I heard, that your hearts are heavy and full of sadness. Tomorrow you will help, not just one, but both of your senior Labs across the bridge. Face it, they say we own our pets, but basically they own us. They own our hearts. They have us hook, line and sinker. There is nothing better than being owned in such a way.
They own us, but in many cases we have to decide when it's time to say goodbye. It is our last gift of love for them. I think we'd all agree that decision sucks, sucks royally. Yet how could we deny them comfort? All of their years with you they gave you unconditional love and comfort beyond measure. Mixed in with antics and shenanigans. They made you laugh, and worry, and they eased your pain in the sad times. They gave with unbridled joy and tails wagging to beat the band.
So tonight you cuddle them, give them unlimited treats and whisper I love you's. You thank them for taking up residence in your heart. You know your last gift of love is the ultimate gift of love. And while you doubt your ability to let go, you will do so with a strength you don't know you have.
With your sorrow, know that you provided for all of their needs. Know your love for them was only exceeded by their love for you. Know that you are not alone, are never alone. Know that they are so very well loved, and you will see them on the other side of the bridge.
Sending you love and hugs......and a smooch on the schnozzle for them.
Monday, April 29, 2019
Sunday, April 21, 2019
New Normal
Life changes after a loss. After a health issue, the loss of a relationship, a loss by death. We pick up the pieces of what life once was, of the person we were and reassemble them into our new normal. First I'm gonna say, there ain't nothing "normal" about this new normal. That phrase ticks me off. I never asked for new, and I certainly can't define normal.
Most days, I can tuck the enormity, the reality, of Gordon's death away and go about life. Other times I am overcome by how tragic a death by suicide is. It is impossible to absorb all of it. I cannot fathom the level of his pain, as I try to process my pain. The first year was mostly numb, which is a blessing of sorts. The second year is harder than the first. Each holiday, wedding, anniversary, birthdays, the 19th of the month, even random days bring the pain to the surface.
I feel like I repeat myself as I share this struggle. Perhaps because over and over I am poignantly reminded how hard life is. For others the event happened long ago, and they are over it. Over it is not an option I have.
It makes me wonder why. Why and what purpose this served. What am I supposed to do with it and how do I make something of this. Why am I where I am in life? In moments of doubt, and we all have them, I wonder if I'm where I need to be or am I supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else. I wait for those answers.
Reality is that life is a mix of grief and grace, joy and tears. So I continue on the journey life placed before me. Perhaps you do too. Maybe, I'm here to remind you that you are not alone in your struggles. Maybe the message is life is hard, but together we are strong. Maybe grace is found in the rubble, and growth comes from it. I wish you grace, and growth. And a new you, normal or not.
Most days, I can tuck the enormity, the reality, of Gordon's death away and go about life. Other times I am overcome by how tragic a death by suicide is. It is impossible to absorb all of it. I cannot fathom the level of his pain, as I try to process my pain. The first year was mostly numb, which is a blessing of sorts. The second year is harder than the first. Each holiday, wedding, anniversary, birthdays, the 19th of the month, even random days bring the pain to the surface.
I feel like I repeat myself as I share this struggle. Perhaps because over and over I am poignantly reminded how hard life is. For others the event happened long ago, and they are over it. Over it is not an option I have.
It makes me wonder why. Why and what purpose this served. What am I supposed to do with it and how do I make something of this. Why am I where I am in life? In moments of doubt, and we all have them, I wonder if I'm where I need to be or am I supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else. I wait for those answers.
Reality is that life is a mix of grief and grace, joy and tears. So I continue on the journey life placed before me. Perhaps you do too. Maybe, I'm here to remind you that you are not alone in your struggles. Maybe the message is life is hard, but together we are strong. Maybe grace is found in the rubble, and growth comes from it. I wish you grace, and growth. And a new you, normal or not.
Monday, April 8, 2019
Stigma
Let's talk about Stigma. I'm giving it a capital "S". A small caps "s" won't cut it. Stigma from losing someone to suicide. By definition stigma is a mark of disgrace from a particular circumstance, quality or person.
It's there in so many ways, shapes and forms. It's silent, and perceived. It's obvious by what's not said, and what you know is said behind your back. It's judgemental, it's fueled by fear, it's fed by partial truths. It's a shadow in front of you and behind you at the same time. Before I walked this path, my reaction would likely have been the same.
It often keeps me quiet in large gatherings, and it keeps others from connecting deeply with me. We stick to safe subjects, as if by not mentioning it, it won't have happened. As if we're likely to forget if it's never mentioned. It makes the question "how are you" a trick question. Some days I don't even know how I'm supposed to be. Is it okay to have good days? Will they all be bad days? Can I have a mix of both? It makes people less inclined to to ask about your life, particularly your past life, but also your current life. It somehow makes me a little sketchy, because God forbid if it can happen to me, it can happen to you. It makes church feel uncomfortable. Partly that is my stuff, because while stigma may make others feel scared of me, it also makes me feel uncertain of them.
There is no shame in this loss. But I fight it daily. It is a tragedy, and a sorrow that he could not find his way to help. That mental illness changed him into someone I no longer recognized. It didn't have to be this way. Yet, for Gordon and many others it seems, in the moment, like the only way.
I offer you this, it's always okay to mention a tragic loss, a devastating illness, a life changing experience. Not by saying, you'll get over this, or it was for the best, or they are in a better place. Not by ignoring the whole topic. But by saying, I think of you often, I'm here for you, this must feel overwhelming. While we go through frightening experiences, it does not make us frightening, or less of a person. Just a person with more pain, and perhaps more grace because of the pain. Don't define me, or think of me only as a person who lost someone to suicide. I was more than that before, and I am more than that after. But I am different from the experience. Anyone touched by it is. So let's learn together to erase the stigma, to ease the pain, to be there for each other.
It's there in so many ways, shapes and forms. It's silent, and perceived. It's obvious by what's not said, and what you know is said behind your back. It's judgemental, it's fueled by fear, it's fed by partial truths. It's a shadow in front of you and behind you at the same time. Before I walked this path, my reaction would likely have been the same.
It often keeps me quiet in large gatherings, and it keeps others from connecting deeply with me. We stick to safe subjects, as if by not mentioning it, it won't have happened. As if we're likely to forget if it's never mentioned. It makes the question "how are you" a trick question. Some days I don't even know how I'm supposed to be. Is it okay to have good days? Will they all be bad days? Can I have a mix of both? It makes people less inclined to to ask about your life, particularly your past life, but also your current life. It somehow makes me a little sketchy, because God forbid if it can happen to me, it can happen to you. It makes church feel uncomfortable. Partly that is my stuff, because while stigma may make others feel scared of me, it also makes me feel uncertain of them.
There is no shame in this loss. But I fight it daily. It is a tragedy, and a sorrow that he could not find his way to help. That mental illness changed him into someone I no longer recognized. It didn't have to be this way. Yet, for Gordon and many others it seems, in the moment, like the only way.
I offer you this, it's always okay to mention a tragic loss, a devastating illness, a life changing experience. Not by saying, you'll get over this, or it was for the best, or they are in a better place. Not by ignoring the whole topic. But by saying, I think of you often, I'm here for you, this must feel overwhelming. While we go through frightening experiences, it does not make us frightening, or less of a person. Just a person with more pain, and perhaps more grace because of the pain. Don't define me, or think of me only as a person who lost someone to suicide. I was more than that before, and I am more than that after. But I am different from the experience. Anyone touched by it is. So let's learn together to erase the stigma, to ease the pain, to be there for each other.
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