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IT Happened Again...

12/1/2019

8 Comments

 
November was a rough month in my  world. On November 14th, after a two year illness, my Dad died. He had pulmonary fibrosis.

Over the past two years, I have been mentally drafting a blog post called: When It Happens Again.

IT being death and emotional trauma. 

I remember feeling such protest as I was considering the fact that IT could (would) happen again.  A deep revolt and fear around knowing what grief is like, and not wanting to go down that path again.

This mental blog post I had drafted was going to be a piece around how I would cope with grief the next time 'round, based on everything I had experience and learnt since the first time 'round. 

Things like:
  • I'd express my feelings more openly.
  • I'd be more authentic. When asked "how are you?" I'd answer truthfully instead of just saying, "I'm fine." 
  • I'd make self supportive choices unapologetically.

I never did write that post.

I kind of wish that I had - then I could refer back to it as a little pep talk for myself. 

Now that IT has happened, all the best laid plans I had mentally made, have dissolved into the cocoon of shock.

I'm steeped with numbness and shock that has dulled the realities of my outer and inner world. 

My mind isn't working as quickly. I'm forgetful. I start 16 different tasks in a day and don't complete any of them. I didn't brush my hair or my teeth today and I have nothing to show for how busy I felt. 

I don't feel the protest the way I thought I would. That must have burned itself out during my dad's illness as I watched him slowly (and then quickly) decline.

My anxiety is gone. I was paralyzed before his death about what was going to happen. Now it's happened and I've been relieved of that worry. That lack feels numb too.

And yet, the world says speed up when everything within my body and mind says slow down. I feel this tug of war in my gut and my chest and I dread having to navigate it; It takes so much extra energy.

I know the numbness and shock serves a purpose. The heart can't feel the full reality of the loss at once. It is not worth forcing myself out of this cocooned place.

My wise body/mind/spirit will naturally dose itself with the pain and the reality of the loss, in it's own time. My conscious mind may not be privy to this timeline.

So, what do I do? 

I start right where I am.
I rest.
I cocoon.
Be gentle with myself. 

I've noticed more intrusive thoughts in the past few days around the circumstances of his death. This too, I know is normal. Instinctual even. There is a natural tendency to go over it all, again and again. Cognitively trying to make sense of it.

While *the world* wants me to get on with living, and get back to life, I know that pausing, even going backwards into the past is important grief work. It makes the unreal real, and is an important part of processing the reality of the death.

I've found myself gently approaching the pain and reality a couple of nights ago. I drove by the hospital and looked up to the window that was his room. It made my chest ache. I want to live-backwards. I want to spend some time reviewing what-the-hell-just-happened.

I'll probably write it out. Get those thoughts out of my head and onto paper. I may even walk from where I would park my car, to the unit he was on, just to remember and feel it  when I'm ready to.

But, who knows! Grief is unpredictable, and living-in-the-moment for me at this time means responding to whatever need arises, when it does.

It's all vital work. Grief work. Mourning work. 

I do know that this time 'round I am part of (and can rely on) a community of people who "get it" to support me and I feel all those people in my cocoon with me.

This time 'round, I'm more open to receiving care and being cared for. That feels really nice.

Thank you. To those near and far, known to me and unknown. The grief warriors that live this every day. 
We are not alone. 

Sandy
8 Comments
Kelly
12/1/2019 08:24:06 pm

I don’t think you can ever be prepared for the aftermath of a death of a loved - whether it was expected and known or not; I just don’t think our culture is equipped to deal with the disappearance of someone from our life...and the ‘foreverness’ of it.

I am sending you peace and love and strength as you navigate the unreal becoming real...xoxox

Reply
Sandy Ayre
9/8/2021 06:54:27 am

I totally agree Kelly - we are not equipped to understand the finality of death...and yet we still live on, somehow. Thank you for your words and ongoing support <3
ps. I'm reading this comment almost 2 years to late - I didn't get notification of it and just found the comments now - oops!

Reply
Shelley Winton
12/2/2019 08:45:04 pm

Thinking of you my friend. Inspired at your authenticity and your ability to articulate and share your journey in service to others even as you navigate the tender spots.

Reply
Sandy Ayre
9/8/2021 06:55:40 am

Thank you Shelley. I suppose it's become a wee bit of a legacy to these losses to share. I'm so glad that it may (hopefully) help others too.

Reply
Denise Menzel link
12/3/2019 07:30:07 am

Same here, mental blog and all. For me it’s been a little over a year, I call it “the year in between”. Just a few months into rebuilding my life, I can do this, I can be whole again.

Reply
Sandy Ayre
9/8/2021 06:57:35 am

Hi Denise,
I'm sorry this reply is two years after the fact! I didn't get notification of it...."the year in between" - that is such a good description....the liminal space of...becoming...whole may look different, but I believe it's possible...how are you doing now?

Reply
Rose
2/17/2020 02:13:52 pm

read your December blog with tear filled eyes and my broke open heart -poured out my soul and lost everything!
Somehow in trying to edit and 'perfect' my response, it disappeared. So here's the unperfected ramblings by Rose...

I have likewise experienced similar happenings over the past months as lost my dad 2 days after you lost yours Sandy.
Being Ukrainian heritage, death as a religious ritual is familiar from a young age, however dealing with the loss was not part of the experience.
But this was 'my' dad, my hero, my best teacher, my safety net and my stabilizing force.
I can relate to the starting 16 things, finishing 1-2 and still feeling exhausted at the end of the what I would call an unproductive day. My life circumstances however, had me return to work before I felt ready to do so, as compassionate care leave comes abruptly to an end when your loved one passes. Ready or not, there I went.
Being an occupational therapist I was conditioned to be in charge, have the answers, and formulate a plan. Why now was it so difficult to even make a decision, any decision?
Turning into a family caregiver, where boundaries so easily blur, with answers not always at the ready, trying to look after everyone and their feelings, left precious little time, energy or much of anything, to consider, let alone 'care' for myself. This was uncharted territory. I was accustomed to having and being in control. Hearing people tell me 'don't be so hard on yourself' is foreign. What does it mean to 'care' for myself when I don't even know who I am anymore?
Two steps forward, ten back, frequently stalled but overall still moving forward.
So my dad continues to teach me with his death, I find myself on a journey of learning.
To discover what it means to ask for and more importantly to accept help, rekindling precious old and making new friends into a circle of support that does not deplete but replenishes, respectfully reflecting on and then releasing old hurts, learning the power of forgiveness and prayer, and gradually experiencing what is feels like and means to be gentle with myself.
To feel overwhelmed and yet empty at the same time.
To feel the depth of heartache and yet joy at the same time.
To feel like life is passing me by and yet alive at the same time.
To feel confused and yet profound insight at the same time.

In his death, set upon the journey of rediscovering what it means to be alive, to live. I'm still learning dad and you're still teaching. Thank you dad, miss you dad, love you dad.

Reply
Sandy Ayre
9/8/2021 07:01:09 am

Oh, Rose your words are so beautiful and powerful. I"m sorry that my reply to your comment is two years after you posted it. I didn't get notification of it...just seeing it now. I so appreciate your reflections of the grief you've experienced and how your Dad's life has shaped it...and shaped your way forward as well. You capture the complexities of the extremes of grief - feeling like two ends of the spectrum simultaneously! At its core - death and life. Thank you for sharing and for your support over all these years, in OT and grief life. Sending you ongoing blessings in this navigation of the murkiness of life <3

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    Author

    Sandy Ayre
    Occupational Therapist
    Yoga Instructor
    Death and Grief Studies Certificate

    Sandy offers in-person Yoga for Grief Support classes in Edmonton, and world-wide online. 

    ​Learn more about her here.


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