Trauma in a Box

 

[Box o' Trauma: source]

One of the things my therapist has suggested is to envision a box in which to contain my trauma when I can't look at it. This came pretty naturally because I usually bottle up my trauma. That's how I survive. I put my childhood trauma (neglect, physical, emotional, environmental, etc.) in the same box with the trauma that came from losing a child, 17+ miscarriages, nearly losing Alli in the womb to the Kell antibody, dealing with the emotional terrorism that came with the attempted framing for negligent homicide by the state, and all the other things I've suffered. It's a lot, and it would be easy to be overwhelmed. That box saved me long before I ever created an image of it in my mind. I don't like to think about boxes because that leads me to the obvious box, the little white coffin into which my waxen-faced angel was placed just over 15 years ago. But I'm thankful for this invisible box. But there's more to healing that keeping the trauma in a box. 

                                      

[Unpacking the box--one leads to another: source]

The hard part is pulling out that trauma and taking a hard look. I mentioned this last blog, the one from a couple of months ago. Unpacking it can be painful, sometimes, resulting in tears. It involves looking at how my trauma affects others and vice versa. The therapist gives me strategies to try to avoid sharing my trauma in unhealthy ways, namely, by breathing through it and grounding myself in physical senses. It's hard to remember to do it in the moment. It's a work in progress. She's also referred us to a family therapist to try to work on all of this together. I guess we'll see how that works. 

[Jack-in-the-box, when the contents of the box can jump out at any time: source]

And you'd think I could just unpack the pain once and be done, but it's still there. I still lost my babies. I still dealt with abuse by the state. I still have years, decades, of unresolved trauma at the hands of family, neighbors, governmental figures, and more. And I will never get an apology. I have to find a way to come to terms with my pain for my sake, to forgive and let go not for anyone else's benefit but to release the poison I don't need in my heart. The goal is to be able to be able to look at her pictures without the pain, to be able to cherish the memories without the anger at the people who have intentionally attempted to steal the things from me that were most precious. It's hard to discern how close I am to that goal. 

[How the box sometimes feels, but without the fun; source] 

Just after we lost Alli and started attending loss groups, the experts in charge laid out the five stages of grief, and I took comfort that the pain would be gone once I got to that last stage. I'd learned about stages of childhood development, and they were (more or less) orderly(ish) and predictable(ish). Then, through hard experience and reading further, I learned there is no scientific basis for those stages. They were created by Kubler-Ross to help people deal with their own impending deaths and had no basis in studies. There is no actual formula for pain. I could go through numbness, angst, anger, peace, etc. and countless other emotions all at once, one at a time, or in triggers that could shoot off unpredictably. Even a rollercoaster is too pat and planned for the experience of grief. Grief is an untamed bronco that could go any which way at any given time. Even that is misleading because there's a way off a bronco. Once a person is on the grief train, it's always part of life to varying degrees. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but that, too, is a lie. I have acquired a scab that can fall off at any time. As long as I keep the trauma in the box, I can generally exist day to day. But can I do more than exist? Who knows? I'm not there yet.  

[The Box's true identity: source]

The box is lurking in my heart and mind. It's always there. It sometimes chokes me and makes it seem impossible to sense the sun or see a way forward. Sometimes, it feels like I can keep the pain in the box with no problem and continue to live my life. Sometimes, I exist in the box, in a world where everything is pain. I feel broken, kept together by a hodgepodge of chicken wire and duct tape that can fall apart at any time. Sometimes, peace of mind feels temporary, an illusion. But I know I can find lasting peace in knowing I can hold her again one day, in knowing she's still there. I just can't see her. That helps, but not all the time. One day, I'm hoping and praying for that peace to last and feel more substantial. In the meantime, I will live for those moments of peace given me from on high and pray for more. 

Angelversary Trauma Delayed

[Newborn Alli]

I have been so busy lately that blogging has not been a thing. I'm going to try to get back to it. A week ago today was the anniversary of her death. She would be 15. Every year for Alli Day, we try to be anywhere but home. Having an adventure keeps my brain on anything but my pain. A couple of years ago, when we went to Montana for a ghost town, I didn't even realize it was the day until the next day.

 

[Hiking: Source]

This time, we decided to head to a major hike up Mt. Timpanogos. One of the kids tripped a couple of days before, so we decided the strain of that hike would be too much. Instead, we stayed at a bed and breakfast and drove up the Uintas. Our end goal was a fossil museum in Wyoming and a shorter hike in that same vicinity. We spent the day busy and didn't arrive home until late. I thought in a distant way of Alli but didn't feel the pain. 

[3-way tummy time-a pic from Alli's baby book]

The next day, we went through Alli's baby book. I felt the standard emptiness, a few tears, but I didn't break down. Until I talked to my therapist. It's been good to talk through my pain with an outside set of ears. We've been working on trying to separate the joy we had from holding her for four months from the trauma of DCSF attempting to frame us for homicide. Usually, I can mentally close the door at the end of a session. This time, especially with how recent the anniversary was, I collapsed into an agonized puddle and felt gutted the rest of the day. It was also the day I had to do grading, a thing I changed classes to avoid. Grading eats me alive if I let it, leaving me very little time for time with my kids or anything else. The two events left me traumatized and wrung out. I survived, but it was hard. 

[mourning: source]

I know it's good to let myself feel it sometimes. It's good to push through the pain to find healing. But it was rough. It's not something I'm eager to experience again, but I'm sure it was therapeutic. Somehow. I'm just glad that day only comes once a year. 

Triggers and Snakes

[My angel]

I've been blogging about all kinds of losses. This one may seem trivial to most, but it so profoundly rocked my child's world that it shook all of us and brought up all kinds of memories and feelings about loss. I don't think my child ever recovered from losing a beloved baby sister. They were so close that when my baby died a few months after Cedar turned three, Cedar was devastated. Cedar was the first to tell us a sister was coming, the day before we found out we were pregnant and months before we found out for sure we were having a girl. After the baby died, Cedar told us how it happened because Alli came back and told Cedar. It was always clear they had a special bond that transcended the veil. We had not told our three-year-old how the baby had died., but the knowledge was there, as with Alli's coming. Cedar's whole life was about that baby sister, so the loss was devastating. 

[Three-way tummy time--a moment that would never happen again.]

We got a counselor for my kids, but the counselor's full agenda seemed to be ferreting out information against us that DCSF could use to destroy us. That counselor rarely even looked at little Cedar and talked little more to Alexander, mostly banter. And we didn't know how to help Cedar sort through such huge emotions for a little child. Everything I read said little ones bounce back quickly, but it's been 14 years. I don't think Cedar ever bounced, even as the big 18th birthday approaches. Our terrible experience with a counselor meant it took years, until Cedar's middle school years, to seek out another. It helped some but not as much as we'd hoped. The loss of a baby sister formed the foundation for the rest of Cedar's life. I would not doubt that depression, anxiety, and a host of other physical and emotional ailments all relate to that critical event. I'm sure all of those emotions were stirred up and triggered a short time ago when Cedar found out a beloved snake had frozen due to the failing of a breaker. 

[Sweet little boy]

A year ago a little before Christmas, Cedar expressed interest in a banana morph ball python. Cedar has always loved animals, especially baby animals. When Cedar loves is deeply loved, even without outward signs of that. Christmas morning came, and Santa had brought a 3-month-old banana ball. To say Cedar was ecstatic would be an understatement. Cedar had eyes only for that baby and very carefully raised little Sol with care and tenderness, feeding him little frozen rats when none of the rest of us could. With all the knowledge gained from Zoology classes in high school and all the enthusiasm of an aspiring zoologist, Cedar tenderly assembled a bioactive cage. 

[We had a ball]

Fast forward almost a year from that Christmas morning, and Cedar's struggles with school and life crowded out conscientious care of the cage and the snake. The plants failed one after another. The rest of the cage was safe, sealed, and spacious. Sol became a nipper. We're not sure why, but when we put our fingers near the entrance to his hide, he'd snap. Possibly, he thought we were offering a rat. Possibly, he just had a nervous disposition. Still, Cedar faithfully fed him first every week then, after he became a year old, fed him every other week, which seemed to be about as often as he wanted to eat. But it meant that the most attention the snake got was right around feeding time. 

[The culprit: source.]

One night, Sol seemed agitated, moving from one place to another. I figured he was excited feeding time was coming up or that he decided he wanted to explore his cage. A day or so later, Cedar expressed concern over the heater. I mentioned it to my husband, who is usually our tech guy. None of us checked right away, expecting someone else to do it. None of us was unduly concerned. But Cedar checked on him a couple of nights later, and it turned out the breaker had failed, and the snake had gotten too cold. He had died. We all felt bad we had failed him. We all could have paid closer attention to the heater, but no one did because everyone expected someone else to do it or didn't fully grasp the danger. 

[mourning: source]

Cedar was devastated and riddled with guilt to the point that sound sleep didn't happen that night. We all felt tortured, filled with empathy for the snake's last hours and for Cedar. At first, Cedar wanted to wait and work through mourning. Sobs wracked Cedar's frame, though Cedar isn't much of a crier. Mourning and pain are usually felt deeply, under a logical, businesslike exterior. Cedar spent the morning also brainstorming about how to improve conditions and begged us to haul off both snake and cage. Then, in a quick search, I found the perfect snake, an older one that would be more durable than the baby we got a year ago, yet another banana morph python called Minion. When I mentioned him, Cedar expressed hope for the first time since we had discovered the snake the night before. The tears dried up. That didn't mean the tears stopped for good. Cedar has had several bouts of remorse and sadness since. But hope was definitely present. Though my mental health nurse friend said she, herself, would need time to heal, I knew Cedar would do better with this snake. 

[Much bigger boy; source]

My heart dropped when I found out someone else was going to come look at Minion the Banana that night we were looking at snakes, the day after we discovered Sol's loss. I found backup plans in the form of other snakes now that Cedar was eager to try again, but most were either too far, too expensive, too young, or problematic (ate live prey that could harm the snake). We were poised to drive farther to pick up a young snake that ate frozen prey when I got a text that there may still be hope for Minion. After about more than an hour of indecision in Minion's prospective buyer, we got the text we'd been waiting for...Minion was still available. We went to the seller and found that he was an expert breeder with 26 snakes he was paring down. We watched his huge snakes slither through the house and even held an 11-foot giant yellow one. He gave us more techniques to keep Minion safe and offered his services as a resource if we had future questions. It was love at first sight for Cedar. Minion is now happily settled in, and Cedar is fully committed to making sure he's the happiest, safest snake and set an alarm to make sure they spend bonding time daily, so Minion gets to come out of the cage and explore the room. 

[Loss; source]

Loss has been such a part of Cedar's life since near the beginning and runs deeply. Cedar has lost multiple pets over the years. I've been through miscarriage after miscarriage since, which, for my kids, has meant that the kids would get their hopes up for a baby sibling only to have those hopes dashed. That means Cedar endured the loss of hope for another baby sister slowly over the course of multiple years. Caretaking and parental instincts have only strengthened in Cedar. Minion did not replace Sol, but Cedar, I think, sees this as a chance at redemption from mistakes of the past. I'm thankful Cedar gets this opportunity. I know, as with kittens and other pets of the past, I feel like this is my angel Alli fulfilling Cedar's needs, for which I will forever be grateful. 

What May Seem Trivial

[Painting out the Heart; source]

Recently, I was invited to an art exercise to work through traumas and dramas of the birthing process. I was reluctant. I felt like it was a waste of time. When I got there, the meditation-style pencil meanderings leading to random sketching and then coloring seemed kind of silly and trivial. Several of those in the class drew lovely art, brightly colored and vivid, only meaning something to the person who painted. It was supposed to be all about the delivery process and healing therefrom. At first, the aimlessness of the process of the art seemed silly, trivial. We were to select colors in reaction to each of the negative emotions in a list. It all stayed on the outside of my head and heart. 

[Dark Days of Death; source]

Then, one of the songs, Evanescence's "My Immortal," cracked me wide open because it's one of the two songs that automatically send me into a pain spiral. That song and Josh Groban's "A Breath Away" automatically drag me back to the dark days after my four-month-old baby rolled into a pillow and suffocated. Back to the days a DCSF agent and her sheriff crony trashed our house and tried to frame us for negligent homicide. Back to the days of terror and pain, when the two children I had were threatened by those who purported to protect them. Back to the days of miscarriage after miscarriage when hopes for a rainbow baby faded into darkness. When Christmas songs about babies and birth and angels ended in tears. Back to the days when anyone joking about or lightly sharing their ultrasounds triggered thoughts of pain and yet more loss. 

[A portrait of pain.]

That's when my art process that day went from trivial to dark, stark, and painful. I meant it to be lovely, displayable. Instead, black bubbles were shot through with seeping blood red, infectious greens, and tragic blues. There was no light or joy in this painting. When they passed around a color chart to help us translate, I didn't need that much help to realize it was a tribute to 14-year-old unhealed pain. A few of us shared our pain. The other two families who shared had pain much fresher, pains of loss but also the joys of holding babies that brought trials. My heart bled for them. It was good to talk out my pain. My friend who dragged me there insisted I still very much need therapy. It hadn't been quite so obvious to me as it became that day. Usually, I'm fine. I can trudge through my life and be the strong one for everyone else. But it's clear that it's more of a cover for pain that is still very real and present. 

[Reflections on Death: Source]

 I teach a class online. I don't create the curriculum. One of the assignments seems trivial to most. It's to write your own obituary. It doesn't seem like a big deal to the vast majority of students But to her, in her culture, in the place she's in, with her past traumas, it stirred up her heart and became an impassible boundary. She advocated for herself and told me what a hardship this was. And I could only empathize. I've been there, in a place where people throw around images, words, songs, and such without thought, these things can act as a trigger, can feel like a gut punch to those of us who have been through trauma. I hear that because after a year of death after death, my husband's father's, my brother's, and my baby's, funerals became unbearable torture. Things that seem like little to nothing to most can knock the wind out one's sails.

[Holding the candle for someone else; source]

What, to most, seems trivial can end up being a trigger to memories of the trauma beneath what seems like a healthy, happy surface. The best thing we can do is be understanding when others need to work through their trauma. To avoid judging when someone else's mourning process looks different than ours. To listen to others when they need to share about their pain. And above all, to avoid trivializing others' pain. 

Not My Baby

[My friend loved her Yorkie mix: source]

Several months ago, a friend of mine and I went to pick up a puppy for her. We both bonded with this little one on our trip. Her youngest human child is a teenager. This puppy, for her, was her warm and fuzzy comfort. Even as she struggled with the trials of carrying her family's burdens, working full time, being there for everyone, her puppy, Kiki, was there for her. She faithfully followed my friend around and lay her head on my friend's feet. 

[The highway claims another victim: source]

Then, one day, a family member let Kiki out but didn't make sure she came back in. They live on a highway, and they'd seen her play there before. So they always had to make sure that Kiki came back. One day, That family member didn't see Kiki come back but also didn't tell anyone else Kiki didn't come back. The next morning, they found little Kiki dead on the highway. 

[Gateway to loss: source]

It reminded me of my Harmoni. We live near her on the same highway. When we first moved into our house, we had a dog get hit on the road. After that, we built a security fence around the backyard to make sure no other dogs followed suit. But one day, we forgot to make sure the gate latched. It didn't, and Harmoni led another dog of ours on a merry chase onto the Highway. The only way I survived was through turning to prayer and listening to spiritual music. It was hard. 

[How to mourn with compassion; source]

But the compassion I learned from losing my little, gray puppy to the highway prepared me to be there for my friend when she did the same. I just listened to her talk and gave her a shoulder to cry on without judging, criticizing, or blaming. Kiki's loss hurt my heart for my sake, but more than that, for her. She was able to get through with my help but also with the help of foster puppies she took in soon after her loss. She very carefully avoided ranting at the family member whose actions led to Kiki's death. She set an example for me of how to mourn with grace and kindness even as she was hurting so badly inside. I'll have to remember to follow her lead if ever it happens to me again. I pray I nedver have to follow her example. 

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. 

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. 

Mourning in Many Flavors

[Moving--source]

My best buddy of 30 years moved near me recently with her children. It's been fun. But it's also been hard to watch her whole family go through mourning. They probably haven't thought of it as such because of society's very narrow view of mourning. Most people think of mourning as coping with death, their own impending death or someone else's, often coping a death that has already passed. 

[Flavors of Mourning--source]

But there are so many other flavors of mourning and grief. If your expectations and hopes are yanked from you, your life as you know it fundamentally changed (by choice or otherwise), you will often go through a grieving process. You still have to process the changes, which often comes with deep pain. But because the people around you don't see it, many times, you feel like you're feeling wrong, that you are suffering for no reason. Anyone who has undergone loss deserves acknowledgment and empathy if they need it. 

[Joy Shatters-source]

My buddy's marriage is on the rocks. She had expectations of a future together, and she's facing loss of her expectations and hopes. Her kids, meanwhile, are reeling with the loss of their friends, their comfortable life, their home of 13 years, their peace, nearness to their father. But the situation is such that none of them really have a choice. And that's hard. One of them embraces and celebrates the change. This, too, is a valid response. But the others are struggling more. All they knew before is just cut off. And there is a deep sense of mourning for all that was. 

[Support-source]

What can I do? It's not my loss. Really, it's a gain because we've been strategizing on how to live closer together most of the years we've known each other. But I can feel their pain, show empathy. When I was younger, we moved a lot. I have nothing but empathy for this kind of loss of everything, all friends, all comfort from before. I can be their friend while they seek new friends. I can be there for them and pray for them. There's always something an outsider can do for those who have lost.