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Archive for the ‘grief’ Category

Mary (on the left), Diane, and the bears

Mary (on the left), Diane, and the bears

My dear friend and writer bud Diane lost her husband this summer. They were soul mates finding each other after several starter marriages went bust. Two amazing people each in their own right who found sweetness and LIFE and spent  20 years side-by-side. They rode his Harley, got tattoos, water skied, and made a home for children and grandchildren. Then cancer came along and the last couple of years were tough. We (the Chats) joined Diane and Wally’s family and friends at his memorial service and witnessed a man who was and is so loved. Then Mary, another of our writer buds, offered to make Diane and her family teddy bears out of pieces of Wally’s clothing.

Diane lined up Harley, Corona, and Marine Corp tee shirts alongside a rugby shirt, a few Hawaiian prints, and even some plaid golf shorts and asked the kids and grandkids to chose whichever item of clothing they were drawn to, the one connected with a memory. Then, Mary got to work.

See, Mary makes bears.
Bears and puppy dogs and other critters.
She makes them so you’ll have something from your loved one to hold.
This isn’t all Mary does–she makes sanitary pads for young girls in Africa who will miss school because there aren’t disposable feminine products available, or they can’t afford them anyway. She makes quilts for sick babies. She’s that kind of gal.

Here’s Wally’s Hawaiian print  on a bear with a navy blue bow.

Here’s Wally’s rugby shirt turned puppy dog for a grandson–with a collar piece to boot.

Here’s another dog sporting plaid from Wally’s golf shorts.

She has seven more to make. Each adult child and each grandchild will have a bear or a dog to remember their dad/paps by. They get to hold a piece of him. They will no doubt be comforted in the days and years to come–all because Mary offered to make a bear.

Mary is like that–thoughtful, empathic, generous.

Perhaps you’ve lost someone you love.

Perhaps you’ve held onto articles of clothing, a favorite jacket or vest, something that links you to your loved one. Most likely your keepsakes, like so many of mine, are stored in chests, in the back of closets and boxes we keep under the bed.
Why not take these beloved items and do something with them?
Turn your missing into something tangible you get to touch.

Diane stood, amazed, when she saw her bears. The exhaustion lifted from her brow and  the sorrow in her eyes gave way to light. It was as if she were giving a piece of Wally to the family they both so love. The plaid, the  Hawaiian blue palm trees, the rugby blue and red are all parts of what made Wally who he is and how he will be cherished.

When we take our loss and so something with it–write a poem, tell a story, wear their dog tags as a necklace,  make a bear–we make something new in us. They live on in this transformation, “reincarnation,” if you will.

We take our sorrow and turn it into something that offers comfort and connection.

Wally is now a bear–and a dog–and  he’ll be tucked in at night, taken on vacation and get to play tea party with his granddaughters, and if you ask me, that’s exactly where he’d like to be.

If you’d like a bear, shoot me an email at writecarolodell@gmail.com and I’ll get you in touch with Mary

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In Marianne Williamson’s book, Divine Compensation, the author talks about a time when she lost a large sum of money because she didn’t properly market a presentation that meant a great deal to her. Crying in her father’s arms she told him that she’d lost $10,000, and she muttered how she was ever going to recover financially or reputation wise from this catastrophe. He just smiled and told her to say, “It’s okay. I can absorb the loss.” That got me thinking about a different kind of loss. The loss we endure when a loved one dies.

It hurts. It sends us reeling with pain, regret, guilt, and plain ole’ missing someone so dear to us. Sometimes the death of our loved one seems so unfair. The death of a child is beyond my ability to even comprehend. We lose loved ones in car accidents, too soon to cancer, and sadly, to suicide. Such losses seem truly unbearable. How do we even begin to absorb a tremendous loss?

First, there’s no right–or wrong–way to grieve.
It just is. I’m not about to give a lesson on grieving. It’s personal. It’s primal. And all I can say is that your body and spirit probably know how you need to do it–and it might take longer than you think, and it will probably take you to some pretty dark nights of the soul.

What is clean pain?
Clean pain, according to the Association of Contextual Behavioral Science, is when we accept pain. We don’t try to make it more–or less–than it is. We acknowledge it. We let it take us. We know that we will be in pain for a time. But we also expect the pain to subside. We don’t add to it–by fighting it, by denying it, by blaming or demanding or asking “Why me” a thousand times. We choose not to dwell on it, growing more and more anxious, creating scenarios that may never happen. We simply know that we are of this earth and that there will inevitably be times of physical and/or emotional pain. In other words…we absorb it. Let it in but see our souls as a sieve. The excess pain that cannot be taken in will be sifted and allowed to leave.

It’s easier to have clean pain when death is expected. I grieved my mother’s diminishing life and her forthcoming death long before it got here. She was 92. She had Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s and heart disease. I did not wrestle with the fact that it was her time to go. I tried to make her last months comfortable and meaningful. I stood as they wheeled my mother out of our home. I had spent the last three weeks by her side assisting her as she passed over. It was grueling. It was not easy by any means. But it was right. I stood in the driveway and watched them lift the gurney into the Hearst. I watched as the taillights left my view. I bundled her sheets and walked to the garbage. Then I walked down to the river. I cried and I breathed. My last parent was gone. Not only did I grieve her. I grieved the shutting of this door. The next few months felt as if I had been charred in a great fire. I felt antsy and useless. I floundered and waited for hope, for life, for meaning to return.

As far as clean or dirty pain. My mother’s passing was clean. And since that time I’ve lost others I love. It’s not always a clean pain, but at least I am aware that that is what I choose. Not to fight with death. To absorb the loss. My heart and mind is boggled at times. I can’t fall into the quagmire of the whys. There is no why that will make sense to a hurting, grieving, all encompassing loss.

But I do know that the more I allow, the more I absorb the losses that come my way, and the more that I (to quote Byron Katie) “love what is,” the more at peace I am.

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