Grief---Still?, Again?, Always?

Fresh grief has knocked me down, literally, and after a hospital stay with pneumonia and a bacterial infection in the wall of my heart, I am grounded. God is most likely telling me to put on the brakes, park it, and STOP. I am listening, heeding all advice, taking medications, and laying low. I am focusing on myself. I am trying. But these patterns are new to me, and I am not comfortable. I am at ease and at my best when I can do for others, when I can make that meal, work for that cause, help others with their efforts, support the things that mean the most to them, as they do for me/us. I have handled grief in ways that are uniquely my own. I continue to mourn, but I find the fun, laughter, joy. I wake up praying to seize the day, maybe that is why I fill it so much....fill it with what I deem purposeful and productive activity, yet throwing in the occasional indulgence. I do go out, I have lunches periodically, I may see a movie, but mostly, I wrap myself around reasons to bring me closer to my daughters, my family, my husband, and in doing so, I know I am letting myself down a bit. This case of pneumonia has shown me that, I need to take care of me, before, and during, the time I take care of others.

Doing for others has been my therapy. I know so many grieving souls, and each take a different course. One fills her day with so many activities that it makes my head spin just to hear her agenda! I'm not saying that is how she handles grief, but that has become her "way", not only because she can right now, but a loved ones death has shown her to capture it all! Another attends church daily, cries incessantly, has not seen friends in many months, and attempts to understand what has happened in the loss of her child. And yet another, keeps working, doing her best, carrying a broken heart, yet a smile for everyone she meets, finding the joy in the simple pleasures of life. These are not all loved ones who have lost a child, but have faced some sort of loss, and loss is loss, grief is grief, and I ask myself is it STILL with me?, is it here AGAIN, adding a new layer in the loss of Michael, and will it ALWAYS be part of me, my cloak, my armor, to wear for life? I already know the answers, yet, I find myself asking the questions. Asking for what reason, I do not know, just asking, I suppose.

So, here I am, "forced" by this lung condition, brought about by perhaps "catching" a virus, exasperated by a simple procedure, and bringing me to place where I must rest and heal, yet again. As I have found the ability to breathe a little easier in healing, I suppose I am so emotional because of what she went through, the pneumonia that took Allie to the hospital that unseasonably cold autumn day in Chicago. The fact that she walked eight city blocks to get to the hospital in pain, out of breath, and weak has lingered in my mind as I have relived the symptoms I had last week, and the week before. Some would say this has been brought on by my travels, so many in the last months, the lack of rest, the strength needed and desired to weave through Michael's last weeks, and the loss this has been to the family. I suppose they would be right. But I know more, and I know that it was my time to just BE, rest, read, indulge in TV shows, and books of choice, to lay with Rex and heal and cry if necessary, to let others do the shopping or the cooking, to take a breath and figure out where I go from here. I know that the physical met the emotional and blended with the spiritual in a way that God intended, to remind me that I, first and foremost, must take care of ME, then my family, then my friends, then the causes that are near and dear.

Grief has struck, I won't deny I am sad, I am mourning, I am beyond devastated, but I will soar, I will take this as I should, I will heed the call, and listen. I hear you God. I hear you Allison. I hear you Michael.

Just To See You Smile

I have learned to enjoy the smile on a loved one's face so much more. When those I love are happy, I am happy. When those I care for share an expression of joy and happiness, I am content. When a real smile comes across the face of someone near and dear, there is no greater gift. It's true and honest when a face lights up and breaks into a smile, not the posed look for a photo as one stares into the camera lense, but the the true spirit shining through.

It is no exaggeration to say that Allison always had a smile on her face. From the moment she was born, and this is no fabrication, she smiled. And she made us laugh. All of her life, from start to finish. At times she knew that smile could get her anything she wanted, she knew she was cute and had a winning way with just about everyone. I can only imagine the way she would "use" that smile to her advantage with the young men she dated, but I don't want to know!

There is not one picture that I have ever found of her where she was not smiling! And not one memory without that beam and glow in her eye, except of course, those weeks when cancer invaded and pain set in...but even then, she found her way. Her last visit with my sister, she put an ice pack over her bald head and tied it under her chin, grinning from ear to ear as she sat up in a hospital bed, the medications finally doing what was needed to help the pain subside. She had the look of an angel, truly. She glowed. Now we know why, she was gone in nine days, NINE days. And almost to the end, she was smiling.

I am trying to capture that smile today. Something my sister said to me yesterday, as she is desperately trying to put some of the pieces of her life in a new puzzle, reminded me of where I once was in my grief. She is trying to hold on to anything that is/was Michael's. She cannot remember his voice right now. How desperate I felt for her at that moment. How do I tell her that it is going to come back, it will, but it may take awhile. Because, no matter how much she was ready for him to be eased of his pain, and move on to the place that gives the eternal rest and perspective, now she must go on. And she is numb. She is confused. She is in so much pain that of course, she cannot capture Michael's voice, his touch, or his smile. Or anything about him for that matter. But she will. Grief has a way of striking every aspect of your being, from the physical, to the emotional, to the psychological, and we do forget. And as she is struggling to hear his voice, I remembered how desperate I was to remember Allison's smile. For so long, all I could see was her face as she heard the diagnosis, the tears, the pain, the procedures, the lack of body movement, the shaving of the head, the inability to live a "normal" 21 year old's life. I couldn't find her smile. I was desperate and immobile. I couldn't see past the pain, but was it her pain, or MY pain? I wanted that smile back, at all costs.

Grief continues to plague many of us. It is work. It is my daily assignment and task. It doesn't take a break. It is my constant companion, compounded, now, by another family loss that seems so soon. Don't we get more of a respite? Dont' we get to breathe a little easier without wondering what is going to happen in this life to take someone else that we love away from the family unit, the group photo? Don't we get to say enough is enough? We know the answer and that is a resounding NO, it's not over, it has barely begun. So we capture what we can, take the good with the bad, the tears and the laughter, the pain and the joys, the reasons to smile and be glad for this day, no matter what it brings. We get to find one sweet miracle, even if the miracle is simply getting up and moving through.

I needed to capture her smile today, that one that lights my soul, my world, my surroundings, that smile that reminds me that I will find a reason to smile today, as I look in the eyes of my vibrant 28 year old daughter, as I take Rex on his walk, as I meet with a friend tonight to "celebrate" the five year passing of her dear husband, as I make a meal for my own husband, as I remember Michael and all his funny ways, and as I hold my dear, departed daughter close to my heart, as she lives on and on and on, helping me to forget the days that mean nothing now, the painful ones, and focus on the smile...oh, just to see her smile! What a joy! What a blessing! What a memory!

Just Hold My Hand

For some reason, tonight, I cannot shake a certain experience of cancer as it relates to Allison, and I am quite sure, Michael. I am thinking of my sister and how she is working through the days and nights, four weeks now, that her partner and soul mate is no longer with her. I am reminded of my loss, our loss, as I found myself mentioning Allison's name a bit more than usual today. I found it necessary to explain, last evening, to inquiring new acquaintances that yes, I have two children, one with us, one residing in heaven. With God, my heart told me. With Michael, now, my heart cried out, but of course, I didn't say any of that. It still takes my breath away when people ask, and I find the gentle way to explain the fact that I am a mother to two daughters, and then the familiar questions come, and I must answer. I must.

I have had more than a few flashbacks as I travel the journey with my sister. Not the same one, of course, but it has it's similarities. Every part of it has had a familiar path. The diagnosis. The treatments. The side effect. The gifts, yes, gifts that cancer can bring. But also, the pain, the loss, the heartache and the sadness. And for some reason, today, I cannot get certain images and happenings out of my head. The day is ending soon, and I pray the night brings sleep, peace, rest for myself, my sister, my special friends, and for those I love, and for all those who grieve.

The image in the flashback moments are of her hands, and of his, Michael's hands. I held hers so often that I still feel them. I haven't let go in many ways. I suppose I never will. Her hands became very symbolic because of their beauty, their strength, their grip, their touch. So did Michael's. But when I see, in my mind's eye, his hands, I also see hers, my sister's, holding his, caressing, and loving him through touch. Each time I visited his hands were different, still his, but somehow telling a story, just as hers did, Allison's that is. Her hands told it all, they swelled with steroids, they shrunk in sickness, they thrived and brightened in health and they showed us that death was looming, her body changing and shutting down in a way that we could have never imagined. And his did the same. They swelled, too, they became healthier, fingernails looking finer than any time in his life, and then, the signs, that passage was imminent, the slender look of hands that had done their work, were ready for idleness and rest. Yet, the hands of a man who gave it all he had, and that of a young woman who did the same, leave a lasting image and feeling in my heart. I can almost feel them right now. And I hope my sister never loses the feeling of Michael's hand in hers. I hope in her desperate times, she can close her eyes and remember the loving caress, the gentle touch, and the strength that was transferred between them, in the touch of a hand.

Toward the end of Allison's life, when we were still in a state of confusion and uncertainty, wondering if there was more that we/she/doctors could be doing, her father made a visit to her doctor and asked if there was anything else we should or could be doing. This doctor was a father. It must have pained him deeply, for we knew his sensitivity with our daughter, and the look he, himself, had in his eyes when he was in her presence. No questions were asked by my husband as to amount of time left, or predictions, instead, he stayed clear of asking the doctor to play God. He asked a simple question of the doctor, what else do your recommend we do? And a simple answer, enjoy your time, love her, and hold her hand.

We may not ever get another chance to hold the hands of a loved one. So my thoughts tonight are that I am glad we did when we could, and I know my sister must be glad she did while she could. It's simple and it costs nothing, it may cause embarrassment to those we love, depending on ages and stages, but there is nothing like the strength and caress of holding someone's hand. It passes strength from one soul to another. Tonight I feel as though Michael is reaching out and touching Karen's hand, and giving her a bit of strength to get up, to put one foot on the floor, to make movement in a day, and even to go to bed at night. I feel it as much as I feel Allison doing the same for me, for us, for anyone who asks. She is reaching down and holding our hands, and I am allowing myself to feel the magic of that touch. Good night, Allison, and good night, Michael. How it must feel for you to be holding hands in spirit in a place that knows no day or night, no pain or strife, no worry or angst, just the pure joy of touch and goodness and grace.

Who To Talk To....????

One thing about grief, like cancer, it is unpredictable and unprecedented, and unique to each individual. It rages and grips and holds on until you think you surely have an illness, a diagnosis yourself, amnesia, paralysis, or even temporary memory and hearing loss. It rips apart any semblance of organization or way of life that existed before. It tears at every heart string and pulls until the pain pierces through one's bones and tissues and soul. It makes you want to scream, or cry, or yell, or fall to the floor, sleep the day away, ease from it's tight grip. It makes you sad. And like many days of my life in the last three and a half years, today I wanted to call someone, anyone, and talk it out, cry about it, ask the questions that have no answers. I wanted to share the journey, the loss of Michael, now compounding even more the loss of my own daughter, bringing back the flood of memories that I thought had been dealt with and shelved for a bit. I wanted to tell someone about his last words to me, his last moments with his family around him, the laying of hands prayer and the ushering we did as we each kissed him and encouraged him to let go and rest. I wanted to tell someone everything! And as I have felt before, I didn't know who to talk to or with...

I have so many supportive, loving, empathetic, wonderful family and friends. That has been a gift along this path. Any one of them would take the time to listen. But I can't call them, and one by one, as I listed the names in my head, starting with my own sister, husband, daughter, I knew there is no one to call. Each have their own life, burden or celebration occurring in their own life. Or they are at work. Or they are on vacation. Or they are not able to listen right now. And the truth is, I am not really able to talk right now. I talk myself out of talking. It is exhausting. This is fresh grief, all over again. I need time. My sister surely needs time. My nephews do, and everyone who knows and grieves for Michael, needs time, too. That is why this is a lonely phase. It is what I have referred to as the "awkward dance" stage. Although, truth be known, my life feels like an "awkward dance" most of the time. I don't even think I had begun to get my bearings, and now, again, here we are, shattered and uncertain. Everyone is in a state of fuzziness, trying to make sense of this, if there is any sense to be made.

Who to talk to??? Who can make this better??? We know the answer to this, and that is simply no one on this side of heaven. Even those who have loved and lost before, can only bring those moments of comfort and ease. It is surely wonderful to relate to those who have gone before us, draw our strength from the courage, determination, dignity, and grace of others. But surely we know that it is only God above who can help us find our way. Our true source of light and love is right there. And when there is no one we can call upon, He is there. He is there in the form of the Book of Ecclesiastes that Karen and I are both reading through. He is there in the night. He is there in the morning. And He is never tired of the call. I work to figure out what He wants from me, why does this loss have to impact and change me once again, when I didn't even know who I was before? Why does my sister have to come home to an empty house each night, after nearly 31 years, and why does she have to get to know herself now? Why does she have to suffer this way? And why does she have to be alone, now, just when she and Michael were "supposed" to be heading into the twilight years? Why did our gathering of eight become six so quickly and how will we adjust? What am I supposed to learn from this and what is my calling?

Who knows the answers, but God above. Who knows the truth and intentions of my grieving heart, but God above. And who has a plan for me, even though I do not know it, but God above. I can call so many people today, but the truth is, I am weary and exhausted and don't know what to say. I am loved and love so many, but the truth is I don't have the energy to do what is needed, not today. Maybe tomorrow. For now, I am thankful God hears me and guides me and answers the call, even when I don't know how to find the words.

Anchorman

Michael was a bit of an anchorman for our family, and after the stories I have heard in recent weeks, I believe for many others as well. I don't suppose I truly knew that before. I knew he was our "historian", often remembering, and commenting, on things I'd rather forget! He could bring out the best in one, and the worst! He could cut you to the quick in such a funny way that you were not sure whether he was making fun of you, or if you were so endeared to him that he just felt comfortable saying whatever he chose to say. He kept my mother, my father, my daughter alive in ways that no one else could, partly because he just never forgot a detail, and had a way of resurrecting the stories that could bring you to your knees, in laughter AND in sadness. Whatever the case may be, he was the anchorman of the family. And now he is gone. I am struggling to figure out, once again, how to go on. So are many others, most of all, my sister and their sons, his siblings and their spouses, the nieces and the nephews, the friends and the neighbors. None of us really know what to do, we are off balance, we are drifting in silence, going through the motions, layering the grief in our soul, one on top of the other, until we are choked. We must cry, we must find our way through the pain, we must make movement in some direction, even if it is wrong. We must keep on living.

This companion of grief is not new to me. I have worn the cloak for so long now, yet only beginning to understand how to truly live with it, and now, another layer has been added. Karen and I both talked about the fact that often it is difficult to realize where living in grief over Allison's passage ends and Michael's begins. Perhaps that is because the journeys were so similar, maybe because Michael correlated his life with cancer and ultimate death from this life to hers, he compared, and he used her legacy as his compass. All the while, he was thankful, appreciative, grateful that he was the one diagnosed and not one of his children. He never made it about him, he felt "chosen" in some ways to walk the journey and felt God must have wanted him to know something he didn't already know, and that Allison had paved the way for every treatment, procedure, symptom, pain, side effect. He used her story as a barometer, knowing if she could do this, then so could he, for however long. For many months, he truly expected to "beat" this thing called cancer. Even in early summer days, he was willing to keep fighting and trying new options. But he grew tired. He became weary. He had endured SO much. He knew his boys had evolved into men, he saw the fruits of his labor, as I have said, and at some point, he knew his beloved Karen would be "okay", never the same, but "okay". She promised him so, and so did I. She will be "okay". She will be forever changed, walk with a sadness until grief becomes her familiar partner, learn to find Michael, our anchorman, in the breezes, in the eyes and actions of her sons, in the beach days, in the flying acorns, in the singing chimes, on the swing, and most of all, in her heart.

None of us has comprehended this loss, yet. It will take a long time. We don't honor our loved ones at a service and resume any type of life. Everything is shattered. Everything is different, and takes on a new look. The world moves slower, then faster, and we need one foot on the floor to keep the world from spinning. Perhaps that is why, when it was their time to leave this earth, both Allison and Michael kept that one foot on the floor, they transitioned the same way, not wanting to leave their loved ones behind, but knowing it was time. Time to rest and find peace, time to leave the world so that they could guide from the spirit that was restless in pain and fatigue, to be free to BE, to share their laughter and their love.

The layers of loss are hard to separate. Where one begins, the other ends, and so on. It's complex. It's indescribable. It's lonely. Even when we know the world out there mourns for their own loved ones, and in theory we know life IS loss, still, this pain is exhausting. It is consuming. It kicks you in the gut. It brings tears that pour from places we didn't know existed. It is grueling to live without our anchor. But we will. God will see to it. Allison will see to it. Michael will see to it. They won't let us rest, not at all. They will see to it that we celebrate the day, find one sweet miracle in it, even on the days we don't think we can at all. They will see to it that we smile, live, love, and even laugh. They will never leave us, truly. So we will do our best to honor the legacy, the hope and the love. We will simply do our best.

Saying Good-bye

There comes that time to say good-bye...and good-bye's are never easy, certainly not the ones of recent days and months and years. I follow my all time favorite scripture that I use often, almost every day, from the book of Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3, verses 1-8, it begins, "There is a time for everything and a reason for every activity under heaven", and it continues, "a time to be born and a time to die, a time to weep and a time to laugh", "a time to be silent and a time to speak"...and in my own words, a time to say hello, and a time to say good-bye. Hello to the new babies being born all around us, hello to new friends and summer vacations, hello to new days filled with sea breezes and sunshine, at least from where I sit right now, hello to new seasons and reasons to keep living. Then there is a time to say good-bye, good-bye to all plans that were made and not fulfilled because life changed, good-bye to summer days as they ease into autumn, good-bye to dreams and hopes, shattered by realities and now need to be readjusted, good-bye to loved ones as they board planes as I will do today, good-bye to a parent, a daughter, a son, a husband, a father, an uncle, a brother, a brother-in-law, Michael.

I am not only saying good-bye to summer, I am saying good-bye to my sister as we both, surrounded by hundreds of others, have said good-bye to Michael. Each good-bye has intensified over the years, but we know if God wills it, we will meet again. And we know that about Michael, too. Some days we will desire that reunion so much it will hurt. Some days we will praise God to the highest for allowing us one more day to live on this side of heaven so that we can spend it with our loved ones and enjoy the beauty of this life. As difficult as good-byes are, and this one today is especially so, they create the opportunity of a hello. That's the beauty of life. The hellos become good-byes and it's all in the eyes of the beholder.

It doesn't lighten my heart much today, though. I can comprehend it in theory, and I truly embrace the thought, but I don't want the new reality to come forth, just yet. For me, or for my sister. But it is time and it must. Just as I have done before her, and continue to do each and every day, she must find her own way, and be in the moment where she needs to BE. That may be in a puddle of tears, it may be in the chapter of a book, it may be thumbing through Michael's bible for the scripture that will be the sweet assurance that she can get to the next minute, it may be swinging in the special swing just staring at the clouds or the pink lined sky, it may be caressing the spot where Michael once sat, or sniffing his clothing until the tears stop. She begins a new chapter of her life, and did so, three weeks ago today, as her husband's heart took it's last breath beneath the tender touch of her loving palm. Grief is work, there is no way around it. Her walk will not be the same as my walk, I know not where she will need to go on her own journey of healing. All I know is that while we say our physical good-bye today, we will still walk as one and soldier on...that is what we do. That is what we must do to honor the life and love of our precious Allison and our beloved Michael.

Our world has more than shifted. Our anchor is not standing in our physical presence, but Our Father is, God above who makes room and time for each of us as we need it. My contention is that we draw closer to Him when the trying times outweigh the happy days! When things are beautiful in our lives we can often forget to come to our knees and thank Him, but when the pain overtakes and we don't know how to breathe or maneuver, He is there. He is there, showing us that there is a time for every purpose under heaven. He has set eternity in the hearts of men and women, and for that I am most grateful. Back to eternal perspective! All this is temporary, the worries, the fear, the angst, the pain, the sorrow, the definitive sadness...it is ours to own right now, but one day, we are promised we shall say good-bye to all of that, too. Just as Allison and Michael have, we too, will find our peace. The beauty is, we have an opportunity to find it now, and we will.

"There is a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to embrace and a time to refrain, a time for war and a time for peace"...Everything God does will endure forever. We thank Him for taking Michael at just the right, precise planned moment, even though saying good-bye is one of the hardest things we will ever do. Good-bye Michael, as you rest, you live on, and will be here when I return.

Eternal Perspective

I am trying to keep my focus, my understanding that heaven knows no untimely death, that all is temporal in our physical world, and that eternal light is what we live for...but I miss her, my daughter, and all those who have gone before us, and I miss him, Michael, my brother-in-law/brother who left this world for his eternal rest on that Saturday morning, just a little over two weeks ago. And if I miss him this much, I can only imagine my sister's pain, the loss of Matt and Joseph, Michael's siblings, neighbors, friends and just about everyone who has shared their "Michael moments" with Karen in the last days. I hope those stories continue, I pray that people do not forget, I plan to make sure his life was lived so that we all can learn. We can learn, once again, not to take one minute for granted. We can learn that speaking from the heart is honest and good, even when others do not want to hear what is ours to own. We can learn that one simple, random act of kindness will one day mean the world to someone. We can learn that the dusting and cleaning can wait, that taking someone on the jeep ride, or driving someone to the beach, or building a sandcastle means so much more. We can caress the hand of our beloved spouse in new ways, take the time to really listen to them and their deepest desires, beliefs, or wishes, we can linger in the embrace of a hug for a little longer, and we can kiss more passionately. All these things can help Michael live longer in our hearts.

His was a story entwined with Allison's. It is safe to say that she paved the way, or rather, God used her in wondrous ways to show her uncle the way to truth, light, acceptance, and eternal life with a loving God. It is safe to say that Michael Powers was never the same after his niece left us. It is safe to say that he learned the lessons as his own life changed and cancer invaded his body. It is safe to say Allison led him to Jesus and the life he now lives, in spirit form, free, simply free. It is safe to say the questions, perplexities, confusion, doubt and even anger or angst, was precipitated by his beloved pink angel. She had felt all of those emotions, too, and charted a course for him that was often ugly and painful, yet made beautiful by the end result...the eternal perspective, the place we all desire, yet don't feel ready to move to, especially when we think of our physical world.

Michael found his readiness, made a little easier by his love of God and family, a family who stood by his bedside and prayed and ushered him into new life with kisses and hugs, loving touches and the laying of hands. What joy he must have felt, but could not convey to us, yet, we knew, we knew because the next morning, he took that final breath and his heart stopped beating under the loving palm of his beloved Karen.

Eternal bliss awaits us all, it is ours for the asking and the accepting, heaven knows no untimely death indeed...Michael was on this side of heaven for 53 years, not enough, not nearly enough, Allison for 21, never enough, Faith for 3 days, not even beginning a life here as we know it, and I could list all the others who I carry in my heart. Never enough from our perspective, but just enough by God's definition. Just enough.

Michael

On July 24, 2010, 8:52 a.m., it was as if the world broke into song, "Morning Has Broken", the fog covered this sea town in the wee hours, and moments before God took Michael Powers to His Heavenly Kingdom, the sun broke through and all was right with the world...for that moment, for the days of celebration, for the family gatherings, for the prayers, for the celebration of such a life in a magnificent service, for the garden of flowers, and the pink sunsets, all has been right with the world.

Michael, for a "sister" who loves words, there are none right now. But there will be. None are necessary at the moment. All IS right with the world, but we miss you, we are sad, and our hearts now feel even more empty, if that can be possible. But you live, always have, and always will. So much has been shared in such a short time, the stories, the memories, the impact, the light you brought into countless lives. LOVE prevails as you make your transition to eternal life. God has, and will continue to use you in such powerful ways. I thank Him for allowing me to be part of the journey, for revealling in all of us the sensitive side of life, and for helping us to find our peace and center. You have found yours in the arms of the Lord. As you orchestrate and guide, light and pave our paths, we know we are better off, wiser, blessed for walking the journey of life with you. You live on in the lives of those you have touched, and for that, we know, you will never die, you LIVE.