Category: loss

Move slowly. Banish guilt.

Walk your path.

Music, as much as therapy.

Nature, and nurture yourself, too.

Write. Love letters to your

Deceased and to yourself.

Quiet: seek it like a bee seeks nectar.

Distract yourself, if you must.

Then dive in. Stay conscious,

Even when you get a little drunk.

Drop the cry of Why?! in the river of mystery.

Engage in the art of living, remembering

Grief is a part of it.

He awakened my style, my coolness, my smile. He embraced my femininity, my sensuality, even my poetry. He burned like Fire. Came on strong with his passion and intensity—the kind I’d freaked men out with much of my life. He said he was ALL IN and ready to bring it. He brought love like spring brings blossoms. He was an old-fashioned gentleman and a mostly reformed rebel. He called bullshit on my games and stepped up when I did the same for him, for us. We were in it for us because it was such a fun place to be, but not amusement park, disco dancing, or high-end shopping fun. It wasn’t hyper champagne, but a smooth cognac I never tasted. We didn’t overindulge, but boy did we enjoy. We didn’t hold back. We held it all in our hands and let joy fly like fairy dust. We shared the music and let it move us. We played like kids, but talked like adults—except when we backslid. But then, we recovered quick and understood more. We just kept getting better, as he said we would. It wasn’t over-the-moon, as I’d been too many times. I was grounded with his love like yoga to my entire being. I was entranced and enlightened. I dropped my old baggage at the door of his heart and went in unencumbered. I’m coming out on the other side filled. Yes, I’m being walloped by his death. But, I wouldn’t have missed our life or our love for anything. And I mean ANYTHING. So, if this is the cost, I gladly pay.

Some of you don’t know me, so you’ve never seen me bounce before. But, I’ve been paying attention to the way I redirection.

Sometimes, I left relationships because I knew the break-up wouldn’t break me; it would remake me. I’d be different once the deed was done.

Or, after the death of those I love took me into agony and anguish until I wished I didn’t exist. I threw myself into the fire of despair.

In desperation, I surrender to a will other than my own. After attempting responsibility and landing on my ass, I tend to prayed like this: Oh, you’re right. I should’ve turned back there. Can you please tell me where to go from here? Because I have no fucking clue. Help!

With death, it just feels like the game’s rigged.

But, what if it’s not? What if the game’s no more rigged for death than it is for birth? What if both are miracles? What if our wonder could be reborn in death as it is in birth?

See, there’s an example of coming out on the other side. I always rise. I find the light beyond the darkness by fumbling my way through. Not resisting, but often screaming, crying, wishing death was pretend, and holding hope that this could be a dream—because you know I don’t want to miss out on the important stage of Denial!

At least, I don’t play “Let’s make a deal” anymore. The deal’s been dealt. I got a hand I don’t like, but I’ll play my cards. I’m still in the game. Hell, you never know. I just might win!

Kudos to me for doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing—grieving—when 1,000 other things seem more suitable. More productive.

This may not be a season of “productivity.” I may never respond to the fury of reactions ignited by my friend posting my query letter on some 50-posts-plus club that I never wanted to belong to in the first place.

I might not open any of those “Blogging for Beginners” lessons sitting in my inbox. Ever. In fact, my email box may grow to the number of website followers I wish I had.

It’s like that old carpet cleaner commercial, where the mom keeps screaming, “That’s ok!”

Jo Dee Messina sings “My Give a Damn’s Busted.” Mine, too. Or so it would seem in today’s society.

Why doesn’t she do something?!

I am. I’m grieving. It’s like studying, like writing, like praying. It’s learning to live with the hardest truth you ever heard.

I take in my grief the way my stepmother took me in at 14. I was a mess.

Grief is messy. I threw tantrums because life was not working the way I wanted it to! I wanted to blame it on my dad, but it was everything. I was on the edge of life and I had no idea of how to live.

I learned new rules, new games, and a new family formed around me. Somehow, I found my way forward.

For a time, I came home from college, hid in my room, and read Seventeen magazine. I loved those days and having a place to hide.

Now, I hide on our back deck and in the woods. I bask in solitude.

I dive into sorrow and sway with memory. I let my pen flow. I pay attention to clouds. Each day, I see hearts and sometimes angels.

I sit with grief and gratitude. The rip-off and the lottery. The loss called death and a whole lot of crazy, sexy, cool in the afterlife.

The only place I’d rather be no longer exists. So, I’m here, with my grief. And with Grace. She’s my new friend.

Since my boyfriend died, sadness stalks me. I’m allowing myself to be a walking juxtaposition, a contradiction, a human. Yet, I howl animalistic like my dog Cassie did when in heat. The neighbor lady mentioned the howling. I apologized (for my dog being a dog). She said, “Oh, no, my girls love it!”

Isn’t that just like kids—getting giddy over how beautiful a living creature is when it goes a little wild? What if I could see my own tears and howls aren’t for squelching, but a gift of communication given to me by God?

The previous conversation is about a dog I no longer have in a place I no longer live. Still, I have a dog and a neighbor. And there are howls.

Gretchen is my neighbor in a duplex. I know her name because I wrote it down when they first moved in. Any time she brings a bone or toys for my dog, I’m surprised, thank her, and think, “What’s her name again?” That’s why I wrote it down, so I can look at and remember one day.

It was a couple of days ago when I was howling on my deck. Oh geez, to tell the truth, I passed the howling stage. I hadn’t cried for a couple days. I tired of grief hanging around. I couldn’t even get out the door for yoga. I tried to take care of myself. But, my self was dragging her ass.

So, I compromised: yoga at home. I rolled my mat out into the sunshine on my deck. Took child’s pose. Took mountain pose. Did some other moves I like—ta da! Warrior! I am a warrior!

I somehow slipped down into child’s pose and began bawling like one. I beat my fists and shook with fury. I shouted the impossible, “Come back, Fire! Come back!” to my dead boyfriend. How many times did he holler that at me when I got out of bed or left his house to come home? I always believed I could go back—to him. I’m furious he’s dead! “I miss you sooo much!” I cry.

He’s saying, “Yeah, get mad! Icey, get mad! Let it out! Go wild!” I do. I’m in full-on terrible-twos, don’t tell me no, I’m so fucking pissed form. If someone saw me…

I caught Gretchen in my peripheral vision. Then came the question. I don’t even know if she said it aloud, knowing the absurdity, or if I just knew the concerned look so often followed by, “Are you okay?” when I get caught crying in public.

I told Gretchen, “Remember that day—it was March 4^th—you asked me if I had a boyfriend? He died that day. Heart attack in his sleep. Completely unexpected.”

She latched onto the part I didn’t realize I needed someone to. She said she understood how hard the sudden, unexpected loss can be…her daughter died…16 months old… unexpected… sudden… different from her mom passing not too long ago…cancer…”

Shit, I thought, we’re going to need a calculator. Not really, I didn’t really think that. I also didn’t think until later about what little we know of the troubles of people right next to us.

Actually, everything shifted from my shame over my pain to compassion for her path, and gratitude for her honoring my loss without that look of panic or pity I’ve witnessed too many times.

Remarkably unobtrusive, she talked about how the body deals with grief, referring to a conference her chiropractor husband had just gone to regarding Broken-Heart Syndrome—grief’s physical manifestation in the body. Gretchen gave me some vitamins and offered afternoon knocks for tea or wine. I said I might take her up on that. I didn’t say I’m more of a coffee and beer kind of gal. She said, “I’ll let you get back to your grieving. Don’t worry about the noise.”

Now, I was quiet, like a baby held and rocked after a bad dream. Maybe there’s something to that child’s pose.

I seem to be moving slow these days—intending to get lots done, but then another day ends. I am engaging in self-care: walks, writing, reading, yoga, meditation, music and prayer. You can see my days are full.

You know when you want to do a big cleaning job, so you move all the furniture and start going through the piles? That’s how my life feels—a lot of piles. I think—just an observation, not a judgment—more people deny and miss the gifts of grief than dive in like I’m doing this time. Trust me, this is a horrendous loss and a challenge I don’t like.

At this point, though, what am I to do but accept that people I love are not immune to death and therefore I’m not immune to grief? If I love and lose, I will grieve.

If I don’t love, I won’t lose just another; I lose myself. I’m a loving person. I’ll fall in love again. He could die. In fact, the older I get, the more likely that becomes.

Also, it’s probable my remaining parents will die before me, although sometimes we wonder. They’re admirably healthy! Still, people die and life’s not fair.

I’m not looking at this fatalistically. Not just in my life, but as I look around, listen to the news and walk in cemeteries, it’s obvious this system has been rolling for quite a few years, regardless of my disapproval. In this system—life—people die from all kinds of things at differing ages in the most ridiculous of circumstances. We say: It shouldn’t be!

The evidence speaks otherwise. People should be born and people should die. Do I disagree with the cycle of life? With nature? Because it’s not just humans. Every living thing passes away.

That’s easier to accept when it’s not the man I love, the man I want in my arms. Craving a physical presence that only exists in the past feels wretched.

I doubt denying makes it any less painful. Like I used to (sometimes still do) deny my anger. When it came out, I was like a badger that had been locked in a box. Fortunately for me, Kevin was cool about my crazy.

He said, “Just say it if you’re mad! I‘ll let you know when I’m pissed off. It’s ok. It’s better than not saying it and getting all weird.” Which I was good at, but I got so much better in his presence.

Although I take credit for my growth, I see I often looked for the right teacher when what I really needed was a mirror. Kevin was my mirror. I saw myself clearer. Without judgment and through his eyes, I came to see myself more beautiful. That lingers, thank God! Because I can’t be leaning purely on my own thoughts these days.

Greif is subtle, sometimes. (Other times it’s so direct it strangles.) Both anger and grief erupt from the depths of who we are. If we don’t allow emotions to roll thorough, they settle. Or we settle. Not this time. Not me.

I own that I’m deep and sensitive, even vulnerable. It’s not that bad! But, deep when it’s grief can feel unbearable. I remind myself of Tony Robbins’ advice: Don’t make it better than it is, but don’t make it worse.

It’s tempting to fall into the bottomlessness of grief and believe there’s no way out. Or, convince yourself you’re fine and disregard what you might actually be feeling. We numb in all kinds of ways. Law & Order is one of my favorites.

See that, right there, about my guilty pleasure? Years ago I wouldn’t even admit something that innocent. And I told you about my anger. Grief—when my mom and brother died—was just one more out-of-control thing I sought to control.

This time, I’m taking grief as a course in spiritual growth. This course has been designed specifically for me, although there are other grief courses for other people. This is independent study, but there are group sessions. Some aren’t even aware of the courses or that the help of high-ranking tutors is available. Others aren’t interested in the learning. Me, I’m all in.

Grief can be toxic, but it can be used as medicine for the soul, if you take it in increments, measured according to personal desire and readiness. Like we’re ever ready?! Bahahaha!

(Recently amended: “until further notice.”)

Please excuse Alice. She hasn’t been feeling well and it seems to get worse when she encounters people or leaves the house. She has grief, but has also been hit with PMS and a sinus infection.

She feels like hell—double hell because she feels like hell for feeling like hell.

We’ve got her doing all of her homework—the reading & writing, poetry & prayer—from her bed.

If you have any questions, please address: Dr. Midol, Mr. Neti Pot, Mother Nature, or God.

This should suffice as permission for Alice to not report to anyone until she does.

Signed, Her Angels

It was 1989, the year I married for the first time, my brother died and I met Kevin Lentz. It’s hard to wrap my head around the 25-plus years we knew each other. Back then, we worked together and competed as salespeople selling Encyclopedia Britannica. (They were books.)

Kevin got promoted to be my manager. I was like, “Oh, hell no!” At the time, I held loyalty to the on-his-way-out (criminal) manager.

I was 25. I threatened to quit because they were firing my “friend.” Kevin pointed to all the sets of books missing from the storage cages. He was direct and correct. I was wrong, blind and defensive. Kevin wasn’t deterred.

He said, “Look Alice, the guy’s a thief. I mean, what do you think happened to all those books? Why would you let what he did change what you’re doing?”

So, I didn’t quit. I stayed for as long as I could. Not because of Kevin. Hell, Kevin came and cooked lobster on the grill for my husband & I. He knew how to win me over as a friend and respect me as a salesperson.

That kind of sales manager is rare. The same is true of a good husband, but that didn’t stop me from leaving a couple in my wake.

When that first husband said no, he would not help me leave him, Kevin loaded boxes into my 5×8 U-Haul trailer and hooked it up to my little black Honda CRX for me to drive away.

It was 1990, the year I drove away from that office and that husband, but not out of Kevin’s life. Thank God.

I try to minimize, but music plays and reminds me I tasted the kind love love songs are written about. Extraordinary. Enchanting. Nourishing. Natural. Kevin and I found each other and our hearts forged a pact. Two lifetimes of intention culminated into reality.

Now, he’s dead. He’s been dead three months, so I’m assuming there’s no return like characters on General Hospital, though I still hope. So, put me in the crazy bin!

If I’m smiling, I must be doing something right. I need to find the funny where I can and hold his love while gripped by grief.

So, I replay the weekend in May of 2014 when we turned our decades-long friendship into crazy, sexy, cool us. It’s weird to think if Kevin would’ve died any time before that, I would’ve lost a good friend. I would’ve cried when I heard the news or read it on Facebook.

I suspect it would’ve been similar to when my friend June died. I called to wish her belated Merry Christmas or Happy New Year. Her brother answered her phone and told me. Heart attack—I forgot about that. I remember I felt the loss of my friend.

June was the one I called when my mom was diagnosed with cancer. June told me about the stages of grief and the book On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross.

I said, “Thanks, June, but my mom’s not dying.” Those are words you don’t make somebody eat when they’re proven wrong, as I was four months later.

June introduced me to books like that one I never read, Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, and Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gifts from The Sea. They sit on my shelf next to me and I haven’t thought of either in years. Or my friend June who died too soon, in her 50s, from a heart attack, like Kevin.

June’s death hurt, but it didn’t throw me into a pit of sadness like Kevin’s. This is a different kind of loss than losing my brother in my 20s or my mom—still in my 20s. They were part of my given foundation.

This grief is also different from what my sister endured a few years back when her husband of 33 years died. Jayne’s husband, marriage and family were her foundation. She didn’t just lose the love of her life; her everything crumbled. She could barely stand.

We’re told not to compare grief. I don’t do it to say I have it easier or harder; that’s impossible to know and completely unhelpful. Grief is grief. Comparing helps me understand the juxtaposition of uniqueness and universality.

 Here’s what I know. Grief hits. It hits hard, like Ali. It will knock you on your ass. Just when you think you’ve taken all you can, there will be more. It may or may not be commensurate to the quality of your connection with the deceased.

However, in this case, with Kevin, it seems it is. I suffer now because of the walls we abolished and the masks we trashed. Because we journeyed beyond where either of us ever experienced, it’s hard to come back alone.