Monthly Archives: July 2024

grieving

Making Peace with My (Dead) Mother

For a long time after my mother died, I was angry. Sometimes I was angry that she had died when I was only 12, which made me feel like even more of a freak than I had when she was alive. Other times my anger was directed at her more personally, fixating on what I felt were her failings before she died. All through high school and college, I felt like kids who had “normal” mothers had learned things about life that I had not learned, and I held her responsible. How to be loved, how to feel secure in the world, and how to interact with strangers, for example.

Before my mother died, her addiction to alcohol made her unreliable, unpredictable, and moody. She could go from laughing to throwing things in a flash. What I had learned from her was to not trust adults and to never let my guard down.

When my daughter was a child, I read children’s books to her that taught lessons I had never learned: some days don’t go the way you want and it’s not your fault, someone else’s success doesn’t take anything from you, it’s ok to have needs and to ask for what you want, apologizing isn’t a sign of weakness.

As I parented my own daughter, I constantly realized what I had missed out on. When my daughter needed someone to advocate for her at school, I was there. When she needed to be reassured about her abilities, I was there. When she needed advice on social messiness, I was there. I had always suspected that kids with a mother had something I didn’t, but I didn’t quite know what it was. As I parented my own daughter, I learned what it was.

My anger intensified and I carried it with the indignation of the 12-year old girl I was when my mother died. Even when I had a happy memory of my mother, it was tainted by the rage I felt over what she hadn’t provided for me.

A few years ago, my therapist said something about my mother not being able to show up for me the way she probably wanted to. That reframing opened the door for me to rethink many of the beliefs I had been holding onto about my mother.

Instead of being angry with her for being an addict, I was able to feel compassion for someone who didn’t have the skills to cope with the stresses of her life. She came from an alcoholic home herself. Of her three siblings, it fell to her to care for their father when he was descending into dementia. Her marriage was a difficult one, and reading between the lines, I believe she was stalked by an ex. Certainly her life had not been an easy one.

When I think of her facing the challenges that may have led to her addiction, I wish she had lived in a time of more awareness and less shame. I imagine her waking up each morning and setting out to not drink, to be present for my sister and me—and herself. And then being disgusted with herself for not living up to that commitment, and my heart goes out to her.

Instead of being angry with her for not advocating for me, I was able to feel compassion for her never having had an advocate herself. While she may not have been outwardly affectionate, I remember her being incredibly supportive of other women who left bad situations, giving them rides to the airport or money or a place to sleep for a night. When I look for it, I can find the advocating spirit.

When I think of my mother as doing the best she could, I am filled with love and compassion for her. Holding a grudge with a dead person is a no-win situation. It’s exhausting to never be able to ask for an explanation, to know that an apology will never come. And I don’t need an apology from her. She did the best she could.

The Buddha said that holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. My mother is already dead, so holding onto anger toward her is particularly absurd and pointless. When I was able to let go of my anger, the weight of it transformed into tenderness.

grieving

Cumulative grief at 37 months

The three-year anniversary of my husband’s death was what I expected it to be—very sad for a couple of days before and the day of the anniversary and then a feeling of relief when the anniversary had passed. I’ve noticed myself feeling relief whenever a milestone passes—anniversaries, his birthday, the holidays that meant a lot to him—as if it’s an accomplishment to have survived it.

The three-year anniversary was sad, but not intense and I wondered if maybe my grief was becoming more quiet, like something that might always rumble beneath the surface but only make itself known from time to time and then in subtle ways.

A month later, my reaction to the 37-month anniversary shook that wondering out of me. For four days, I had the weight in my chest that I felt regularly during the first year, the feeling that I couldn’t take a deep breath. The weight sat there, constricting my lungs and pressing on my throat, sapping my energy.

For the first two of those four days, I was right back in the “I can’t believe he’s dead” mindset I felt during the first year. My first thought of each day was “Tom is dead,” and everything after that thought felt like a heroic effort. I spent much of those two days on the couch, sleeping or crying, in disbelief that my husband was gone.

The next two days were a little easier but I still felt the heavy fog in my brain that I had lived with during the first year. The weight moved out of my chest and concentrated itself in my throat, where it made my voice feel wavery every time I spoke.

I figured out what was going on midway through the second day. I was experiencing cumulative grief—when each new loss compounds the grief from a previous loss. A few days before this episode began, I had learned that a friend Tom and I had spent a lot of time with early in our relationship had died.

Learning of her death spurred me to look at photos from that era of my life with Tom. There were so many pictures of the three of us together—on raft trips, at a wine festival, taking a break during a motorcycle adventure. Over and over I was struck by the thought, “I’m the only person in this photo who is still alive.”

The new grief for our friend stirred up my grief for my husband.

I didn’t fight it. I gave myself grace. I canceled everything that wasn’t necessary and let myself hole up on the couch for a couple of days. I scrolled through photos of my husband, I cried, I listened to music that reminded me of times together.

He loved the singers Carsie Blanton and David Bromberg, so I listened to a lot of their music. We had seen both together and listening to their music brought back a flood of memories. Tom was an effusive audience member at concerts, yelling his appreciation for a good lyric or a cheeky band interaction. Both are clever songwriters and he found much to whoop for.

With each memory, I was torn between the warm fuzzy feeling of reminiscence and the heartbreak of knowing those reminiscences are all I have left now.

The weight gradually lifted, at least for now. I know I will never again hear Carsie Blanton or David Bromberg without the absence of my husband weighing on me.

life skills

Holding Space for Loneliness

I’ve worked hard over the last few years to build my listening skills. One of the key aspects of being a good listener is simply shutting up, and then once I learned how to do that, I had to learn how to stop using the time I wasn’t talking to formulate what I would say when I next spoke. It has taken a lot of discipline and patience with myself to just relax into listening when someone one else is talking.

I recently experienced a tough challenge to my ability to listen when a good friend of mine confessed to feeling lonely. I was surprised because they are someone I have identified as “a social butterfly,” regularly going to events with different people and maintaining many longtime friendships. I have even been a bit envious of this person’s social life in the past.

As I heard them talk about feeling like they don’t have anyone to confide in and they feel alone often, I had the urge to argue with them. They said they felt like they had no real friends and no one wanted to spend time with them. My mind immediately began assembling evidence to contradict their statements about being friendless.

I know from my own experience that being surrounded by others does not mean you aren’t lonely. In fact, the times I’ve felt the loneliest have been times I was with other people. I felt lonely when I was in grad school and it seemed everyone else was going to parties I wasn’t invited to; and when I was in college, I did get invited to a lot of parties but often felt lonely at them. So the proof my mind was gathering to invalidate my friend’s loneliness was irrelevant.

On top of that, arguing with someone when they are being vulnerable is never helpful. Telling a person who feels lonely that they are wrong to feel that way will make them feel more alone. Loneliness is about disconnection and being argued with disconnects us. I know this—but it took everything in me to sit quietly while my friend spoke and not point out what I perceived as the logical flaws in their thinking.

I struggled and floundered. A few times I noticed that when I was asking what I meant to be clarifying questions, the tone in my voice revealed that I wanted to be arguing. My voice took on the timbre of a prosecuting attorney—“Are you saying you have no one to talk to?” I wish I had said, “It sounds like you feel you have no one to talk to,” simply echoing back what they were saying to show understanding.

I had to keep reminding myself that my job wasn’t to show them that they aren’t actually alone but to listen and connect.

I’ve talked before about holding space. It means listening and offering support without judgment, without trying to fix the problem or situation. When we immediately go into fix-it mode, like I wanted to do, we invalidate the feelings of the speaker. In the case of loneliness, that would mean making them feel even lonelier.

This incident was a good reminder to me that holding space can be hard. It’s a skill that doesn’t come naturally to many people, and our society values problem-solvers, so even folks with good space-holding skills may not always think to use them.

Holding space for loneliness can help folks who are lonely feel more comfortable talking about it. When we immediately start trying to fix their loneliness, we shut down that conversation. In the case of my urge to argue with my lonely friend, arguing would certainly have had the opposite effect of connection. When someone feels lonely, proving them wrong is simply not helpful.

In trying to understand why I had such a hard time holding space for my lonely friend, I realized it’s because I often feel powerless around others’ loneliness. Because of my own experience being lonely, I know that simply being with someone else isn’t enough—although it’s a good start. Holding space means being with someone in a particular way: being open, not judging, and being present with vulnerability.

Note about loneliness: I talked about loneliness in my last newsletter. I mentioned Vivek Murthy’s assertion in Together: The Healing Power of Human Connection in a Sometimes Lonely World, that most of us feel lonely at some point but we tend to think we are the only person to ever feel alone.

grieving

How to Talk to Loved Ones about Your End-of-Life Wishes

I talked last week about how important it is to make your end-of-life wishes known before it is necessary. I emphasized that you need to have difficult conversations with whoever you anticipate will be a decision-maker for you in the event that you can’t make decisions.

Even if you can make your own end-of-life decisions when the time comes, it’s a good idea to make your wishes known beforehand to avoid surprising anyone, which could lead to conflict when you have the least energy to deal with it. For example, if your loved ones don’t know that you do not want to be on chemo if it will only extend your life for a few months, then if you are told that chemo could extend your life by a few months and you decline it, family members are less likely to argue with you and try to change your mind.

Unfortunately, there is no way to guarantee that family members will not argue with you. However, as long as you are of sound mind and able to communicate your wishes, decisions are yours to make.

Here are some tips for having conversations about your end of life wishes.

  1. Include anyone likely to be making decisions for you if you are unable to do it as well as anyone who will be impacted, such as parents, teenage and adult children, and partners. Children who are younger than teenagers may be included or not, depending on their maturity level. In the conversations I have with end-of-life care teams, most people think it makes sense to include even fairly young children in these conversations because it helps to demystify death and normalize it as a part of every life.
  2. Ask people to set aside an hour or so for the conversation rather than springing it on them when they may not be able to focus. Arrange for a quiet, distraction-free setting. My husband and I had some of our best discussions about end-of-life while we were on road trips, driving for hours on end.
  3. Let whoever you are talking to know why this topic is important to you. You can say, “I want to be sure you know what my end-of-life wishes are so that if you ever have to make decisions for me, you can do it without feeling guilty or worrying if you did the right thing.”
  4. You can use games or guides to help with the discussion. The End-of-Life Deck is a set of cards with questions that prompt you to consider what you may want at the end of your life. This website offers a few conversation starters, as well as additional resources that might be helpful for thinking through what you want.
  5. Ask the person you are talking to what questions they have and answer them thoughtfully.

Be sure to also put your wishes in writing. I highly recommend the Five Wishes guide to end of life care. 

If you anticipate that someone will argue with you about your wishes, there are a few things you can do. First, I would suggest that you try to choose someone to carry out your wishes who will not argue. Of course, that is not always possible, so you might consider having the conversation with that person with a therapist, a chaplain or clergy member, or social worker who can facilitate.

It can also help to acknowledge the difference in views. For example, you could say, “I know this is not what you would choose for yourself, but this is what I want for myself.”

grieving

Help Your Loved Ones Follow Your Wishes: make a will + advance directive and have the difficult conversations

From the moment my husband’s stroke started, I had to make decisions for him: call 9-1-1, consent to him being transported to another hospital from the original one the ambulance took him to, authorize surgery to remove part of his skull to allow his brain to swell without causing more damage to his brain, and on and on. When he didn’t wake up after his final surgery, a year after the stroke, I had to make the decision to remove him from life support. After that, decisions had to be made about cremation and a celebration of life.

As difficult as all of this was, it would have been significantly more awful if Tom and I had not talked at length before I had to make those decisions about what we each wanted in the event that we couldn’t make our own decisions. We had wills and advance directives drawn up years before we needed them. The advance directive allowed me to make medical decisions for him; the talks about what we wanted allowed me to know with confidence when to say yes to care and when to decline it; and the will allowed me to respect his final wishes in terms of who got what and what kind of memorial service he would have wanted.

You may know that you need to have a will and advance directive, but you may not know how to get started on them, or you may worry that hiring a lawyer to do them will be too expensive. You may not know who to designate to make decisions for you in an advance directive. You may not be sure who to have the conversation with about your final wishes.

That last question may be the toughest because not only do you need to decide who to talk to, you also need to think through what you want and who might be making decisions for you. That’s a lot. You may not want to think about those things, and I get that. It may help to frame it in terms of making things easier for others. When you are able to specify what you want and share that with loved ones, you’re making their lives easier because in the event that they need to make decisions for you, they won’t have to guess at what you would want, which can lead to guilt and regret.

To help you think through what you want, I highly recommend the Five Wishes guide to end of life care. Not only is the guide set up to walk you through the difficult questions, once you complete it, you will actually have a legal advance directive—no lawyer required. A hard copy version is $5 and a digital version is $15.

As far as who you designate to make decisions for you, most people select a significant other, a sibling, or an adult child. You’re not limited to those, however, so you could choose a friend, a spiritual advisor, or someone else. Talk to that person about what you want and answer any questions they have.

If you anticipate that friends or family may object to decisions the designated person makes, it’s ideal to talk to those folks and assure them that the designated person knows what you want. If that isn’t possible, the next best option might be to tell the designated person what kinds of objections to expect.

When it comes to writing up a will, if you have a simple estate, no minor children, and don’t anticipate people contesting your will, you don’t need a lawyer. Laws differ from state to state, but in Colorado (where I live), a will is considered legal and binding as long as two witnesses have signed it OR you’ve had it notarized. This website will walk you through the process.

The #1 most important thing is to have these conversations and make these documents BEFORE THERE IS A NEED FOR THEM.