A New Death Overshadows My Angel's Birthday

 

[Dreading my angel's birthday.]

I was dreading the approach of my angel Alli's 14th birthday on March 2nd. It often comes with heartbreak and pain that even time and distance don't remove. We look at a baby book of my sweet Alli. It takes us through her four-month life, through the pregnancy with ultrasound images of her, of the kids kissing my belly, of her new, 5 lb 13 ounce, gosling-honking newborn form. Those bright, glorious pictures of her tiny, blue-eyed form take us through our adventures with her, her siblings laying on tummy time with her, her older sister bonding with her, her parents and grandparents holding her with joyful faces. The day at three months when the neighbor taught her to smile. 

[Newborn Alli.]

The pictures didn't show the pain and the heartache we went through with a miscarriage before she finally came. The pictures don't show how much we worked to bring her here alive, with trips every 1-2 weeks from 17 weeks to a hospital 45 minutes away to have a flurry of ultrasounds done to make sure the Kell antibody that plagued the pregnancy didn't suck her dry, as it could have. There's so much of her short time here that the pictures don't show, but they do end with her face frozen in death, her too-tiny casket lying in the ground. They do end with warm letters of condolences. My soul always grows cold when we get to that point. I end our visit with Alli in sobs every time. Then, we eat angel food cake to celebrate her birth. We did that this year, but I just felt numb for all of it. Maybe because it was already in the shadow of a more recent loss. In four more months, we will commemorate her death. 

[Jurassic Park; source]

As we often do, we planned to go somewhere for one of her significant dates. I hate to be in my own head on those days. We planned to celebrate our other second child's birthday by heading to a dinosaur museum with friends. A snowstorm made that impossible, which devastated my teenager. The loss of that anticipated event overshadowed Alli's birthday. We were at least able to watch "Jurassic Park" together, which was something. It's been a long time since we all watched any kind of movie together. 

[My dad when I was a kid.]

But a bigger shadow still overcast the whole thing. Thursday morning, we got the call we knew was coming, My father had passed away. We've seen it coming. He was diagnosed with dementia 10 years ago. Over that time, he went from being a strong, confident man who led his family with an iron fist to a jolly lump on the sofa. He went from being stressed and angry about the burden of adulthood to smiling at everyone, having no idea who they even were but loving them anyway. 

[The jolly lump and his dog.]

As he shed the weight of his memory, he shed his anger, his fear, his worry and was just happy to be fed, given Dr. Pepper, snuggled by his dog, taken care of my mother, and entertained by his TV shows. He just wanted comfort. At the very end of his life, my mother could no longer care for him as she had, so we put him in a care facility. He wasn't happy about it, but we didn't have any other choice. And that's where he passed away, a full ten years after dementia set in. He was always difficult, whether the tyrant or the jolly lump, but now, my mom is kind of a lost soul. He gave her purpose, even if the purpose made her miserable most of the time, but now, she's alone. 

[Carrying the weight of death: source]

All of these things have made this last week so difficult. But at the same time, I don't feel it all acutely. Maybe I'm in shock or just burned out from life, but I don't feel any of this as deeply as I'd expect. As anyone would expect. I feel bad for not feeling worse about losing my father. I feel bad about not fully getting to commemorate Alli's birthday and not really feeling what I did. I know these are irrational emotions, but emotion is usually irrational. It is what it is. I do know families can be together forever. That helps with all of this loss. Maybe the upcoming funeral will make me feel anything other than numb. 

A January of Loss

[Loss in threes.]

What is it about losses coming in threes? Not all of them are mine, just ones that have affected my life in some way, however mild. The first one came on New Years Day. This was the loss that affected me most personally, but it wasn't the last. 

[Dodger fades.]

We were told three and a half years ago that Dodger, the purebred Pomeranian I bought 12 years ago, was dying. They didn't really expect him to survive the year. As he kept chugging along, inflated heart, clogged lungs, and collapsing trachea and all. When he first came to me, he was a strapping young guy, full of life. But I got him just after I'd lost my baby. The day I got him, I set him down to go potty, and he took off into the night. We were sure he was a goner because we lived on the highway, but we found him two miles down a different road, happily settled with a population of cats. I had a dream around that time in which he was a were baby, switching back and forth from female baby to Pomeranian. The translation is pretty transparent. He was the first dog I ever had to make it into my heart. And here we were, 3 1/2 years after we were told he was dying, feeling like we'd have him forever. Then, suddenly, I'm pretty sure that burdened heart gave out. Over two days, leading up to New Year's Day, he faded away. He breathed his last in my husband's arms. The house has felt emptier without him. 

[Foreshadowing; source.]

A week or two later, we had a scare. My dad fell four times in one day and started to refuse food there in his care center. He was fairly unresponsive, just like Dodger at the end. I even put family members on alert, in case this was the end. It made me want to reach out more to his first family, his first set of kids with the hopes of building bridges. We don't know them well, so it seems like the time to change that. It wasn't the end. He came back. But he has lost his will to live. I don't expect him to be here much longer. When he does breathe his last, I will write about him. But for now, he is still chugging. He's not one of the three. 

[Saying goodbye; source]

Just after that, Theresa, my good buddy of 16 years and next-door neighbor, lost her beloved grandma. She, too, had been expecting that loss. But expected loss has its trials, just like unexpected loss. Even when you know it's coming, it still hurts. She went to a funeral in each of two areas to be with family. I watched her loss from a distance, but I felt her pain. I was there for her. Each person's voyage is different, but loss gives us an understanding on some level of the pain of loss. 

[Her time came; source]

Two days ago, I received news that Ree, my best buddy from my early undergrad days, lost her battle with cancer. I'd watched with growing concern the reports of one treatment after another, one day after another that brought new pain, new hardship to her and her family. I watched from a distance, praying for them, but I feel like I should have reached out toward the end, should have reforged that connection we once had. But it didn't seem possible it was the end. I'd had a lot of friends and family survive cancer. This seemed like it would be one of those. Vibrant, exciting Ree who brought sunlight into my lonely, solitary existence of my freshman year of college at Vassar couldn't die. But she did. She's gone, and her husband, also a friend from that time, is so bereft. They were best friends until the end, and he is a lost soul without her. 

[Loss is individual; source]

Each person's voyage of loss is so different. I turn to the Lord in the face of loss, but not everyone does. Whether loss is expected or not, it tends to be hard, sometimes life-changing. It can be destructive or constructive and everything in between. Some people seek to be busy. Some seek out others. Some just want quiet to just feel or just be. Some people fall apart. It's easy to think that life as we know it is the norm. But change, loss, and pain are such a part of that. As they say, tomorrow is not promised. The best we can do is be there for each other, especially in loss, to not judge or tell someone how to grieve, how to face loss. Tell me about something someone has said to you that has helped you in the face of loss. How did it help you?

Burnout for Christmas

 

[A gift for my angel; source]

When Alli died, I threw myself into work and anything I could do to avoid thinking. Come the holidays, I jumped into as much service as I could think of. We wrote down the nice things we did for other people and put them in a bottle. On Christmas morning, we read back over the service projects we did as a gift to my angel. 

[Observing what remained of my holiday spirit; source]

Last year, on sleeping medication that did not do me any favors for a year and a half, I crashed and burned out. I got sleep but lost my fire. I didn't have it in me to much enjoy the holidays, let alone help others do so. The fact that the economy turned my income from comfortable to surviving did not help matters. But we still managed to squeeze a few things in, still did a few things to help others. 

[The results of recovering my fire.]

I got off those meds and onto some that left me able to sleep and with enough ambition to work on jump-starting my writing career. I spent the late summer and fall writing and churning out books and putting them on Amazon, including the first in my novels for kids (Doomimals Book 1) as well as helping my boy get the first of his books out (Misadventures of the Just Us Chickens). We've sold some but are working on figuring out how to advertise. And now, I'm back to burnout between all the writing, a full-time job, and a part-time job. 

[Looking through the boughs darkly.]

The holiday used to be so hard because I felt the gaping hole where my youngest child ought to be. Songs about babies, pregnancy, and angels didn't help. Now, it's the burnout, two years running. Burnout is hard over the holidays because everything feels harder. The year has flown by so fast that it doesn't feel like we ought to be doing this all over again. I've slogged through the season so far, not deeply mourning but not excited about the little things. It doesn't help that others in my house feel the same. So, it's with a sense of duty and guilt that I still push myself to do something. I decorated the tree minimally because I was doing it alone. Wrapping is no longer a joy, so I trot out the tired, wrinkled gift bags and shove things in, sans Christmas music. 

[True meaning; source]

I'm trying to ignite that holiday spirit by reminding myself of the true meaning, the birth of the Savior. I've been listening to Christmas music, but only the stuff that won't automatically feel stale. Which is hard to find sometimes. Hint: shopping in stores doesn't do it. Pentatonix continually produces more unique versions and styles. The Tabernacle Choir often teams with fun performers like Muppets. Josh Groban makes me happy. Lindsey Sterling and Jackie Evancho are on the playlist for today. I'll be focusing on spiritual Christmas and spiritual songs and messages today. They help to bring in the Spirit and also the true spirit of Christmas. I'm still looking for service ideas on a budget. I know that will help, too, because nothing brings the Spirit faster than helping others. Feel free to share what helps you enjoy the holidays. Maybe something you say will help. I'll survive the holiday. I'd just like to survive it with a smile and maybe some memories that will last. 

Someone Else's Angelversary

[We miss you, Gillaire.]

Three years ago, toward the end of October, my friend died of COVID. I'm fairly certain I blogged about it then. The other day, I realized we were coming upon her angelversary. My heart bled for her other friends and family, those who love and remember her fondly. She was so young, a little younger than I am now. She had always seemed so strong and resilient. She went through so much, including the loss of both of her beloved parents, legal trouble, housing situations, and so much more. It seemed like she would always be around. 

[How I met Gillaire.]

Just under two decades ago, I went into my master's program and was embraced with open arms to a group of friends, including the man who would become my husband. At the heart of that group of friends was Gillaire. She was a firecracker, full of zest for life and love. She loved everyone around her. Other people came and went from that group, but Gillaire was always a constant. 

[Cali and Gillaire, a matched set.]

Then, that group of friends moved onto other locations. We stayed in touch as much as we could. Gillaire even came to live with us a couple of times when she wasn't able to find somewhere else. She made our times together fun. That second time she stayed with us, she brought with her a dog for whom she lived. During that time, we worked together on a picture book, "Cali the Silly Frenchie Goes for a Walk." The stunning photography in it was hers. She loved photography, and this book showcased that. As her angelversary crept up on us, I redid that book so as to showcase her photography better. For a few days, you can see a copy for free if you click that link. We had also planned to put together more Cali books but never did. With the permission of her sister, I also put together a set of three books, including the one above, all about Cali, Cali the Silly Frenchie Collection. That, too, is free for now. Afterward, any proceeds will be offered to her sister. 

[Remembering Gillaire.]

I made a point to get a copy of it to both her sister and her beloved roommate. I was most of all thinking of them as I put these together, as well as of all the people who loved her. It seemed like the only thing I could do to pay tribute to my friend who was so steady and so loyal to everyone who loved her, plus this blog. There were so many. So many who feel her loss even these three years later. Shen she left us, she left a hole in all of our lives. I know she's back with her parents. I know she'll hold Cali again. In the meantime, Cali happily stays with that beloved roommate and seems happy. I'm so thankful I got to have Gillaire in my life. If you know her, feel free to comment here to remember her. 

Mourning for Something besides Death

[Sisters and Friends; source]

My sister and I used to be good friends. We went through so much together. I was kind of a mother figure when I was a teenager since my parents mostly left the seven of us to raise each other. I helped her get back into church when she was feeling lost as an older teen. We became good friends when we were roommates in a house full of young women. 

[My Niece; source]

I was in the room for the birth of her firstborn. She came to stay with me when one of my kids was born. Her daughter became my daughter's best friend, and they would look forward to visits when they would come here, or we would go to Wyoming. 

[Bending over Backward to Help Family; source]

Then, they moved to the area. We bought a trailer for them to live in while we worked to find land for them to build a house. We visited each other frequently and watched each others' kids. We'd have holidays together. We were close, or I thought. 

[When a Gift Becomes a Nightmare; source]

Then, we built them a house to buy from us. That's when things went downhill, from a friendship to a usership. And that was the beginning of the end. After a dramatic and traumatic last year or so, we don't even talk anymore. My child has lost a friend. I have lost one of my best friends, a steady friend from the time I was seven. Plus, I was close to all three of her kids. Now, they have been trained to want nothing to do with me. I alluded to this last year. At the time, I talked about how she nuked her family, called in the officials, and that things had just begun. Now, those things are pretty much over, and it's more or less torn our clan apart. And it still hurts. 

[Mourning; source]

Any loss can be hard. Whether or not it involves death, it can still lead to legitimate mourning. A loss like this sticks with you, changes you, changes your conception of self. Sometimes, people find it liberating to simply hear that their loss is a kind of grief. That they can mourn for their loss. Anyone who has had a major loss should be respected and not dismissed. It can be the loss of a friend, a family member, a home, even a set of expectations. It's a loss that rocks your world and makes you rethink everything. It makes everything harder. For instance, I like to help people, but it's hard to want to do so when helping can result in loss. Every time someone comes to me to ask for help, this loss comes to mind and makes me hesitate. And this loss reminds me of losses from the past. 

[Seeking Peace; source]

Loss of whatever sort is hard. But there is peace. We can find peace in other people, in friendship, in therapy, in meditation. I have frequently sought peace in faith, through prayer and scripture study. I know true peace comes from the Lord. Just let yourself grieve a loss like this. Don't force yourself or anyone else into a certain definition or time limit. Just give yourself and others time and space to work through their loss. I'd love to hear your stories of loss below. 

What not to Say to a Griever

 

[Don't stick your foot in it. Source]

It's easy to stick your foot in it with someone who is a fresh mourner, someone who just lost a loved one. Fresh grief is raw and painful. It may be numb as well. It can have any number of effects, many of them unpredictable and uncontrollable. It is what it is, and it is not easy to deal with. But there are certain things I'd recommend those who want to reach out to a griever not do. One is to ignore the grief, pretend no loss has happened or to treat the griever like the plague. A lot of people do either of these because grief is uncomfortable for all parties. The main thing to remember is that if you're there for the person, not for you. It should not be about you. That means you can express empathy but never say you understand. Everyone's grief is different. I can't even pretend to understand my husband's grief, and he's there with me all the time with the same losses. 

[Just don't: Source]

There are things one should just never say, though you may have the best of intentions doing so. Anything that starts with, "You think you have it bad" is a bad idea. Comparing any aspect of your pain with any aspect of theirs demeans and minimizes what they're feeling. Please, I beg of you, just don't. Anything after, "Well, at least . . " is almost as bad. I don't care if you're saying, "At least you'll see her again in heaven" or "At least you know you have an angel watching over you." It may all be true, but in saying this, you're telling them they don't have a right to feel pain. Their arms are empty NOW. It hurts NOW. Telling someone how they should feel or that they have no legitimate right to feel like they do now or in the future only hurts them more. Furthermore, Never put a timeline or expectation on grief. Wondering why they're not over it already can do just that. Mostly, these feel like an unconscious desire to silence.

[Questions that hurt. Source]

 

"How are you?" feels like an obvious and instinctive thing to say, but it practically demands the scripted answer, "I'm fine." This once again makes you the one getting comforted. If they say they're fine, you can feel better about them and not worry about them anymore. Even if they say it, what they might mean is, "I'm dying inside, but I don't trust you enough to tell you about it." They may appreciate the thought, but you can't bank on it. Just be there for them. If they trust you enough to tell you how they feel, there's a good chance they will do so. They just need you to reach out and be there. 

[Just be there; source]

If they're a hugger, a hug a shoulder touch, or any other contact can often help. But not everyone wants to be touched. Not everyone wants or needs any one thing. However, most people want to know you're there, that you're open to whatever they need from you, and that you are there for them, not for you. Empathy is a lovely thing, as long as you're not focusing on your losses but simply showing that you have some comprehension of what it is to grieve. Praying for people can help. Sometimes, they may actually feel the comfort that comes from your prayers. Above all, just be there for them. Communicate that you care, that you're open to what they need from you. Every griever is different and has different needs. 

Tell me in the comments how you offer comfort to a fellow griever or someone who you have seen in pain. 

Reminders of Mortality

 

[Cancer-source]

A woman I know, Tami Wickham, died of cancer, leaving behind her daughter and husband. I've seen her around for most of the last 13 years, including before I moved to my current home. I was never close with her, so I mourn for others, not for me. She found out about the cancer one month and was gone the next. I was working during the funeral, so I didn't make it. But I wanted to, if only to support others. I don't like funerals because of too many of my family's at once. It has become a trigger. But I would have gone if I could have. 

[Mourning-source]

Meanwhile, I visited a friend who was deeply mourning this lady. She felt the loss deeply because she truly knows the family. It feels like I've missed an opportunity by not trying hard to reach out, even when I knew death was coming. This friend of mine wept for the family who lost their loved one and also for the loss of her friend. Today, I have been surrounded by mourners. It makes me sad, but I still feel untouched. The fact that I don't feel it makes me realize I truly missed out on a real friend. 

[Loss-source]

Things like this remind me that today is all we have. We hope there will be a tomorrow, but there may not be for us and everyone we know and love. It's a cliche, but it's still true that tomorrow is not promised. Life seems so much more fragile when you've gotten beyond the fiction of "It couldn't happen to me." Loss can happen to any of us at any time. 

Even faith isn't an impenetrable shield. It means we trust God to guide us and help us in our lives, no matter what happens to us. He's not a light switch that stops the darkness from hitting us. It means we know He'll be there for us in the storm, not that there will be no storm. He's an umbrella that shields our hearts from the worst of the pain and comforts us when things are at their darkest. I'm thankful to have faith and hope in eternity. But I also know pain is part of life. And sometimes, it's part of the plan for us, part of what we need to help us grow into the person we need to be. I know it was part of mine. And I've grown a lot through the process, for which I'm grateful. 

How has loss touched your life? I'd love to hear from you.