Grief is not a disease, it is the cost of love.

I attended my second webinar on grief last night sponsored by The Compassionate Friends network.  I set a timer, had a trail of post-it-notes and had written it on the calendar, shaking my head the entire time, didn’t used to have to rely on multiple cues.  But they work, so I set my timers and write my post-it-notes.

I always have a notepad ready so that I can take copious notes from their well organized power point preso…hah…silly wabbit, I take a few notes and then the tears start and between tissues and moving the dog off my lap, I get precious little written down. This webinar was on caring for your health while grieving, facilitated by a bereaved parent with years of experience, a motherly voice, a caring voice, a voice with texture and grit, I could picture her right away in my head.

She had me on the first slide when she said,

“Grief is a normal, natural response to the death of a child.  It is the cost of love.”

Thank you, it is almost beyond words to describe the sense of relief when you hear the above, grieving parents are  often seen as oddities, unnatural, pariahs, grim reminders that bad things do happen. Grief is sometimes relegated to almost an apologetic stance…”Oh, I am sorry I am so sad right now”….”sorry, I am a little weary right now”…”sorry, your whining about first world problems makes me want to put pencils in my eyes right now.”  Grieving parents should not feel like they have to apologize for what is a normal, natural response to what is unnatural, to have your child die before you do.

The presenter went on to explain scientifically the brain on grief and the multi-dimensional, pervasive nature of grief…it touches everything, there is no body system that is not affected.  People are 21% more likely to die of a heart attack on the day that they are told their child is dead, it decreases as the week wears on, but the initial jolt of chemicals that course through the body is massive.

Acute grief lasts a long time actually, a year at least, and the second year brings its own host of realities.   She explained that grieving is being in a continuous state of flight or fight, your body and mind struggle to deal with cascading emotions, feelings and somewhere in all of this, we need to take care of ourselves.

She was pretty emphatic that grief is not a disease, there is no medication for it, society today would much rather medicate that strategize…pills don’t put tools in the tool box.  What she outlined is not unfamiliar, not revolutionary, it is what has been recommended for years as a plan for health, but it does take discipline, it is hard work to do as she suggested.

Pretty basic, lots of whole fruits, veggies, whole grains, boost your protein intake with lean choices, little bites, little meals to combat the nausea and acid. Stay away from sugar, white flour, highly processed foods.  Drink plenty of water, hydrate even when you aren’t conscious of being thirsty.   Exercise, just do something, walk,  move and breathe.  Sleep when you can and breathe.  She kept coming back to breathing.  Slow, steady breathing can head off a multitude of spiraling responses.

I thought of Mother Church in her wisdom how she calls her children to pray through the day, to be still, to meditate, to breathe…even if it is for a moment.  Praying and breathing go hand in hand…if we would only listen to our mother.

Justin’s rosary is one of my most treasured remembrances I have of him. I have kept it close to me since I unpacked it when Doug brought Justin’s things home from South Dakota.  A simple wooden rosary in a green pouch that was probably purchased at Franciscan.  I sit with them and imagine the moments he sat with them, did he do what I do sometimes and just hold them when his mind was too tired to form the simplest of prayers.  I wonder if he lost his place like I do even with the beads to help…did he ever get lost on just one mystery and not go any further?  They are a bittersweet comfort, a connection to him and a reminder of how it has come to be that I hold his rosary now.  I get panicky when I can’t lay my hands right on them, not unusual, other parents have said the same thing about something special that belonged to their child.

One night in the chapel I was praying with Justin’s rosary and came to the second Joyful Mystery, the Visitation, where Mary goes to visit her cousin Elizabeth who is pregnant with John the Baptist, to help her, to stay with her, to comfort her…I can imagine the Blessed Mother being so kind and a very merry companion. My prayer was always at that mystery that I would be like Mary, quick to go and help, regardless of the journey or hardship. But that night the prayer that slipped out was that I would be like Elizabeth. Be like Elizabeth? Where did that come from? What did it mean to be like Elizabeth? I thought about that for a long time, and put myself in Elizabeth’s place…what was it like to open the door to the Mother of God…she even says “how is it that the mother of my Lord should come to me?”  My words also, and then I fretted, and hesitated, what should I do? Mary was standing at my door asking to come in, to care for me. I bolted, I pretended I wasn’t home. I left the Blessed Mother at my door for about three weeks.  She was firm about wanting to come in and be a mother, and I was firm that I wasn’t sure I knew how to let her help me. That was several months ago, now I throw open the door and beg Mary to come in, I am a miserable daughter and don’t spend enough time with her, and yet she still comes to help me. I struggle to finish an entire rosary. I drift off, I repeat myself…and yet she is never cross, just says keep trying, keep breathing, do the next thing…breathe, all will be well.