The Storm

California is finally getting the rain we need, and more. The storms have returned. And I am again in my season of storms. Three years ago today Jim and I walked into El Camino Hospital. He never came home. I am certainly not the same person who walked in. 

Grief, like a storm, is unpredictable. You think the storm has broken, the sun comes out for a respite, the puddles seep slowly into the saturated ground. a bird sings. A tree blossoms. And then the storm returns. Wind strips the blossoms from the tree. Rain pours from the sky. So it is with grief. After exhausting yourself with tears and sleepless nights filled with haunting memories, you wake and feel maybe there is hope. You have a good day, or even a great week. You notice birds singing and have hope that early blossoms signal Spring. Then the grief returns, memories flooding over the spillway that protects your heart. 

I woke this morning with memories of that day three years ago. I never dreamed I would be leaving the hospital alone. I replay the day in my mind.  I was at the bank when Jim called and said that Dr. K was admitting Jim to the hospital. I came home, thinking we were preparing for another round of what were becoming routine procedures. I had no idea it was just a calm before the biggest storm of my life.

“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones...   

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. 

And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”  ~ Haruki Murakami, Kafka on The Shore

As Murakami writes, this storm is inside me. I am certain it is not over. And it has changed me forever. It has make me stronger, more courageous and  more compassionate. I am more mindful and grateful. I cherish my relationships. I try to find joy in each day. And I dance in the rain.

I can live, and I do

Recently, a friend of mine posted lyrics from the Harry Nilsson song, "I can't live if living is without you" and it got me thinking. My first response it, yes, damn it, you can, and you will, even when you don't want to.

There were many days and nights when I wished I could die too, after Jim died.  I never was suicidal, I just did not want to be alive. But I didn't die 

I was, for many months, doing the zombie walk. Getting through the necessities of life but not living. 

Eventually I would surprise myself by smiling or even laughing at something. I was able to find hints, slivers of joy peeking through like sunlight through the edge of a curtain. 

Once I realized I wasn't going to die I had to think about how I wanted to live. My husband Jim lived life to the fullest. He was brave and he was vulnerable. He was strong yet soft. He had dreams and sadly, many those dreams would never be realized because his life was cut short by cancer. I honor Jim by living my life, by striving for my dreams, by showing gratitude and compassion every day. By living in the moment. By finding the joy in life. 

I'm not yet ready to say that I can find the gift in my loss. However I can say my grief and loss have made me stronger,more compassionate and yes, more joyful.

The Ring Theory and Cats

When Jim was still alive and I was still going to work almost every day, I managed tough days with a little help from a little pill - Xanax. I am an elementary school teacher. I was worried about him when I was at school and worried about my students when I was away. Xanax helped just take the edge off my anxiety. When I mentioned this to a colleague, she said, "Oh don't worry about it. When my cat died I had to take Xanax to get through it."

Now, before I start on that, let me just say, when my pets died, I cried. When my current pet seems to be slowing down and I even think about her dying, I cry. So I am not heartless to the impact we feel when a furry member of our family dies. But did she really just compare my husband's terminal illness with her cat dying? Her cat?

Enter, the Ring Theory of Grief. Early in Jim's treatment my dear friend +Mary Thompson shared with me the Ring Theory of Grief and I have called upon it so many times, I decided I should write about it. Susan Silk, a clinical psychologist, developed this theory after dealing with people during her own battle with breast cancer.

The basic idea is that there are a series of concentric rings. When Jim was alive, he was in the center, smallest circle. The next circle out was me, our son, Bobby and,Jim's siblings. In the next larger ring were our closest friends, my parents and my siblings. In each larger ring put the next closest people. Less intimate friends in the larger rings. When you are done, you have what Silk calls the Kvetching order, I am a bit more crass and call it the bitching order.

Now that Jim is dead, I am at the center of my circle, just as Jim's siblings are at the center of theirs and Bobby is at the center of his. What was not helpful to me was when people in my circles would come to me overwhelmed by grief and telling me how they can't handle Jim being gone. I know this sounds ungrateful, perhaps I should enjoy sharing my grief and hearing how much he was loved. And as time has passed, I have mellowed on this, the rings lines have become more permeable. 

But in the beginning, it really was all about me. I had no space to consider the emotions of others. I remember the clarity I felt about a month after I died when I brought some of Jim/James' ashes home to Iowa where his family all live. It hit me that they were grieving the loss of a brother, and Bobby his father. I have not experienced those losses yet and my heart was suddenly filled with a deep compassion for them at that moment. I am a little embarrassed to admit that it took me a full month to get there. 

But when I learn more about the ring theory, this all makes sense. From Silk and Goldman:

Here are the rules. The person in the center ring can say anything she wants to anyone, anywhere. She can kvetch and complain and whine and moan and curse the heavens and say, "Life is unfair" and "Why me?" That's the one payoff for being in the center ring.
Everyone else can say those things too, but only to people in larger rings.
When you are talking to a person in a ring smaller than yours, someone closer to the center of the crisis, the goal is to help. Listening is often more helpful than talking. But if you're going to open your mouth, ask yourself if what you are about to say is likely to provide comfort and support. If it isn't, don't say it. Don't, for example, give advice. People who are suffering from trauma don't need advice. They need comfort and support. So say, "I'm sorry" or "This must really be hard for you" or "Can I bring you a pot roast?" Don't say, "You should hear what happened to me" or "Here's what I would do if I were you." And don't say, "This is really bringing me down."

If you want to scream or cry or complain, if you want to tell someone how shocked you are or how icky you feel, or whine about how it reminds you of all the terrible things that have happened to you lately, that's fine. It's a perfectly normal response. Just do it to someone in a bigger ring.
Comfort IN, dump OUT.

from LA Times How not to say the wrong thing: It's the 'Ring Theory' of kvetching. The first rule is comfort in, dump out April 07, 2013|Susan Silk and Barry Goldman

The authors point out that the theory applies in times of crisis, and as the crisis subsides, it has been my experience that I am more willing to "hold the space" for other people's feelings around Jim's death. But I still get impatient when people try to make sense of my loss by comparing it to theirs. There is no sense to be made.

In her powerful recent memoir The Great Below, Maddy Paxman writes about mourning the death, at age 50, of her husband, the poet Michael Donaghy, and of others' stumbling efforts to help. One well-wisher tried to find common ground by mentioning the death of a cat. What the ex-cat owner didn't grasp is that it's not your job, in such contexts, to try to make things less awful. To use the language of therapy, it's to help "hold the space" in which feeling awful is OK. And if you genuinely feel awful about your cat, and want to talk about it‚ sure. Just perhaps not right this minute. 

from The Guardian 

No Death, No Fear

I finally decided I was ready to read the last chapter of No death, No fear: Comforting Wisdom for Life by Thich Nhat Hanh. 

The chapter is entitled accompanying the dying. When I was reading this book a year ago, I knew I didn't have the strength to tackle that yet. As I now read the words, I cry, but am able to understand and accept the teachings. I was so glad to know that much of what my bother-in-law, Mike and I intuitively knew was aligned with a compassionate death. Mike especially sowed seeds of happiness by recounting stories of the life he shared with Jim. I fell asleep, for the first time in days, with the sounds of Mike telling stories of their adventures. Thich Nhat Hanh writes, "Those who are unconscious have a way to hear us if we are truly present and peaceful as we sit at their bedside." I believe this to be true.

The morning Jim died, I read to him a Buddhist prayer for the dead and dying:

Oh Buddhas and Bodhisattvas,...

Oh Compassionate Ones, you who possess
The wisdom of understanding,
The love of compassion,...
James is passing from this world to the next,
He is taking a great leap,
The light of this world has faded for him,
He has entered solitude with their karmic forces,
He has gone into a vast silence,
He is borne away by the great ocean of birth and death ..…

I also read him the 23rd Psalm from The Bible.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

In No Fear, No Death, I especially like the image of birth and death as a game of hide and seek, take my hand and wave goodbye. Death is not permanent.

My friend, Tanya, a budding Buddhist, writes in her blog,

We exist in the soil, in the light and warmth of the sun, in the animals and in each other. …and this isn’t a flowery story. This is science.
I think science would agree that our bodies are made up of elements that are non-specific to being human. ... Those elements will still be here when our bodies are gone. They will become another form, giving life to something else.
When this form is gone, our bodies will be the rich soil, and water feeding the tree, and the fruit that grows from it. We will be the energy given to the life of an animal eating from it, and to its baby who drinks it’s milk. ...
So, we will never disappear into nothingness. Which also means that we haven’t come from nothing either. We have been the sun, and the minerals, and the soil, and the plants, the insects, and each animal, and person in this way. We have existed, and still do exist as every single thing.
We have lived countless lives in infinite connections. Even in this form, we are new from day to day, and from thought to thought.
And this is rebirth.
For me, I find this much more comforting than the idea of an eternal place where my soul will be stored.

I find comfort in this as well. Tomorrow we shall meet again. I have no fear.

Solstice

For as long as I have known about Winter Solstice, it has been my most favorite holiday. Yes, it is the shortest day, and longest night of the year. But in that darkness is held the promise of light and warmth. Summer is on it's way. The days are now getting longer. I imagine the first humans wondering why the days were getting shorter and shorter. Was time running out? Would their lives be plunged into eternal darkness? Think of the joy they had when the sun once again began to retake the day. Generations since have had simple faith that even in the darkest night, there was hope that the light would return. We now know the science behind the solstices. But for me that does not diminish the faith and hope that I feel in my darkest hours. The belief I must have...that joy and warmth and light will return.

The world keeps turning, and day always follows night.

After the cold, dark, winter, spring returns with cleansing rains and blossoms.

After fire appears to devastate the landscape, seeds released by the heat, burst forth with new, verdant life.

Yes, even after death, life begins again.

At first it might just be a smile, one day without tears. And then like a false spring, the darkness returns. But just as the days after winter solstice become longer, so do the periods where life without you seems possible.

Hope and energy slowly, sometimes falteringly return. The tiny hand of a child, reaching out to hold mine. The sunlight sparking like diamonds on the sea. The kind, knowing compassion of a stranger at the grocery store when I unexpectledly burst out crying. A long drive with the top down through the lush forest. 

I still miss you, Jim, and always will. The grief never leaves, but I learn to live with it. My grief has taught me compassion, patience, and I have a strength within me I never knew was there. The darkness in my heart fades, but still is there. But like the longest,darkest night, I know the light will return.

Masquerade

Sometimes I feel like a total fake. People tell me I'm doing so well...having fun, thriving. What they don't see is how I fall apart every night. I miss Jim so much and my heart just aches when the world around me stops and I have time to just be. Now I understand why Aunt Gladys told me to keep busy, because her generation doesn't really want to deal with feelings. And that's what happens at the end of the day, when things are quiet. Or in the shower every morning, where the water masks my tears, and I am literally bare to my emotions. Hidden or not, I have to face my feelings.

It's funny...not haha funny but strange... I know all the right words, 'you don't get over it, you just go through it' and 'it doesn't get easier, you just get stronger'  And I know they are true. But knowing and feeling are two different things.

I expected after a year had passed that "helpful" folks would encourage me to 'get busy living'. What I did not anticipate was that I would have those same expectations for myself. I thought that I would be more joyful, more energetic and more ready to get on with my life. But that's not always the case. I still sometimes just want to stay in bed and cry missing Jim, loving Jim. I find myself getting impatient with me. While I expected, no, demanded, patience, understanding and compassion from my family and friends, for some strange reason I wasn't able to give the same to myself. Why is it easier for us to love others than love ourselves? To be patient and kind with others than it is to be with ourselves?