Author: Carolyn Perrin

This week is the annual Compassionate Friends National Conference in Philadelphia. It will be my fourth conference and I call it my vacation with Lindsey. It will be the first conference I’ve attended as a bereaved mother and not as Leadership in the organization. When you volunteer with the group in any capacity, it takes on certain responsibilities and obligations. Without these amazing people who give their time to help bereaved families, many would be lost. That being said, I am glad to just be a mom and see what I can glean from this.

Going to this conference is scary for first timers, knowing you will be with 1200+ grieving parents, grandparents and siblings. How can this help you ask. Walking into this environment is like walking into a massive hug. As you meet eyes with others, there is silent communication that says “I understand”. This is often followed by a hug that is tight and warm and maybe starts to be weird it goes on so long. There is even a hug booth around the corner. Where else has one of those? These people understand what it’s like to live without a cherished loved one. No words are necessary.

The world outside of this is very different and often very lonely. This is sort of how a bereaved mother goes through her day.

Person 1: “Hi how are you?”

Bereaved mom: “I’m fine”

Translation: I don’t know why I say that, it feels weird, I’m not and never will be fine. I wish I could really tell you how I am. I miss my daughter.

Person 1: Did you have a good weekend?

BM: Yes it was ok, didn’t do much.

Translation: Weekends, weekdays, all days are tough without my daughter. Everything is different. All the happy families are living their life and watching their children grow. I’m constantly wondering what she would be doing and thinking. She should be here watching her son grow up.

Person 1: Are you looking forward to vacation?

BM: Oh yes everyone is excited to get away. Can’t wait.

Translation: I don’t really look forward to anything much, but I go and I do it and I actually enjoy it, but I have to take her with me. She needs to be welcome for me to have a good time. She should be here.

Person 1: What are you guys doing for the holidays? Have you decorated? Are you finished shopping?

BM: No real plans yet, probably do something simple.

Translation: I don’t really plan anymore. Mostly, I try to get through it for everyone else. I don’t want to bring them down because that isn’t fair to them. Decorating isn’t really that important to me. I just want to survive it.

What you’ll notice most in this conversation is that she is telling you what you want to hear, that which will make you comfortable. If she says what she is really feeling, the room will clear within seconds. Nothing is more fun than a grieving mother and I know because I am one. I spend everyday living and laughing and working and interacting…and missing my daughter. It is as if you have an empty space that can’t be filled and honestly, it can’t.

Every son, daughter, grandchild, brother or sister has a special place where only they fit. It’s made just for them, the edges so intricate that not even the finest sculptor could create a match. Each person has unique qualities that make their place in your life theirs and theirs alone. In order to continue without that piece, you must find an alternative way to hold that sacred place and yet live a fulfilling life. That friends is a tall order.

At the conference, there are workshops on everything from learning to live without your loved one to choosing a memorial tattoo. See, we also are different and we need different things. Our grief is unique to us and therefore we will use individual coping skills as well. Learning how others navigate this path is invaluable and eventually you go from being the student to being the teacher. You use what you’ve learned to help others and that in turn helps you. This has been my experience and my “compassionate friends” are like grief warriors, armed to battle the toughest of days.

As I walk the maze today, missing my husband and best friend, I am reminded of what it took to see the hope after losing Lindsey. It took work, it took perseverance, it took people leading me at times, it took patience, it took walking into territory I didn’t know existed. It was a choice I had to make on my own. I chose to hold that special place just for her, so Wednesday, Lindsey and I go on vacation. It’s our time, our place, our journey. Wish me well.

I know it may sound odd to many and unbelievable to most, but there can be gifts in grief. How can there be something good come from something so incredibly painful? It is really difficult to wrap your brain around this concept, but I am the recipient of these gifts and so is my family.

People are great at coming out for funerals and visitations to show their support. Flowers are delivered, meals are cooked, calls made and cards sent. These are all methods in which we give and receive support. We were fortunate enough to be the recipient of all of these. Thing is, these things eventually end and that is actually the norm.

At first, the cards fill the mailbox , sometimes spilling out as you open it. You sit with your grief and read each and every verse and personal note, often more than once. Then one day, there are no cards. You lean over and peer into the mailbox knowing it must be a mistake, you reach all the way to the back, but nothing is there. Your heart hurts because it means life goes on for everyone else, just as it should.

The phone rings nonstop and in today’s world, the texts keep coming, social media remains abuzz, and all forms of communication are used to let you know you are loved and cared about. Then one day, the phone is quiet, the texts are sparse, and social media is back to perfect lives and politics. You wonder what has happened, are they just busy, is everyone ok or did they forget you are hurting? Truth is, life is returning to normal, just as it should.

The timeline of grief is different for the griever and the world. It can be physically painful to watch the world go on as if nothing has happened. Doesn’t everyone know your pain will be there when the flowers are gone, leftover food is trashed and the quiet descends? Does no one care that your loved one is missing at holidays and vacations?

Welcome to my world. This is all part of the grievers experience and can make the journey even more difficult. In my experience though, I still get an occasional card, a “thinking of you” kind of card which makes me smile. I had someone apologize for the late timing of a card and truth is, it came when all others had stopped. It was perfect.

I get texts throughout the day and evening just checking in, letting me know Rick is not forgotten and neither am I. My phone rings often and it again is a “had you on my mind and heart” kind of call.

People are still feeding me and to be honest I’m enjoying that very much. Cooking and shopping just isn’t a priority right now, but time spent with friends is a gift. My girls often fix me dinner to eat with them or take home after work. It helps to not eat alone. My neighbors have cut my grass and taken out my trash cans. They sometimes show up to walk Lucy and that is a so helpful.

The biggest gift I’ve received is to know how much people loved Rick, but the coolest part of this is he got to know it too. Once we found out and shared what was going on, people started showing up. Some brought things, some called him, some sent good wishes and prayers and some came and sat at his bedside and shared his last hours. For Rick this was something special and all he could say was “wow”.

Through this experience, I have reconnected with people I haven’t seen in many, many years. Rick was astounded that elementary and high school friends cared enough to reach out. Old customers and employees of the restaurant checked in. Friends slept on my couch, swept my floor, cleaned my bathrooms, fed my dog, and kept be company. These are some of my gifts, those taking their time from their life to sit with us when things got tough.

When Lindsey died, I was exposed to some of the saddest people I had ever met and those people inspired me to survive this horrible tragedy and to find joy again in what remained. These are some of the most courageous people I have ever met and without my life taking this course, I would have never met them. They have made me a more compassionate person in every way and I treasure these friendships. Again, these are some of those gifts in grief.

I left the maze yesterday for a short while. It was a difficult decision and costs me hours of sleep, but I took the chance and stepped out into a very uncomfortable place. Two dear friends I have worked with most of my career took me sailing on the Chesapeake Bay, the one place I wasn’t sure I would ever return to. There was sharing, laughter and tears, but most of all some very simple healing. The memories that surfaced for me were so positive and so meaningful that my head was spinning with good thoughts. The missing took a back seat for a moment and let the “good stuff” take the helm. They let me share what I needed to and sat with me in the place I’m was in. What a gift it was and although I have to return to the maze for awhile, I hope to stick my head out once again and check out my new world. Maybe it won’t be so scary next time.

I’m a little late this week with my thoughts, but I’ve definitely had a lot of thoughts. More new discoveries have surfaced as I continue trying to live without my very best friend. I’m learning a lot about myself these days, some things frighten me a little and some things are just me being me.

It all started with a lost contact. Now for those of you that have never had problems with vision, count yourself lucky. I started several years ago when I hit those dreadful 40’s. At first it was one and that was challenging enough. It took me a long time to get comfortable with the process of putting them in and removing them. About a year ago I had to graduate to both eyes, but I had finally mastered it or so I thought.

The saga began last week when I couldn’t find the left contact to remove it for bed. I tried and tried until my frustration got the best of me and I gave up. The next morning I tried again and after a lot of “You Tubing”, I tried to put a new one in to pull the other one out. I haven’t mentioned that this can also be extremely painful at times and the more it hurt, the more I cried and the more alone I felt in the world.

Now how can I link losing a contact to my grief journey you ask. Truth is, in the world today, we take a lot for granted. It’s not on purpose, but we are so busy with life and all that goes with it that we just don’t stop to appreciate the little things. Sight isn’t a little thing, but it is something you just don’t think about, just like you don’t think about losing the love of your life in 6 short weeks.

To be honest, I’ve had a fleeting thought that something could happen to one of us, but it crossed my mind so quickly I never went into it any deeper. Just like my contact it was sudden and painful and left me in a bit of a fog. It was going to require patience and time to heal and I didn’t have time for that. My vision of the world was altered and I became afraid it may not return to the way it had been.

Oh how right I was. My world is altered in a way I could not have imagined. I wake alone, where Rick used to be lying on the pillow beside me, now the covers remain unchanged, no wrinkles, no muss, always the same. As I sit quietly and look around, the house remains the same, decorations and furniture untouched, as if preserved in time. There is the occasional robo call in the evening and I think of how that irritated him. The TV is hardly ever turned on and it used to be on all day. Meals are lonely and most of it is prepared food from the local grocery store, things that could actually be delivered to the door. The grills remain covered, unless the wind blows them off. When night finally comes, the bed is again untouched on one side and I slide in hoping my dog will sleep beside me to help with the loneliness. The next morning it starts all over when the covers remain untouched.

I know this sounds sad, but that is not my purpose in sharing it. These are the facts of life after such incredible loss. It’s something we take for granted like summer days, celebrations and family vacations. Nothing is the same, nothing will ever be the same.

I never found the contact, but after confirming that with the doctor, I gave in and left it to heal. You see, the more I fought it the more damage I did and the longer it would take to heal. I had to give in and rest and take care of myself.

Although it is not as painful and I can see better, a blurriness remains. My eye aches and I wish it hadn’t happened, but my hope is I will get better everyday. I took my eyes for granted, I won’t make that same mistake again.

I treasured my marriage and our life together, but I took it for granted that Rick and I would grow old together. We would be the little old couple you saw out and about, wrinkled hands and face, eating the Senior Special at five o’clock. We can’t be that now and I wish I had appreciated the simplicity of that sooner.

When you walk the maze as I am, make sure you have lived and loved and done your best. Don’t take a single thing for granted, because life can and will change one day. Make every moment count and know that we can’t change what happens to us, but we can change how we react to it. I’m trying to take my own advice and be patient with myself while I take each step, sometimes waivering and stumbling along, but continuing to step nonetheless. Love with all your heart and appreciate each and every little thing. The simple things we take for granted might be the most important in the end.

I discovered something this week that I think is very profound. It was another difficult few days and I know that is to be expected. Thing is, I don’t want to feel this way again…and I do. The physical and emotional pain of grief is all encompassing and affects you in every aspect of your life.

So what was my discovery…I know this can get better and I want to fast forward through the hard part. Now I know that’s impossible, but that’s a fact. I don’t want to be sad, but I am. I don’t want my chest to hurt when I think of Rick, but it does. I don’t want to go to bed crying and wake up crying every morning, but I do. I don’t want to live my life without Rick, but I have to. There is no choice, but to wait this out and hope that someday I won’t feel like this. So I need to continue the journey, do the work and wait it out.

My life has been turned upside down in a way I could not have imagined. I tried to think yesterday what we used to do on our time off. I got so frustrated because I couldn’t put my finger on anything exact, we were just always together. Even if we weren’t interacting we were together. I am alone now most of the time. Funny thing is even if I am with others, I am still alone.

The challenge is to figure out who you are and where you fit. I remember after Lindsey died, I felt lost and disconnected from everyone whose life remained the same. When I went to my first Compassionate Friends meeting, I walked into a room of the saddest people on the planet and felt like I belonged there. A friend asked me why when I was so sad, would I want to be around all those sad people. I told her that it was the only group of people that know how I feel. I found solace there that I could not find anywhere else, although I had a huge support system. Fact is, during all of that, my main support was Rick, right there side by side.

I sent a text this week to a friend and said “you know life sucks when you are looking forward to a grief conference”. This is a place I’m like everyone else. Isn’t that a weird place to be? I don’t want to be a grieving spouse, just like I didn’t want to be a grieving mother, but these are the cards I’ve been dealt. I’ve got to figure out how to play them. No one can do that for me, I have to do it for myself.

It’s sort of like standing on the edge of a cliff looking down, seeing the expanse of the canyon. I have to choose how to get to the other side. There are two ropes, one is sturdy and has lots of safety features, but takes a lot longer to cross. It comes with a lot of directions. The other rope is a little frayed, maybe a tad dangerous, but if it holds will get me there quickly. The first rope allows me to take all the steps, buckling and snapping, taking every precaution to get it right, checking and rechecking, assuring arrival to the other side intact. The frayed rope has no directions, no steps, no safety, no time to assure a safe arrival, but promises to be quick. If I make it, I’m on my own from there. Which rope do I choose or do I want to cross at all? Should I just remain here where it’s safe?

As I look across the canyon, I see a light, it is bright and filled with lots of color and promise. It is beautiful and looks like a place I’d like to be. Which rope do I choose, safe and cautious or frayed and dangerous? If you get there quicker, do you feel better and are you in a place you feel ready to take on life. Or…are you just there and don’t know what to do now?

I’ve decided to take the safe route, walk the maze, do the work, take the time, find myself, look for the light, arrive when I’m ready. It isn’t easy, but I know that already, because I’ve made this choice before. The other side is worth it, I know this because I’ve been there before. Hope is something you have to hold onto with both hands. If you start to weaken and let it slip from your grip, it can be devastating. Hold on with all your might, just as you hold onto that rope crossing the canyon.

I wish things were different, but they aren’t. In the end, I know someday I will be able to look back and know I made the right choice.

Today is not a good day. I’m not sure why it’s different than yesterday or several days ago, but it’s just not good. This is an example of how unpredictable grief is.

There is a lot written about the stages of grief. While I agree on the emotions you experience, there is nothing predictable other than it’s unpredictability. Many describe it coming in waves, first the waves are one after the other, fierce and relentless, knocking you off your feet. Over time, they start to get farther apart and gradually aren’t as large, maybe knocking you off balance, but no longer knocking you down. Eventually the water becomes calm, with occasional waves that you hardly notice, just enough to make you aware grief is still present. Then one day, a big wave comes and knocks you down, but you get up, easier this time and wait for the next one never knowing when it may hit.

I think of grief as a journey. The ticket would say: Departure Date: Immediate Arrival: TBA Destination: A Different You

What To Pack: In your backpack, you will carry many emotions, each having weight, causing your load to be extremely heavy. Depending on your personal situation, the weight of your pack will be different, just as your grief is different.

The first of these emotions is often shock. In our situation, the news of Ricks diagnosis was and remains a shock. I received the call with the news on February 27th at work. I knew, without a doubt, how serious it was and that time was most likely short. I broke this news to my daughters and granddaughters first, leaving them in tears to return home and tell Rick. To say we were shocked is an understatement. We sat in silence for what seemed like hours, but probably was only a few minutes. Honestly, I think I am still in shock and have never really been able to process the news. I will never forget his facial expression.

Denial is often packed along with Shock. Often these experiences are unexpected and how can someone be there one moment and gone the next? How can someone be working and driving and planning their summer and in an instant that is over? How can a marriage start with love and respect and end in anger and hatred? How can a beautiful child be ok one day and get a catastrophic diagnosis affecting the rest of their life and the lives of those who love them? These are grieving experiences also. Going through denial is inevitable, not only do we not want to believe these things, but how can we when at one point it all seemed normal. As denial wanes and reality sets in, there is often anger in your pack as well.

I’ve never been angry, but it is a very normal and natural response to grief. I have met many for whom anger is a major obstacle in their grief journey. Anger can be at family, friends, employers, the legal system and even God. It is a volatile emotion weighing down the pack. I’ve never felt like I had a target for anger, but I understand and respect those who carry this weight. I guess I could be angry at Cancer, but that is an intangible so it doesn’t work for me.

Many wrestle with suicidal thoughts, wanting to be with the one they have lost. I’ve learned it doesn’t mean they don’t love their family they still have, but just that living without that loved one seems insurmountable. If someone has an existing mental health challenge, this can feel like another enormous battle. Those that live with anxiety and depression can be severely affected by loss and grief. Sometimes this is the first experience with anxiety or depression following loss. Again it makes the load unbearable at times.

Another emotion often weighing us down is the “G” word Guilt. Sometimes I think back and wonder if I missed something. I’m a nurse, did I miss something that could have changed the outcome? I know everyone says don’t do that, but that is my reality. I know it would not have been purposeful or intentional, but I do wonder. Those are the feelings of someone grieving whether they make sense or not. I’ve experienced this so much in childbirth where there is a poor outcome and the first words from the distraught mother are “what did I do to cause this?” See it doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else if it makes sense to you. I learned the definition of guilt is “intent to do harm”. No one intends to harm their loved ones, but it is something we have to work through in our own time.

These are just a few of the raw emotions that take up space in our backpack and in our mind. As we walk the maze, we start to unpack and place these emotions gently to the side, but before that can happen, we need to feel them and deal with them in a healthy and constructive way. Those that are willing to walk beside us, will help us do that, mostly listening and being present for us. What works for one is different for another. Advice, though well meaning can fall flat because there is no “one size fits all”. Sometimes these emotions return and we repack them, until, once again, we are ready to place them aside.

I am busy unpacking as I walk the maze, but it is a slow and arduous process. It requires patience and perseverance. It requires intense emotional work. So today was not a good day and the backpack is heavy, but maybe tomorrow will be, and I’ll lighten my load.

First I want to thank the many people who are reading, liking, commenting, and sharing my blog. You have touched my life in a way I can’t explain. For those of you that say it has helped you, you have indeed been a blessing to me.

I want to share a story from this week which speaks a little to my last post. I was sitting in my office on Thursday and just didn’t want to be there. It wasn’t really work , I was just out of sorts. My thoughts were all over the place and I felt I wanted to escape. I decided to go get some iced tea and as I entered the lobby, I heard several people call my name. As I turned to face them, there was someone who used to cater with Rick. She gave me a giant hug, a real hug that lasted awhile and told me how sorry she was. I felt the tears well up and turned as she said “you remember my mom?” There stood someone I probably saw last in the 1970’s and she had made my wedding cookies 46 years ago. As I tried to maintain my composure I realized that her mom had been one of my mom’s best friends in the 60’s and 70’s. I stood, collecting myself as best I could, and a third person said, “we loved Rick.” I realized it was someone he knew from years catering for the hospitals. You see, this is my life, a memory at every turn. My day turned around at that moment and the loneliness seemed to wain.

It seems that what is most painful is also most comforting. Sitting on my screened porch tonight I realize that we are always struggling in grief. I try to do the normal everyday activities, but around every bend is a memory of what was. Around the next bend is what is gone, never to be again. In Grief Recovery Method it’s termed loss of hopes, dreams and expectations. Isn’t that really our struggle, holding on to the past and being afraid of the future. It’s like a game of tug of war that we play with life.

Losing a child is thought to be the most difficult and life changing event a parent can have. When your child dies, you lose a piece of yourself and no one and nothing can replace that missing piece. It’s as if there are two puzzles with the same cut, but different resulting pictures. If you put the piece from the other puzzle where the piece is missing, although it’s still complete, the picture is not at all the same. The picture is forever different as the future is forever different. My biggest fear when Lindsey died was getting better meant leaving her behind. How can I hold her close while trying to continue to live.? After much time and a lot of work, I realized the opposite is true. I’ve learned to carry her with me, however I need to, wherever I go.

The loss of a parent, at any age, is devastating. Our parents are our foundation. When you build a house, you start with a solid foundation and you trust it to weather any storm with you. With my mom, who was my best friend, I feel her presence within. My thoughts, my actions, even my refrigerator looks like my mom’s. She is so much a part of who I am as a person. That helps me tremendously because she was my role model, my rock, my sounding board, and my confidant. Sometimes I say things and think, those are mom’s words. It comforts me.

My most recent loss of Rick is a different feeling altogether. It is like the saying “my better half”. It’s as if half of you is missing. We took different roles in everyday life and the roles we took seemed natural. For instance, I did most of the financial stuff while he did most of the cooking. It worked for us. There were many things like this and now I am keenly aware of him not being here for the most minor things. The problem is, these things were our life and are now my life.

What is the most difficult part? Eating alone is definitely the most painful for me. Sitting with my IPad in the morning, waiting for him to emerge and complaining I never put water in the coffee pot, these are the moments I miss. I miss that he never put the recliners down and left his shoes all over the floor and his shirts hanging on the doorknobs. I miss his laugh and the way he could take over a room. I miss the way he looked at me right before I left for work and said “you look pretty.” I miss that we would be at the boat these weekends and eating ice cream at Stevie’s. I miss all of it and I miss him as I sit here alone. He was and will always be my world. His absence is apparent in every minute of every day.

How do you go into the future missing half of yourself. I don’t know that answer yet and it is the biggest challenge for me. I know how to navigate the grief this time, I’m familiar with the do’s and don’ts. I know to take my time and do things as I feel like I can handle them. I know not to make big decisions right away. I know to not let people rush me through my grief. I know that it’s going to take a lot of time. What I don’t know is this “what do I do in the meantime?” How do I find my way?

I’ve always been a private person about my faith, but I do rely on faith to get me through each and every day of my journey. I believe with all my heart that I will be reunited with my family someday and that gives me comfort. I believe in Heaven as a place of no pain and no worries. I believe it is colorful and full of animals. I believe it to be a peaceful place, contrasting to our current world. I believe I still have things to accomplish here, so I need to keep trying. I believe our loved ones are still beside us as we navigate the maze, gently leading us along, helping us up when we stumble and fall. I know the destination to be a place of hope and so as I play tug of war with the past and present, I will continue trying to find my way forward, taking it all in, the good and the bad, the happy and the sad, and most of all…just missing.

Well we survived another holiday and survived another “first”. The first of everything is tough in grief. You know it’s coming so you start to brace yourself. You plant your feet slightly apart to maintain your balance and wait. It comes like an easy sprinkle of rain, you feel it, but it’s ok, you’ve got this. It starts to rain harder, now soaking your clothes, your shoes, and most of all your spirit. You patiently await the thunder followed by the lightening bolts that finally cause you to lose your balance and stumble to right yourself. And then the storm is over leaving you disheveled, unsure and wondering how you survived.

This is an example of everyday life in grief, not just holidays. In the last week, I have been asked “How is Rick?” more times than I can count. The girls hear “How is your dad?” Some know nothing, some know Rick was sick. Every experience is a first. It is the first time you have seen them or talked with them. It may be the first time you’ve seen them since the funeral home or service. It could be the first time you have seen someone in years and they know nothing. You become a little gun shy and may try to avoid these situations. How do you accomplish that? You isolate.

Isolation can be helpful at times, but it can also hinder your grieving process. If you don’t face the challenges, the world has a way of placing them in your path anyway. Many have to return to work and where they were once so confident, may feel very vulnerable. Some find solace and immerse themselves in work, probably because there they feel like they can make a difference. Dealing with loss you feel like a top spinning out of control. You can’t help yourself and you can’t help your family and on top of that, you can’t fix it. It is a helpless feeling.

My reaction to taking on the world is often reflective of what role that person has played in our lives. Some of my medical family I have worked with since the 1970’s. They knew Rick, watched us grow our family, may have even been present at their birth, or Rick probably cooked for them at one time. Many saw us start a business, watched us become grandparents, and maybe watched us flounder after losing Lindsey. Some we have vacationed with and are part of my most treasured memories. There is also the fact we have lived our entire life in this area, so seeing people we know is commonplace for us. I cannot leave my house without colliding with a barrage of memories. At first, that can be tough, but eventually I found that to be a comfort. I’m sure it will be the same for me this time around because Rick is everywhere in my world.

One of the most important things I’ve learned about these “first” is this, you can only do what you can do. Some things work and some things don’t. One of the rights of grievers is to be free to make a choice. It doesn’t mean they will make that same choice forever, but for now they may need a little room to breathe. Maybe doing things the way you always did before doesn’t work for them this time. You can change things up to make new traditions or they get a “pass” and everyone tries to understand. Where you are in early grief is not the destination, it is just the path you take looking for your destination.

Whatever happened to change your life and cause you to embark on the grief journey, is going to change you and everyone around you. You may not like the changes you see, but as you grow, it will become more apparent than ever that you are a survivor. You are still here and you are learning to live without someone you love. This, my friends, is not an easy task.

For me, I felt like I had to make a choice to try to find some form of “happy” or to stay in the place of sadness. I personally hate the “new normal” because there is nothing normal about it. Living without my daughter is far from normal. Living without my husband, there is nothing normal about that. Thing is, “not living” is not normal either. Being sad and not enjoying the many things we have left is just not a viable option to me. It would mean that what I had left wasn’t as important as what I lost. It could give those I love the impression that they weren’t worth fighting for and that is far from the truth. Besides. someone told me, “normal is a cycle on the washing machine”.

As you travel the grief journey, heavy laden with the pain and the missing, you will start to unpack. I found as I accomplished even the smallest task or one of those “first”, I could then lighten my load. It was gradual and deliberate the first time around. I remained in the maze a long time after Lindsey died. I took steps forward, I took steps back, I stumbled, I fell, but I always got back up and kept seeking that exit, but I wasn’t sure it really existed.. This time around, I’ll stumble, I’ll fall, but I’ll never give up because I know how good it felt to find that exit before, so I will keep trying for those I have left to love and love me.

Here we are, another holiday. When you are grieving it seems like there is a holiday every single week. Are the holidays worse than any other day? In a sense, I guess they are for most, but not really for me. The anticipation of the holiday is actually worse than the holiday itself.

What I have found is this, I don’t miss Lindsey or Rick less because it’s a holiday, but because those days remind me of times gone by. That includes good times, vacations, holidays, and all the incredible memories we made before they died. The day is just a day, today is Father’s Day so let’s talk about that.

Rick was a great dad. When we married, I was in school and we had decided to wait on children until I graduated and we got settled financially. I graduated from Johnston-Willis Nursing School in 1977 and took a job on the 6th floor at Chippenham. It was a very busy Med-Surg unit, where I would quickly learn what it was like to be a nurse in every sense of the word.

We were getting settled and I was making a whopping $5.25 /hr. If I passed my Boards I would get $5.50. I did and we thought we had struck gold. Rick was working at Proctor & Gamble as a Sales Rep. and had attended their very elite Sales School. We were “living large”.

I got pregnant pretty quick and Amanda was born on October 7, 1978. So much for waiting for stability. Rick was overjoyed. Now this was when they decided that men should be involved in the the actual birth of their baby, so of course I was all over that. Rick, not so much. Medical stuff made him uncomfortable and he wasn’t sure he could handle it.

For the next 9 months, we both lived in great anticipation of becoming parents. I had a lot of what was termed “morning sickness”, but mine was all day. Rick would cook for me, I would eat, get sick, and eat again. It was a long 9 months. This was also the time when Lamaze, prepared childbirth, was becoming more popular, along with other classes on how to do this “parenting” thing. I dragged Rick to everything I could sign up for. He went along, somewhat reluctant, of what he might see or hear.

When the day came, we entered Chippenham Labor and Delivery the last time as a twosome and in the next 24 hours we became a family of three. It was a long hard day and Rick was by my side every minute. He was my coach and my best friend. I had prepped him for “do whatever you can handle and if you can’t it’s ok”. He never left my side. He did share later that a couple Hershey’s Bars and too much coffee almost took him out, but he rallied and watched the birth of our first daughter, Amanda.

Rick became a huge advocate of men attending the birth of their child and I would hear him giving pep talks to other reluctant dads. We would go through more ups and downs over the next few days and finally brought our baby home 5 days later. Times were different, so this wasn’t unusual. I would have several complications over the next couple weeks, but the one thing that was steady, Rick was by my side every minute.

Life calmed down a bit and we began to live family life. It was fun, it was hectic, it was satisfying, it was ours. It was then, I found out I was pregnant again making them 22 months apart. We can do this right? We were again overjoyed, except I was sick again a lot. Rick was by my side throughout, cooking, helping with Amanda and generally just being a good husband and father.

During the time after Amanda was born, I began working in Labor and Delivery and teaching Lamaze. This was the birth of my passion for the miracle of childbirth. The pregnancy seemed long, but culminated in the birth of another precious baby girl, Lindsey. Things went a little smoother this time. At this time, there was a method being used called LeBoyer in which you would bring the baby into the world with dim lighting, sometimes soft music and lower the newborn into a warm bath immediately after birth. It was called “Birth Without Violence” which sounds a bit dramatic, but it was a huge shift from present practice.

Dr. Crooks placed Lindsey directly in Rick’s arms after birth and he lowered her gently into the warm water, her crying softened and stopped. It was a moment I will never forget. This image is etched on the walls of the maze. At that moment, I remember thinking “Life could never get better than this”. We left a few days later a family of 4.

Life with two children this close in age was challenging I guess, but we embraced it. We made memories doing all the things young families do. Shortly after that we found out we were going to have our third child making them 24 months apart and life got real.

Tiffany was born on September 22, 1982 and arrived with the usual excitement. Rick took her in his arms the first time and leaned down to kiss her on her tiny little lips. She had reddish hair, so now we had a blond, a brunette and a redhead. No explanation necessary, they were ours. We were now a family of five and we were complete. We lived and loved like everyday was our last.

Rick was a daddy in every sense of the word. He changed diapers, kept them when I worked, attended every single program, swim meet, dance recital, horseback riding competition, Birthday party, you name it, he was there. He helped build a swim team and dive team in our neighborhood, even using his BBQ skills to help with fundraising.

You see, Rick had a phenomenal role model, his dad. Robert Perrin, was a great father and set the bar high for his boys. He and his brother were up to the task and have been great fathers as well. They all showed strength, perseverance, integrity, compassion and most of all love. This is what their children feel today.

If you are lucky enough to have a dad in your life, treasure that and tell him how you feel. Don’t take that relationship for granted. If you are a dad, spend time with your kids, doing things that make memories even when you don’t feel like it. Go outside, play Legos, have a tea party, do whatever your children want to connect and show you care. Show love because in the end, love and being loved is what really matters most.

Someday when your loved one walks the maze , let their walls be filled with memories of you and what your relationship meant to them. For today, I’ll walk through and think of Rick and what it was like to watch him love and cherish his children. I’ll remember his journey as he learned how to be a father to three amazing little girls. For everyone, I hope you enjoy today and make more memories to cherish and paper the walls of the maze.

Like everything else in life, we handle grief and loss with the tools we were given throughout our life. Much like a carpenter, we choose the tools according to what job we need to do. The tools in that toolbox range from physical, emotional, spiritual and on and on. What we choose as an individual can be very personal to our life and our situation.

One of my first grieving memories was the day my father left home for the last time. My parents divorced when I was very young. I remember standing in the driveway, not quite 4 years old, and watching the car pull away. There is nothing beyond that, I just remember I was confused and probably sad, wondering if I had anything to do with his leaving.

Sitting in my fourth grade class at Summer Hill Elementary School, an announcement came over the intercom. ”President Kennedy has been shot in Dallas Texas.” There was a silence that enveloped that little school that day. I don’t remember much detail, but I remember seeing everyone crying, students, teachers, custodian, and parents. The usual exuberance when the bell rang was absent and I remember walking home from school with a heavy heart. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew if everyone was affected like that, the consequences must be huge. I was met by my mom at the front door and that is where I found comfort.

It was football night for our high school. Rick and I left when the game was over, stopping by his house for him to change clothes. The plan, as always, was to meet friends at Shoney’s to get something to eat and it was the cool thing to do. His parents greeted us and I immediately went to call and check in with my mom. She answered with a tearful hello and in the next breath told me the Marshall Football team had been killed in a tragic plane crash. My brother had been on the Marshall team and all of the Virginia boys had been at our house the Sunday before. Mom probably cooked for them and there was a lot of fun and laughter as the guys planned to head back to school. One of my brothers close friends had a 1 year old (if I remember correctly) and they left his bottle there when they left. They had a game that week at East Carolina and there was great anticipation. On their return, the plane crashed into a hillside killing approximately 36 players. coaches, administrators and 25 prominent citizens that supported the Thundering Herd. It was considered the worst sports tragedy of that time.

I immediately headed home finding my mom with tear streaked cheeks, phone ringing, people arriving for support. The TV stations were rolling the team roster and my brother was listed. As it turns out, my brother had left the team that week and was actually in Blacksburg meeting his wife for the weekend. He learned of the tragedy and called home immediately. There was relief and devastation occurring all at the same time. My brother had to return, weeks later, to gather his belongings from the dorm the guys occupied. Talk about a true grieving experience, this was it. My mom kept that baby bottle for the next thirty plus years in the same location located in the cabinet next to the glasses.

Times were different though. There was no trauma response like you would see today. Media attention, strong at first, faded. Funerals were held and life continued just as if nothing had happened. Tears were spilled in private, families tried to survive, the university tried to move forward, the town tried to rebuild. Those not on the plane that day, began a life of grieving and uncertainty.

I remember this as if it were etched in my mind with permanent ink. It was the third time I had a major grieving experience and I was still in high school. Funny thing is, until the last few years I never thought of these things as traumatic events, but they were. To be honest, I hadn’t related these events to a grieving experience until I started reading everything I could about grief and healing. It was just life or so I thought.

I come from a “pull your socks up Nancy” generation. There was no time for “feeling sorry for yourself”, but instead you had to “Be Strong”. What the heck does that mean? In my world it means “keep trying” and do what you need to do to put one foot in front of the other. How do you be strong? What real choices do you have to survive whatever crisis barrels in and disrupts your life?

We are strong by opening our eyes each morning. We are strong by taking a shower and getting the kids to school or going to work. We are strong if, today, we sit with our grief and shed our tears and shut out the world for a little while. We are strong if we keep trying to exit the maze to see what there might be on the other side. We are strong because these are the cards we were dealt and to remain lost in the maze is really much more overwhelming than to keep trying to find our way.

I’ve learned a tremendous amount about grief in the last nine years, but I also realize I haven’t scratched the surface. Grieving people are everywhere. When you feel so alone and isolated, the truth is that person sitting next to you is probably grieving something too. It may not be a death, but could be something just as painful to them, loss of health, moving, changing jobs etc. What you thought was part of life is actually a grieving experience. Now I don’t want anyone to think I’m a “grief freak” and I think everything is a grieving experience, but it really is. It just isn’t recognized as such.

In a conversation this week with my daughter, I once again realized that grief is different for everyone. Where I have been the focus for weeks now, my daughters are grieving in a completely different way. They miss their “dad” plain and simple. Problem is, they miss their “mom and dad” as well. What they miss most is the way it was, and it will never be that way again. That realization feels insurmountable at times. They also grieve for their children missing their “Poppy” and have to be mindful of their grief. What a challenge to not only have to feel your own pain, but to feel theirs too. They now have to carry on, attending sports events, chorus concerts, do homework, plan 5th grade graduations etc. because life doesn’t stop because you are grieving a loss of someone special.

The first Compassionate Friends National Conference I went to was 3 years ago. Rick and I had planned to go and make it a mini vacation, as it was in Arizona, a place we hadn’t been. Right before that trip, Rick hurt his knee and I ended up going alone. When I arrived, I started to wonder what being around over 1000 grieving people would be like. Would it be depressing and sad for the next 3 days? How could it not be? I arrived a day early and sat by the pool, ate lunch and milled around the hotel. I keenly observed the people doing the same. Wonder if they are here for the conference I thought. There was laughing and joking, people swimming and playing games, and those just soaking up the searing Arizona sun. They all looked like “normal people” doing “normal things”.

The conference started the next day and by this time I had 2 friends join me from home. We began to navigate the many programs and workshops offered, and lo and behold, there were the laughing people from the pool. See, grievers look and act like everyone else. It’s what lies beneath the smile that we only know if they choose to share. You don’t share grief with just anyone, it needs to be someone special. That someone needs to want to hear your story and can be present with you where you are. Not everyone can do that and it is very obvious when you are making someone uncomfortable. What do you do in this situation? You shut down or they change the subject. Generally, you walk away from an interaction like that, feeling more alone than ever.

My point in all of this is “if you look ok, then you must be ok”. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Now that doesn’t mean you aren’t where you should be, it is where you need to be. There is a great book named “It’s ok to not be ok”. So as a griever you have permission from the world to take your time to not be “ok”. This time frame is different for every single person so there is no algorithm for grief. It is a moment to moment experience. I don’t allow those who don’t understand to affect me in a negative way. It’s ok that they don’t understand and I, honestly, don’t want them to. That would mean they would have to experience great loss too.

So as you walk through the maze on your journey to healing, you notice it’s getting crowded. For awhile you thought you were alone and now you notice there are a lot of people walking along side you, either grieving their own loss or here to take your hand as you keep trying to move forward. It feels good to not be alone and you keep searching for the exit to the maze.