Saturday, April 15, 2017

Women Sages

Women sages
What do you know
Wild women mothers and daughters
Tell me what you know
Tell me what to think...

Tell me how to feel
Tell me it gets better
Tell me I am sacred
Tell me this is the way we created it
Tell me about the flowers and why they're so beautiful
Tell me about the trees and how they grow together
Tell me about the birds and the frogs and songs they sing
Wise women Sages
Mothers and daughters
You do not lie In suffering
You do not clutch your abdomen
You do not know of this pain
I know of the beauty and the miracle a life
I know the Despair and hunger for death
My wise woman
My sage
My wild woman
Has gone beyond the Veil
Please do not feel to utter a word
For there is nothing you can say
To erase the maddening pain
Of a wise woman Sage
Of a mother who lost her other
Shhhh
I'm trying to hear her
                                  - CA Tenti

Changing the Language of Grief

In the past year, I’ve never felt so alone. It feels like even close friends and family members have all but abandoned me in my grief. Grief is the loneliest of roads and I believe the abandonment we could be feeling is attributed to trying to fill those voids with the one we lost, in my case, my daughter. People just don’t know what to say about my pain and they have their own issues which to them, seems to pale in comparison to losing a child, spouse, or any loved one with 2 or 4 feet, for that matter. There were and are times when I just can’t be present for someone else’s dilemma. It could be something easy for me to talk about with him or her but I can’t find the emotional capacity to help. At times I feel useless, unneeded, and forgotten. But, if you stick with me you’ll find me ready to talk, willing to participate, check in, and feel so useful and needed by providing support. So, why is it important to stick with the grieving, for how long can you really stand listening to the pain without being able to help, and what is the right thing to say?


The newly grieving are protected by shock. In the case of the sudden loss of a child this shock can last for months and even manifest often as PTSD which must be treated. In these tumbling moments into the dark, we can expect to hear anything from, “I’m sorry for your loss;” “Please accept my condolences.” and “My prayers or thoughts are with you at this time.” Simple enough. I don’t remember much of the first 6 months so there wasn’t much focus on the “wrong things” said to me. But, I want to help people understand grief and that it’s not so terrifying to talk about. Being there to listen to friends or family when so many have given up on trying, is not only healing but life-saving.  

Here are some phrases that can be potentially damaging. I hold the utmost respect for the people who just don’t know what to say. As for the grieving, tell people what you need at the time. Your needs will change over the weeks, months, and yes…years. In this long and lonely journey, count on one hand the people who really know how to be there for you. And, reach out when you need to. Relationships can be one-sided for quite some time after loss but they don’t have to stay that way, especially with support.
Photo Credit: Timothy Carlson Photography
The stages of grief impact what the mourning hear and respond, and what we feel at the time. So, don’t be alarmed or surprised at responses that may sound as if you’re well-wishes are not appreciated. We don’t even know how we will feel from day to day sometimes. Be patient and heed some advice from the newly grieving:

1.       Never tell a grieving parent that at least he or she has another child or could potentially adopt. I was told I was leaving my son out of the conversation and that he probably felt left out.  I wasn’t asked how he was holding up and how our relationship is. For someone to insinuate that I cared more about the dead than the living created guilt and detachment from someone who had no idea how close my son and I are. Instead, ask how siblings, the other parent or partner, or family members are holding up. That’s okay. And so is asking, “How are you?” Even I said that after someone passed recently and I noticed the words as they landed. Of course, the grieving won’t respond with, “Just fabulous!” But we understand this is a conversation starter, and although feelings and emotions can be tumultuous, showing care is enough. Honoring the loss of a family member or child does not necessitate the need to look at the “bright side” or the implication that if the grieving parent does have another child he or she is ignoring that child or somehow minimizing the love we have for them. The concentration is of course focused on the lost child at first. It will be for some time. Ask what you can do, specifically for the family instead of what can seem like pressuring the family to move on more quickly as not to leave anyone behind or that by adopting another child or bearing another child will erase loss.
 

2.       Please do not tell a grieving parent that his or her grief is holding his or her deceased child or loved one from moving on into Heaven, the Universe or wherever you believe the soul travels or resides after the body is no longer utilized here. Whatever your beliefs, grief is happening all over the world so are all souls in your created limbo or pain? When you tell someone that his or her grief is holding the child back from ascension (if that is your belief), discern in what capacity you believe this declaration to be helpful and think about how damaging it could possibly be to someone who feels responsible for the death of his or her loved one. The rationale would imply that no one who has passed on would be able to become whole, a saint, an angel, a part of the Universe, at peace in Heaven or whatever your belief system is because, again the parent is at fault for keeping them from moving on by missing the child or loved one. Teach yourself about grief. I have been suicidal myself in my grief and have overcome many obstacles, and still I have days in which I’m physically ill, still fantasize about “going with her,” moving closer to my son (poor guy is in college and he doesn’t want mom to move in!) When I was told I was keeping her in pain or in a state less than bliss, I tried all over again to die. I felt the most guilt for creating despair for her in her afterlife, in her heaven. I didn’t want to continue living this way. That is the message you are delivering.  If you or the person you want to help believes in heaven or the spirit world or anything beyond the earthly plane, you are making assumptions and pushing the grieving mother to the edge. You’re handing down an unfounded declaration  and guilt (an emotion that I believe most parents carry and thank you but we don’t need more guilt.) And, you are setting time limits and crossing the most sacred boundaries.
 
 
3.       Call, text, write, send books, cook food, create art or whatever you would like to contribute but don’t stop supporting a grieving mother or father after the shock has worn off. It’s okay to call and say, “I’m just thinking about you.” The grief of a child lasts a lifetime. If you’re friends for life and can be there for your friend, you’ll find that in time the grieving mother wants to hear all about your trials and tribulations, your successes and your children. Don’t feel guilty about sharing your own joy or pain. As a mother, I feel the need to be wanted, included, and needed. Most days, thinking of my own friends’ dilemmas or triumphs gives me Purpose with a capital Reason to live.  You cannot fix your friend but it is surprising how many people tire of talking about the one who is no longer with us or how afraid people are to bring them up.

4.       We beg of you. Talk about our loved ones. Recall a story or memory, even if it brings tears. There is nothing I love more than hearing stories about both of my children. I am filled with pain sometimes but also a sense of wonder and joy. In the first year especially, our cognitive abilities slow, our memories are protected and by hearing tangible memories we are reminded of the silly and wondrous ways we love and loved our children or loved one.
 
5  Please don’t tell us it will get better.  Please don’t say she’s still with me so I shouldn’t be sad. And please with everything inside me; never tell me that she would not want me to suffer. More guilt and yet another avenue to diminish our right to love and miss the ones who passed. We know you’re trying to help. We know you don’t know what to say. Keep the dialogue open. Often, there’s nothing you can say. But, you can ask if a loved one would like to talk. Back to listening. In fact, I confided in a coworker that I lost my daughter and her shock was visible. She said, “I lost my son 3 months ago.” Now, I’m a professional griever and I was in the same category of finding the right words. I expressed my condolences, I offered resources, I listened. I can’t help her. It was one of those days in which I experienced deep depression and I validated her feelings.  I gave her my number.  She said, “You know, sometimes all I want is to have someone to listen.”  How much burden is placed upon our family members and partners when people tire of our sob story? Support groups in their time can be key to venting, crying, opening up, or simply listening to others who experience similar pain.


6.       People may not share your religion or be ready to hear your message of love and compassion and of strength you received through your beliefs. Chances are, the grieving could receive your words and be saved pain by them in epic proportions. But, even the strongest believers in religion or spirituality can and will at some point question their god or even become angry and confused about almost anything spiritual on this journey.It seems as soon as people told me that their faith saved them, it alienated me. They wanted for me to believe what they believe so strongly that they were no longer my friends when I wasn’t ready to embrace their churches, beliefs, or way of seeing the world. Ask the person if he or she is interested in a faith-based path and acknowledge that you still want to be present for him or her even if the religious path is not someone else’s. She is my daughter. She is not here. I miss her. I miss touching her, caring for her, talking to her. This relationship has more than 2 participants but right now I'm confused, hurt, and would never suppose to know what another's beliefs are.

7.       Stay for the long haul. Most of my friends moved on. They are not the mother. I know friends who have stuck by me through the entire last year. The difference was there were no excuses why they couldn’t call or check in. The friends who disappeared are not suffering as I am but I still check on the friends I met who lost a child or lost a job or are moving or having a baby or even getting ready for a wedding or graduation. We feel a bit less lonely and lost.
 
Photo Credit Mark Moore Photography
 
The phone that doesn’t ring, the loneliness and despair, the late night phone calls to people, sobbing, strengthening, falling down, it’s all part of grief. You can only know this by asking, by calling, by checking in. This is not a timed event. This is life and this is forever. My heart beats strongly for my son and family but it will never be completely whole. Understanding grief, guilt, pain, confusion and the many moods, the ebb and flow of this harrowing journey is worthy of a good read at least. Don’t wait to grieve to learn how to communicate with the grieving, Pick up a book, research, and just try. Love and be present. One of my favorite phone calls was in the beginning when a long-time friend called and said, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.” We laughed and cried together. We made horrible jokes. She still calls me crying and almost knows the right time to come to my rescue. In fact, she threatens me with: “Don’t make me come get you.” I laugh as I cry through my tears. Or, we meet for coffee and a laugh.

 

 

Sunday, April 9, 2017

Angels And Miracles


Dangerously close I stood in the park just a block away from the old house; the house I didn’t want to leave, the house in which she took her earth life, the house I clung to until moving to the country where I began to grieve openly and mostly alone.

I felt like I could reach out and touch the house but I dared not drive by in case I would happen to see her car or her…late for work, messy bun, large purse in hand, probably still looking for her keys. I would be racing to park and window down, frantic, “Don’t leave yet!” I jumped out of the car more than once just for a hug and if it was the right time, to help her find her keys. But, she’s not there. I couldn’t bring myself to go there. She’s not coming back.

My mind raced as we drove home in the dark, the tears finally falling, sobs erupting as I pictured all of the moms and daughters I’ve seen graduating, having babies, getting married, I longed for what I will never have with my daughter. But, more than that was my feeling of anger and desperation. Why?
 
 

Not why she took her life. I know and I don’t know. But, why are there everyday miracles, lives saved, some phenomenal occurrence finding a girl in a well or grabbing a little boy before he crosses the street kind of miracle that everyone talks about. The kind of story with the attempted suicide that went rightly wrong and the person who attempted lived to tell about why suicide is never the answer. Why did she not deserve a miracle? Why didn’t she have a guardian angel like I supposedly have surrounding me in my grief? I saw them. I felt her around me after she left. Why wasn’t she told by that one man who mattered, to stay? Why didn’t he tell her he loved her? Why didn’t someone randomly receive a whisper in the ear to go to the house? Why did everyone arrive just minutes too late? Why didn’t I know, thousands of miles from home that the wrongness I felt, “the earth is trembling and I don’t know why,” was her soul calling to me?

Why are there angels now and a god or gods to pray to in my despair, anguish, in my begging for freedom from the burden of coming to the city and remembering all of the restaurants we visited together, all of the shopping, all of the ice cream and playgrounds? Why are there meditations now and crystals and religions? Why am I called to teach people about mental health and about suicide prevention and about Borderline Personality Disorder now? Why couldn’t I have heard the diagnosis in a dream or in passing? Why must I be told I need to be the miracle who can possibly save someone’s life when I wanted to save hers for 22 years?
 
 

Why are there mediums and guides and books and prayers now? I could have taught her meditation, taken her to a church if she would have gone, taught her relaxation exercises. She could have met ANYONE just anyone please anyone to convince her to hold on for one more day, Taylor. Hold on for one more day. I am holding on and I will suffer for the rest of my life without her but she died without an angel, without a miracle, without the only people who mattered to her to tell her to stay. She died thinking she wasn’t worth one more day. Where was the miracle? Where was god, angels, guides, people, where was I? The day before she left the earth, I had no desire whatsoever to participate in a game drive to see elephants that I hungered to see, fought for from home, advocated, spoke, wrote, organized for and experienced a year ago. That year I felt as if I were in heaven, in the presence of God, Mother Nature. This time, something was wrong. I cried that day. I felt immense depression. I tried to call her. I couldn’t get through. The feeling went away as easily as it came. But, damn it, if it was a message I missed it.

And, when I sat up straight in bed 9 hours ahead of her on the bank of the Luangwa River at 4:30am she called me. I couldn’t hear her. I don’t think she was talking. I begged for her to call me right back and she didn’t. I tried a few more times. I took a shower and before I finished packing to fly out of the country, I wanted to try one more time. My call was answered but cancelled. Someone hung up on me. I guess it wasn’t her because she had typed a suicide note to me in that time and I wrote back that I would come home and get well with her. She never received my call or my message. I never spoke to her again.
 
 

Why are angels and miracles saved for anyone except the girl who created miracles for others? Why did she suffer for 22 years in the midst of her fierce loyalty to truth, honor, and compassion for animals and people? Why could she not be spared? Why must I pray now, love now, learn now, heal now, teach now without her?

At 4’11”, with a tiny sundress and long brown hair she looked up at anyone, a perfect stranger and could create a laugh or offer assistance or simply company. With brown and hazel-like eyes, you could see to her soul, you could see the Universe. My chest grew and my chin raised with a mother’s pride and a knowing smile that I could introduce her to anyone and she would at least light up a life, even for a moment. But, she didn’t deserve the grace, the dignity, the miracle, the angel, the god, the hand, the words to keep her from wanting to die?

I am in protest of this nightmare. I can live for my son and my family and fiancĂ©. I can even live for the dogs. I can learn to love her and live for her, in her name…but not now. I am clear. I don’t want to be here without her. I didn’t choose this and if I did choose this with her, as my twin soul who has never left me since she left the earth she knows I fight this decision, this diagnosis delivered oh so poorly, the emotional abuse, the feeling of knowing but not knowing, the absolute that her death brings. No, I will not accept this. Not yet. No, I will not lean on a god or angel or person or miracle that didn’t come for her. You neglect my daughter, you neglect me. I neglected my daughter in her need and I reject all that is and will ever be without her. 
 
Last Hike October 2015

 
I will heal in time. Not in all ways and not on principle and not because people tell me to. I will live for my son and care for him, love him, nurture him and protect him for the rest of my life. I will teach and educate. I will raise funds to identify and cure Borderline Personality Disorder. But, I feel like it will take a miracle, a god, an angel, and abiding love to keep me grounded and above ground when and if I’m ready to accept help that I feel was refused to my girl.

 

Saturday, April 1, 2017

But, Dad, it was Taylor


But, Dad, it was Taylor. I don’t understand. How am I supposed to able to live without her? Remember that she was so tiny, 4pounds and 11 ounces. You said I could fit in a breadbox when I was born and that Taylor was smaller. And, she was perfect and I remember at 3 weeks, I rested her in your arms and her eyes were open. She melted into you, Dad. That never went away. She just got sick.
Remember she would just cry every night and we couldn’t help her. But, she loved to laugh and play. She laughed easily, so tiny. She struggles in pre-school. You have a pair of the binoculars made of toilet paper rolls in Art, right? I have one. I think you do, too. I never showed them to her. I wonder what is wrong with me that I didn’t think of it before. I guess I wasn’t nostalgic because I was entranced in loving you in the present.
 
I remember picking her up in 5th grade at the school. She would wait for you or me in the office, white with fear or almost grey. I looked at her and saw the fear, Dad. You and I remember. It was hard on us. But, she gave you joy. She used to kiss the turkey and she used to call you on the phone to tattle on me. She had fits of anger back then and I used to take her to her doctors and counselors and we never got an answer.

Neither you or Mom believed me that she needed help but Metro helped her. You drove her there and back. You brought her breakfast. You got to be there with her. It was hard but not all the time. She demanded you put her shoes on, “Papa do it.” You loved her so much.
I loved her long hair, thick and slightly purple. You always asked her, “What did you do to your hair?” That would start an argument with her or she’d say something silly like, “Papa, get over it.” I don’t really know what she’d say because you had so much time with her.

I don’t think of all of the fighting so much. I still love that every time you came over, you’d say that her room was dirty. Like it was a surprise. I am laughing out loud, now. I think her anxiety really made her scattered, Dad. She lost her keys. I know you had to go get her more than once at 1am. She didn’t even call me for that. She called you and Mama because she knew you’d come.
You are still the king of smartass one-liners. But, she shared that talent with you, too. “Don’t you have your own white car?” I think she was about four at the time? “Don’t touch me.” “Don’t talk to me.” “Mom won’t feed me.” You used to have something to say to me when I walked out the door when I lived at home and she did the same thing. She stormed out of the house in rage that no one could identify for some magical reason we’ll never know….and I made it worse. How many times did she wreck the cars? But, at the same time she was using those cars to help people and animals and go to work and she was genuinely a good person.


It was Taylor, Dad. I can’t do what everyone wants me to do. I can’t just forget about it and accept it and move on and be okay and strong and let her go and whatever people want to make me feel bad for. You and Mama are the only ones who loved her the way we did together. And, I’m sorry that she hurt you and she didn’t mean to. Bad things were happening because she was breaking and I didn’t stop it, Dad. I feel ashamed when I think of that.
I think we’re moving, maybe slowly, but I have responsibilities and I know what’s expected of me. Remember you and I when I was growing up. You took my friends or family and me everywhere. You stood for hours at Six Flags and Taylor grew to love the rides at that awful place just like me. You did that. And, my breath is frozen in my heart because I’ll never run with her through Six Flags again. She just naturally fit, you know.
 
Did you know the story of Taylor and a new friend sitting on a bench at Six Flags? People were walking by, I’m sure kids jumping, and a couple had a leash on their child, I guess Taylor phrased it better than child harness, don’t you? Anyway, this couple is walking by and Taylor plainly and with clarity addresses them, “I like your dog.” I missed that, But, we didn’t miss her at parks and playing in the pool. I think I put up about 4 pools at my house and every time, you’d ask, “Why are you putting up a pool?” Mostly, because Mom bought a few for us. But, it wasn’t a question for Taylor, Tommy, or me. We loved having summer camp at home. You used to wrap her up in a towel from the time she was tiny until she was almost full-grown. I remember you letting her play in a brand new trashcan lid in the backyard when she was a baby. Those are the best pictures, I think.
 

I need you to see her from my point of view. Every time I walked out of the house, Taylor had a  comment. “Oh, my Gawd you’re not wearing that.” My answer was, “What am I supposed to wear?” She quipped, “If you don’t know, I’m not telling you.”
 “Are you picking up food?” That’s your fault. She learned to call you so young. She called you above anyone.  “Mom won’t feed me,” as I was cooking dinner. You blamed me all the time for her doing that but you loved any chance to see her and I loved any chance to see you. At least we got to do it.
 
She hugged you always. From the first time you held her, you never let her go. She hugged you and you wrapped your strong hands around her face and she smiled. That gave me joy. That I could give you that gift of unconditional love from my daughter who I loved so much and was able to share with you and Mom. Until the very last moment I saw her alive, she and I held each other. She called me and said, “Come up to my work and say goodbye.” So, naturally we trained professionals did just that. I walked in and held her at the bar in front of who cares. But, I always did that anyway. She laid down on the couch and I would jump on her and hold her down to hug her. I stepped into her way almost daily to hug her and if it made her mad that didn’t help anything for her finding her keys or apron or shoes but it gave me joy . And, then we found her keys in her car with the window rolled down and her purse wide open in the center. That big green purse that’s hanging in her room now. You may have been with her when she bought the purse. You told me that she lost her phone in a shoebox in a shoe store. So, I’m surprised that she didn’t lose one in a purse! I loved the way you talked about shopping with her. She just didn’t want to or try to spend money for no reason. The tattoos is a different story and I won’t tell you about that. But, you liked the way she would look at everything and annoyingly but admirably buying nothing.
 
She called me from your house many times to come there with you and Mom. Most of the time she was playing cards with Mama and or Carla. She was always relaxed then. I don’t know if you ever watched her play Skip-Bo but she held her cards and always won. I asked her to tell me how she did that, She told me that because I wanted to know she was not telling me her secret. She kept that one, too. I hate to see Mama now with no cards and no Taylor and when I walk in she’s not there and I feel like it was my fault or help in stopping suffering but whatever happened, she was impulsive, Dad. She was also determined as a kid and bossy in the most flip-flop, sundress, long hair, tattooed, lip gloss, curse word kind of way. That was my life for 22 years. You and Mom gave me the best childhood I could have and we all tried to do that for Taylor and Tommy. Even though telling Tommy that we’d take him to the park when he refused to nap…and then drive him around the block at which time he’d fall asleep and we realize that we tricked him but he needed a nap. Sorry, Tom.
 
I remember the look on her face in that photo of her sitting on your leg at her 21st birthday party when she wore my necklace and shoes. She was so proud to be sitting by her Papa. You see her light shine, Her whole face lit up. Look at the photos. Remember who she was to you and is to me now. I can’t get over her until I’m ready and I’m not making promises.  But, I am sorry she’s gone. I’ll never be able to know if she was mostly happy and then …broke? She was just figuring things out. As are we.

 
Oh, and through all of this and the stress right now in our family, I'm sure you'd be happy to know that mom and my relationship is improving dramatically. It's growing. And, you're still my hero.