Shelter

~ Mimi Ray ~ Leave a comment

Over the many years you were sick, from time to time, I would try to imagine what I would feel, how I would cope, if you died. It wasn’t a question of when, really, unless there was a setback and a new treatment protocol – a storm to weather. Then, that far off time would inch closer, only to retreat again until the next threat. Unfailingly, you lived for the day. More than anyone else, you taught me to seize it, and the people in it, with wholehearted exuberance. We were shelter – each to the other. I couldn’t possibly have imagined how I would feel, or deal. Your death is beyond precedent in my life, despite the deaths of many of our loved ones before it. And because there was, and continues to be, no cultural framework for learning about dying and grieving as skills, I find myself searching for some kind of community engaged in creating one.

Some friends and I were talking recently about the “club.” Like other clubs of similar ilk, the cancer club most notably,  it’s one you never want to join. But there you are, and you gravitate to others who can relate most keenly because of the magnitude of the death they’ve experienced. A death that levels you. Shatters any semblance of life as you knew it. They know what you’re talking about as you all nod your heads about death having its way with you. And what life is like now.

This is the company I seek, and have been fortunate to find, especially when I’ve needed it most. Companions with whom I feel a strange and comfortable refuge and authenticity, even if I don’t know them well. It’s unorganized, impromptu, and feels rather “underground.” It’s balancing, and clarifying, and loving. Like you, it’s shelter.

Future Shock

~ Mimi Ray ~ Leave a comment

2016 is kicking my emotional ass – and that’s a massive understatement. A realistic summation of it simply fails me.

It’s nearly 29 months since you died, Kissie. January 5th was two years. It has been unlike any two years of my previous 53, and I have by turns crawled, trudged, sleep-walked, and literally slept, my way through it. I’ve also wept, laughed, raged, hugged, and tried to love my way through it, but my experience of time has irrevocably changed. From the outside it must seem I’m just aimlessly adrift. Acquaintances and friends inquire about my interests and pursuits, which appear to be abandoned. I am not what I once was.

One of the ongoing difficulties is trying to find (or create) the right language to convey what’s happened, and how I’m adjusting (or not). I’m really not adjusting, though I must be adapting to some extent. I keep going – that’s what I do. When I open my eyes, I try to remember to give thanks for another day, and for the ability itself to weep for you.

I sometimes call this time and space I now occupy “future shock,” which is to say it feels neither here, nor there. It’s an in-between, disorienting, ambiguous-feeling time. And something I don’t recall experiencing before, though maybe I was not as conscious of it as I am now. Is it because I’m grieving deliberately? It’s future shock because I’m here two plus years later in a future I never imagined or wanted. It’s a liminal place because it feels transitory and unmoored, but not aimless, to me. It feels necessary.

We just celebrated your birthday for the third time since your death, Kissie.  It’s the happiest day of my life, especially the ones we shared in person. Looking at every single birthday card I ever gave you, each a tiny paper monument to our love, that liminal sweet-sadness wells up, and an old, bones deep longing I’ve always felt whenever we’ve been apart.

Unwelcome Guests

~ Mimi Ray ~ 6 Comments

Missing you hurts like hell, Kissie. It’s a fact of my life now. How could it be otherwise? I’m socially conditioned to judge my pain, so I struggle not to. I don’t think it’s productive, it doesn’t change anything, and it feels harmful. I’m convinced that judging my emotional pain also perpetuates the grief phobia I observe and experience regularly. It’s really difficult to stay out of that judgement, needless to say.

Culturally, we’re definitely not of the mind Rumi was when he wrote The Guest House, encouraging hospitality for our darkest emotions: “Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably.” How to entertain my darkest emotions? For starters, I’m offering regular, open acknowledgement of my grief, even when it’s uncomfortable for others, as it often is. Grief, disappointment, longing, anger, sorrow, and pain are communally viewed as “unwelcome guests,” and trying to entertain them, as Rumi suggests, is like swimming against a powerful, though often subtle, current. Persisting takes energy, and I’m not high on energy right now. But, I am committed.

When I spend time with others actively embracing their unwelcome guests, or attempting to integrate their “shadow aspects,” as Carl Jung called them, it’s such a relief to my body, mind, and spirit. Maybe more importantly, I feel a sense of burgeoning community. This unorganized, under-the-radar companionship, and the humanity I feel privileged to encounter there, are giving me the strength to resist self-judgement, and to keep “treat[ing] each guest honorably.”

Book Review -Die Wise: A Manifesto for Sanity and Soul

~ Mimi Ray ~ 3 Comments

Last spring I was delighted to be asked to review a book by author and teacher Stephen Jenkinson, whose work has had a tremendous impact on me. Though Jenkinson has yet to visit the Twin Cities to discuss his book, I hope my review – recently published by the Minnesota Coalition for Death Education and Support and shared here – will pique the attention of those interested in challenging our prevailing understanding, and addressing the great misunderstandings that have informed the death and grief phobia so prevalent in north American culture today.

Who would expect that a death would alter their way of life forever? Or that a book would show up on the heels of such a harrowing crossroads to offer the only thing close to solace — the idea that perhaps we must finally “make room for dying in [our] way of living?” Certainly not me at 54, and certainly not so soon after my sister Christine’s death at 51 in early 2014.  That first raw and surreal spring, as I was grasping for a language for my grief, a friend shared a link to the 2008 documentary Griefwalker, and in the midst of the most penetrating sorrow I’ve ever known, I clicked that link.

In Griefwalker, I was introduced to Stephen Jenkinson, former director of palliative care counseling at Toronto’s Mount Sinai Hospital (with masters degrees in social work and theology), activist, storyteller, author, and teacher. In conversations with dying people, families, care providers, and the film’s narrater and director, Jenkinson gives voice to the scope and prevalence of death-phobia in our culture, and the unintended and unacknowledged effects on the dying and those who love them. Remarkably, he puts forth the monumental idea of grieving and dying as skills to be cultivated — even held as “prized possessions” — and laments the misunderstanding and isolation that presently underscore dying (and grieving) in our part of the world. With Griefwalker came the profound realization that dying could be done, and done well (or as Jenkinson puts it, extravagantly), expressly for those who would live to see it, and that this was what my sister had desired and — against the odds — achieved with her death.

My grieving heart wanted more. I ordered Jenkinson’s newest book, Die Wise, published this past March, and dove in. I’ve read it twice, and continue to revisit sections of it often, as a workbook of sorts, a way to continue processing the hard-earned wisdom that Jenkinson elaborates on, and that resonates so accurately with all I’ve experienced as absent from my personal, and our collective, experience of death and grief today.

This is a book to turn to for the forthright asking of the weighty and difficult questions — the ones that hang in the air unspoken and lingering when someone is dying, or that wake you up in the middle of the night while you’re in the throes of mourning. He has called this book “a manifesto for sanity and soul,” and that it is — a ponderous opus for those of us who have felt crestfallen and abandoned by the status quo during one of life’s cardinal and perennial passages. It is, in Jenkinson’s words, “for those of you working in the death trade with all kinds of good intent about helping people,” and  “most especially for those of you who have the news of your dying in hand, or who are waiting for the news that seems certain to come in, and for those who love you.” Chapters with titles such as “The Ordeal of a Managed Death,” “Stealing Meaning From Dying,” “The Tyrant Hope,” and “What Dying Asks of Us All” go straight to the heart of what families and dying persons themselves are caught up in, and in them, I learned about Jenkinson himself, personally and professionally, and the experiences that have shaped his philosophy and teaching.

His writing style, much like his speaking, is a provocative mix of reasoned discourse punctuated by the soul-stirring accounts of a master story-teller. My understanding of the text benefitted from having listened to a number of his interviews, videos of talks (many of which can be found at orphanwisdom.com), and from viewing the film, Griefwalker.

Early on he cautions readers to abandon hope for a master plan to fix what’s broken, yet as somber as some realities may be, there is possibility in these pages — a manifesto is both testament and plea. I read the book looking for my cognitive schemas and hard-wired biases to be challenged, and I was not disappointed. More importantly I found humane sustenance and the beginnings of a language for what seemed to be an innate, but unschooled, knowledge around grief. Ultimately, Stephen Jenkinson pleads eloquently with us to bring death (and our own forgotten ancestry) — fully acknowledged — into our daily lives, to our benefit now, and as the last and lasting gift to all we love.

Grief Positive Environments

~ Mimi Ray ~ 3 Comments

Sounds rather contradictory, eh? How could grief possibly be positive? Its very mention seems to evoke diminishment and uncertainty. And what would a constructive environment for grief be like? I’ve found myself thinking quite a bit about this, especially moving through the holidays, and approaching the second anniversary of Kissie’s death.

A “grief positive” environment (or atmosphere) is where, and with whom, we feel the expression of our grief (mourning) is allowed, welcomed, and valued. Outside of an organized “grief group,” I would venture this is hard to come by for most, and especially in a prevailing cultural and social climate so accustomed to the pursuit of personal mastery, and the silver lining. Very fortunately, I have a grief positive spouse, and home life. I’m also lucky to have in my midst, a number of family members and friends who allow, acknowledge, and even embrace their own grief, and who in turn have the capacity to extend a developing understanding to me and others without constraint or prescription.

To be able to openly express my sorrow, and talk about whatever comes to mind without reproach, is crucial. I can’t imagine how I would fare without these touchstone relationships, and the islands of sanity and mutual understanding they provide in this strenuous time of grieving. Yet, they are not everywhere, and they are certainly not commonplace. My fellow grief practitioners are my ports in a storm of misapprehension about what grief has to teach us, and what will become of us if we learn.

Grief Bursts

~ Mimi Ray ~ Leave a comment

In a video on coping with grief during the holidays, I heard the expression “grief bursts,” as used by counselors and others working with the bereaved.  This immediately resonated. You could say I’ve been having a plethora of bursts lately. Apparently, they are also referred to as subsequent temporary upsurges of grief, or STUGs, by grief therapists. These terms are helpful to me – they provide a way to name my experience, and describe it to others.  Both refer to a flare or increase in sadness brought on by a trigger of some kind (sights, sounds, seasonal reminders), or a memory, and they are usually not predictable.

Now there’s quite a bit of reading out there on the predictable upsurge of sadness during the months of November and December, and some of it has solid guidance, even if it is mostly of the Coping in Six Easy Steps variety. And even though I could amply anticipate my increased sadness this past month (and expect it also in December), I still find its intensity and duration catch me off guard. My grief is stronger than I anticipated – having been through my “firsts” already – and acknowledging and embracing that fact helps me move through the upsurges. So does spending time with the “grief positive” people in my life.

Maybe most important is recognizing the personal significance of the season. November held one of my last visits with Kissie, and December was the last full month of her life. My consciousness of this feels essential to weathering these especially intense bursts, and it helps me have compassion for, and patience with, my vulnerability.

Autumn, Particularly

~ Mimi Ray ~ 3 Comments

It’s hard to believe I could miss her more than I do, every. single. day. Then fall comes. It’s autumn, particularly, that embodies her brilliance, her joie de vivre, her way of bursting into a room and charging the energy with color and light.

Kissie embraced and celebrated each season’s idiosyncrasies, but none captivated her, or crystallized her sense of wonder and awe, like fall. She reveled in the midwestern pleasures: the crisp air, a crackling fire, apples and pumpkins, Halloween, and of course, the trees. She’d unabashedly jump into a pile of maple leaves and toss them like confetti.

These are the liminal days when I long for her with a heightened intensity – memories swirl and I can almost hear her voice in the quiet morning air. Maybe that’s why she loved this time so much – these transitory, fluid days do feel like a threshold, a beginning as much as an end. There is a penetrating sense of her presence, and countless reminders of the life and people she loved so much. I miss her more.

Linking Objects

~ Mimi Ray ~ 2 Comments

Keepsakes have been a part of my daily life for as long as I can remember – unique and personal things, useful items, gifts, and mementos of places and times shared with those I love. Objects that link me to my people – the living and the dead.

Throughout our home and among my possessions are gifts from Kissie from over the years; reminders of seasons and personal passages, their emotional resonance even stronger since her death. And then of course there are all of her personal belongings – things she delighted in and enjoyed, gifts from family and friends, and familiar and favorite comforts from her homes that have become even dearer reminders of our shared existence – strengthening memory, and perpetuating our history and relationship.

In the vocabulary of bereavement, a “linking object” is a thing or experience that connects us to our deceased loved one. An experience might be a favorite movie or book, a song, a smell, a special place, or a preference our loved one had. I have 51 years of such experiences with Kissie – a personal and cultural heritage with countless tendrils of connection. Lucky us.

Now, just 21 months since her death, nearly all her worldly possessions feel significant to me. Because we have a large and close family, and many friends, her numerous things are shared, practically utilized, and treasured among us.

Many things will doubtless remain cherished keepsakes, and others, with time, will become necessary, and easier, to part with. Some already have been donated in her name to causes and organizations close to her heart. Some will be passed on to younger family members. I have chosen to honor and respect my intuitive promptings to keep those things of hers I feel particularly drawn to and especially connected with.

“Linking objects provide vital connections to our loved ones as we reconstruct our relationship to them.” – J. Worth Kilcrease

Continuing Bonds

~ Mimi Ray ~ 5 Comments

“Letting go” of Christine, whatever that means, is not an option for me. Our continued bond not only feels natural, and vastly preferable, but some days it’s what gets me out of bed and into the day with a desire to be present in all my relationships.

So what are continuing bonds? The concept, as named in bereavement lexicon, was first written about in the 1996 book Continuing Bonds: New Understandings of Grief (Klass, Silverman, Nickman), which reconsidered the popular 20th century notion that the purpose of grief was to “sever bonds with the deceased in order to free the survivor to make new attachments.” In Continuing Bonds, the authors present their research, offer historical perspective, and present a model for a “resolution for grief that involves a continuing bond the survivor maintains with the deceased.” An idea that lost favor about 100 years ago. Before that it was the prevailing cultural paradigm. Thanks a lot, Freud.

In short, the model of “continuing bonds” is one where interdependence is sustained even in the absence of one of the parties. If you think about it, don’t we do this everyday in all our sustaining relationships with the living? We can’t be together every moment, and yet our bond is not shattered by this reality. As Phyllis Silverman, one of the book’s authors, so aptly put it, “A person does not always have to be present for us to feel connected.”

I continue to feel deeply connected to Kissie, and though that connection has radically, irreparably changed, and though I miss her physical presence so enormously, I nurture that connection, long for it acutely, and make a concerted effort to maintain it.

Here’s a thoughtful piece Ms. Silverman wrote in her Raising Grieving Children blog for Psychology Today: Thinking About Continuing Bonds.

The Physical Demands of Grief

~ Mimi Ray ~ Leave a comment

Grief is exhausting. It takes a huge amount of physical energy, in addition to the mental and emotional. As Ginger Sullivan, LPC and psychotherapist, so aptly blogged, “Grieving is a 24/7 job that places high demands on our whole self.”

My grief has left me bone tired, blurry, achy, and unable to concentrate. Then, I’ll experience a short recuperation, or even a burst of energy, after which a strong current of tiredness overtakes me again. I’m trying to accept the back and forth, and allow myself to go with it, instead of fighting it with a willfully imposed productivity that usually backfires anyway. 

Letting grief temporarily build-up – whether from the day-to-day demands of life, or unconsciously trying to push through it – has physical repercussions for me too. I’m like a pressure-cooker and I have to regularly let off the steam of sadness by giving myself over to the experience. I do this primarily through crying (alone, or with an understanding loved one or friend), talking about Chris, writing about her, and to her, and listening to, and making, music. Being able to distract myself from my grief allows me to function, but too much of a build-up exhausts me even more.

In his book “Better Than Blessed,” psychologist and minister Donald L. Anderson said, “Healthy are those who mourn. Only very recently have we begun to realize that to deny grief is to deny a natural human function and that such denial sometimes produces dire consequences. Grief, like any genuine emotion, is accompanied by certain physical changes and the release of a form of psychic energy.”

My stress response is also compromised. I don’t have my normal “bounce back” from situations that really aren’t that big of a deal. I find that I need to consciously remind myself that these minor melt-downs are a signal that I need to retreat for a bit to release and/or renew my physical energies along with my emotional ones. I’ve never felt to this degree how physically demanding vulnerability can be, and that there must be recuperation from that emotional expenditure. Is it any wonder that embracing our experience of grief is unpopular?

Some things that are recuperative and energizing to me (though I struggle with consistency) are extra sleep, quiet time (especially in the morning and at night), gentle exercise like walking and yoga, eating nutritious foods and drinking extra water, practicing guitar and writing music, and talking honestly with those who are recently bereaved or experienced in attending to their own grief. And of course, talking about Kissie and her influence in my life, and hearing others’ stories of her influence in theirs, is deeply restorative.