Float it to the Heavens

Posted on May 26, 2020 by cattalespress under Death, death of a child, Faith, Faith Muscle, Family, Friendships, Good over evil, grief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, NEVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel

Living in the past gives you sorrow.

That’s what my friend Tippy IM’d me a few weeks ago.

She is right. She refers to what the 12-step community calls “morbid reflection.”

So one year ago, this past Memorial Day Weekend, the Saturday my 26-year-old son arrived home for what would be the last time I would ever see him, the sky was clear as a lens, the air floated gently, spiked with excitement. My friend Pat, his Godmother, but closer than a grandmother, and I went to pick him from a shuttle stop nearby. In a typical “Marshall story,” an hour and a half shuttle ride from the airport turned out to be three hours. Incredibly, the driver avoided highways and traveled only via major route. We later surmised that the man had an irrational fear of highways. It made no sense, but again, it was a typical “Marshall story.”

In typical Marshall fashion, my son didn’t complain. He was unnerved from the three-hour shuttle ride. Calmly, he shook off the entire nightmare of a trip the minute he stepped out of the van as he towered over me, healthy and vibrant with a big, big white smile and goofy giggle so much like my own and my brother Paul’s.

That weekend, we enjoyed lovely weather and spent some of the best quality time day tripping to Stonington, CT, the place that he loved the most. The three of us, Pat, my son and I spent the holiday with a ribbon of velvety fabric moments, a cocoon of unconditional love wrapped around us. At one point, I watched my son stroll out to the tip of the beach’s jetty and peace resonated around him as did the sun and sky and the world held an oyster of pearls and promise in its palm.

Living in the past gives you sorrow.

I began this past weekend feeling like I was going to jump out of my skin and as if I necessitated a padded room for my brain on fire. I hit the off switch and isolated and insulated to protect myself. No Facebook. No glances at my son’s text messages from a year ago. No peaking at last year’s beautiful big, blue sky photos in which we all smiled without being prompted, “Cheese!”

So, as it turned out, my sister friend Anne in New Mexico, started to text me photos (she’s #1 photographer on this blog) during the weekend and asked me and my daughter to visit her in the future. I explained that I am, among other things, riddled with survivor’s guilt. Marsh wanted nothing more than to visit the desert, not me.

Living in the past gives you sorrow

“Survivor’s guilt holds you down, so please float it to the heavens and know how much he loved you. At least you can visit the desert and leave a memento of his.”

So out of the ill-luck hand I was dealt, loser cards of sorrow, faith comes in Anne’s text. Instead of sorrow, I am forcing myself to not look back but look forward and think about what memento or two I can bring when we are ready to visit New Mexico, so we can leave a little piece of him in the desert. Some people believe that faith isn’t a tangible thing that you can just pull out of your pocket. I disagree. Under the heat of the desert sun, sometimes the restorative qualities of a bottle of water pulled out of your pocket will saturate you with all the faith you will ever need.

Faith Muscle

Unbearable Beautiful World

Posted on May 19, 2020 by cattalespress under Angels on Earth, Courage, Crisis, Death, death of a child, Faith, Faith Muscle, Family, Fellowship, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, grief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, inspiration, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Relationships, Sing a new song, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, Turmoil, Vulnerability

Today marks six months since my 26-year-old passed away. I am learning to break down each 24-hour interval into manageable milliseconds. There is no turnoff switch for me to prevent explosive emotions from erupting. However, when I feel I will fizzle into smithereens, I have discovered that people’s kind words and gestures become like a pressure relief safety valve.

Most recently, my safety valve was a friend and mentor. Betsy choked up as she spoke about her 28-year-old son, who took his own life 11 years ago. She shared about how more than usual she felt his presence that day. Listening to her, I not only felt great empathy, but my degree of sorrow for her matched my sorrow, if, perhaps, was greater than my own sorrow. And for that turn-of-the-pressure-relief-safety-valve moment, I exhaled, gifted with pain relief.

Image by RitaE from Pixabay

But wait, there’s more. As Betsy, generally a proud and really, really humorous fortress of a woman, continued to share, she spoke about how her son’s death only magnifies the beauty around her and gives her faith. That’s a tough order for me right now. Every beautiful pink-blushed apple blossom, magnolia flower and springtime landscape framed in natural beauty reminds me of my son, and I long in anguish for him even more. I cannot fathom the beauty through Betsy’s personal window. That is until I realize deep grief stems from deep love, and what is more beautiful than love? Now, I’m in the process of flexing my faith muscle so I can open up my window just a tad wider and let the sun spread it healing rays.

Faith Muscle

Good Grief in Covid-19 Times

Posted on May 12, 2020 by cattalespress under Aging, Angels on Earth, COVID-19, Crisis, Death, death of a child, Faith, Faith Muscle, Family, grief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, Out of Order Death, Pandemic, Self-Care, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul

Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay

When I lost my 26-year-old son, I wondered how I could ever don my leopard shoes again and live in full-color. My father in his older years, about the age I am now, used to say to me,

“My life is ending. Yours is just beginning.”

As I grow older, I appreciate the saying. It meant he (and now it pertains to me) was at the point in his life to carry a dwindling bucket list. Young people, like my son, typically amass pretty impressive bucket lists. A few examples on my son’s list include visiting the desert and touring the country on Amtrak (he loved trains!). For me: been there, done that.

Never in a million years did I dream I would be left holding his to-do list. Dumbfounded, shocked and weighed down with PTSD that coincides with survivor’s guilt; luckily, most people spare me their assurances of things like he won a first-class ticket to heaven where leopard pales next to angel sparkle. For me, being an earthling is all I can handle right now. Overthinking, and analyzing leads to stress.

From the beginning, my daughter and I kept it low key. In those early days, during the holidays, we anesthetized our senses with caramel popcorn washed down with swigs of diet coke and a marathon run of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. After I stored the Christmas wreath, our sole holiday decoration, and my daughter went back to her city living, in the days Corona was only associated with a brand name on the beer market, I tumbled aplenty, but managed to find some footing on swamp-of-the-soul terrain.

Once Covid-19 days slammed the brakes on the world, moment-to-moment breaking headlines fuel my days. Sickness. Death. Upheaval. I am grateful for the diversion. I take solace in the fact that if I pull my mask high up, no one can see the mark of age that tears leave behind.

In essence, honestly, sadness of the shockingly horrific state of affairs is coupled with relief. I am not the only one whose house has experienced an abdominal invasion that has overthrown a simple, relevant life plan. In addition, as much heartbreak as I have over burying my own child, I am able to stop my sorrow and introspection and think of others: people who don’t have the opportunity for proper good-byes, burials, funerals and closure.

After each sheltering in place day passes, I grow more grateful. I don’t have to suit up, paste on a happy face and greet the world. I exchange my boots for house slippers. I ride grief’s ride. I cry. I ache. I eat caramel popcorn mindlessly. Some days, like living through my first Mother’s Day without hearing his voice, the shark jaws of memory and regret are sword sharp. My distress is private and mercifully unnoticed inside this very unnoticeable, but safe cocoon home.

Was I blessed with this pandemic? It feels like it when I am able to snap on my big girl underwear and lick my wounds and heal best I can and fully somehow wrap my mind around what chronic pain feels like and understand chronic pain doesn’t disappear like a season, and it doesn’t shed like a winter coat.

It’s been a pull-my-skin-off-slowly time. Good grief, does it hurt. On the other hand, as bad as it feels, it’s been good grief, because it’s real. I haven’t fully made a decision to live life quite yet. I have fully made a decision to get through this hour, because right now I can only manage faith in small doses. I can slice a sliver of hope. And if I can’t cut it, I reach out to my tribe. I find strength. They send me photos, cartoons and chicken soup. I lean in and know they have faith in me, and that’s a lot of obligation on my part.

Ironically, I pass my leopard shoes every day and feel great relief to watch them gather dust. In the old days, I’d say, “What a blessing.”

Now, I shelter in place and feel a lot of room to move around in my comfortable house slippers. A few lines from Albert Huffstickler’s The Cure are apropos.

The way to “get over” a life is to die.

Short of that, you move with it,

let the pain be pain,

not in the hope that it will vanish

But in the faith that it will fit in,

find its place in the shape of things

and be then not any less pain but true to form.

Faith Muscle

The Cure By Albert Huffstickler

Posted on May 5, 2020 by cattalespress under Courage, Crisis, Death, death of a child, Faith, Faith Muscle, Family, grief, Grieving, heartbreak, hope, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, Out of Order Death, Suicide, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel

Image by Leonardo Valente from Pixabay

When the pain of my grief becomes unmanageable, I read the The Cure by Albert Huffstickler. I especially refer to it when the clueless around me spew quick-fix mouth service like “Let it go!” “It will get better.” “He’s in a better place,” and all the sentences that begin with proper nouns like Jesus, God and Buddha.

This poem gives me faith that someday I will have “the faith that it will fit in.” One day I hope to frame the poem and display it prominently on the wall. I also think a framed copy would make a great gift for grief-stricken individuals. In the interim, I frame my painful heart with these words, and the poem holds the fragments together like a vase.

THE CURE
We think we get over things.
We don’t get over things.
Or say, we get over the measles,
But not a broken heart.
We need to make that distinction.
The things that become part of our experience
Never become less a part of our experience.
How can I say it?
The way to “get over” a life is to die.
Short of that, you move with it,
let the pain be pain,
not in the hope that it will vanish
But in the faith that it will fit in,
find its place in the shape of things
and be then not any less pain but true to form.
Because anything natural has an inherent shape and will flow towards it.
And a life is as natural as a leaf.
That’s what we’re looking for: not the end of a thing but the shape of it.
Wisdom is seeing the shape of your life without obliterating (getting over) a single
instant of it.