on that offer now. Snuggling into the robe reminds me of her generosity, her warmth, her thoughtfulness. Happy memories, weapons to slay the demons in my mind.
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