Tag: Grief

A Snapshot

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Jernee, The Little Monster, fast asleep.

The #dog sleeps soundly on a Saturday night, dreaming about God only knows what. My neighbor pulls up to our building–blasts his music for us to hear. I’m not opposed, it’s a tune I can bop my head to.

I spent a couple hours video-chatting with my younger cousin and watching her beautiful smile act as its own form of luminescence. There was no other place I wanted to be than in that moment, #connecting with her about the mundane acts of life–laughing about the calamities found in aging and ailments.

We discuss the inevitability of my little monster’s impending demise, and if I’ll get another dog immediately after or opt to get one soon so as to have another form of support on standby. Of course, I’ll get another dog. But I want her to enjoy her life being the spoiled, “only child” until she’s no more.

Oddly enough, I look at this adorable ball of fur, and all I feel is love. All I feel IS loved.

That is a beautiful thing.

Originally shared via LinkedIn.

**Since Chrissy’s passing, her children have reached out to me for deeper, closer relationships, and I needed this. I’d always been around for their growth–but their mom had my full and complete attention. They would get the occasional text or phone call. Now, it’s almost as if I’ve gained two more younger siblings, but it is Victoria with whom I sense a stronger bond will emerge. I see so much of Chrissy in her and she sees so much of her mom in me too. It is simply a joy to share these moments with them–with her. We are making beautiful memories. Beautiful memories, indeed.

The Grieving Room

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Weathering the storm when it comes

Photo by The Good Funeral Guide on Unsplash

Weathering the storm when it comes.

I will not claim to be incredibly emotionally sound, however, I give myself the time I need to move through emotions when the death grip of them appears. I can spend days with sadness, weeks with fear, minutes with anger, etc. I know when it is time to move away from these emotions and get myself back into the cool, crispness of my realm. I rarely settle in the depths of these emotions when they arise, but my momentary stay with them worries my loved ones.

When you are often the picture of positivity and “a light” shining on those who depend on you, your own heart can be weighed down with guilt and anything else that may come into your line of sight, and as soon as you acknowledge whatever the cause may be and spend some time with those feelings, people worry. They want to make sure you will be okay — that you will “bounce back” and be their shoulder to lean on once again. They often want to be sure they do not have to deal with the pain of watching you move through your pain for too long — it makes them uncomfortable.

But this is life and life has things that will shake us up when we least expect it. Grief looks different for everyone experiencing it. It is not some cookie-cutter emotion channeling its way through each of us exactly the same. How you move through grieving may be entirely different from how someone close to you moves through it.

The seven stages of grief.

According to HCF, the seven stages of grief include:

Shock and denial

Pain and guilt

Anger and bargaining

Depression (loneliness & reflection)

Upward turn

Reconstruction

Acceptance (and hope)

Allow me to be completely transparent. I am teetering between depression and an upward turn. However, I sometimes find myself tip-toeing into anger and bargaining as well.

This past week, I had more good days than I did bad ones. My younger cousin shared a painting she’s working on that includes her mother, her grandmother, herself, and her unborn child. To witness the strength, pain, happiness, and exactness of her painting shot through me, and before I could stop them, the tears flowed freely. I had been warned beforehand, and I wanted to see her work — wanted to connect with it. I am glad I did.

Sharing that moment with her, which reflected the beauty of her mother and the lives lost around her, caused me to smile through the pain. Here was my younger cousin honoring her late mother in such a way one could not fathom its fruition. I told her I wanted to see the finished product, and I am certain she will share it with me.

I had experienced a momentary storm, but I moved through it. There will be more and I will find the emotional wherewithal to move through those moments, just as I did the one above.

Honoring our loved ones when they are gone.

My cousin’s death pushed me to be more creative. It has been a reason for me to grant myself the power of “Yes” instead of standing flimsily behind fear and the audacity of “No.” I have written a compilation of poems as an e-book in her honor and have shared it with some friends and my family. I have also opened up the channels to have the e-book purchased by others I have asked personally, and I am overjoyed with the results of this.

I took the time to share my feelings in safe spaces, pulled the strongest poems from these experiences, and completed their outcome in October Star: Poems for Chrissy. It is not the only batch of work I have dedicated myself to. In the midst of it all, I have finally committed to a work of fiction — including some of my most popular fiction stories and serial fiction works as well. I am hopeful this book will be available in the next month or two.

I know none of this would be possible had I not suffered the pain and anguish of my dear cousin taking her final breath two months ago. She had been strong in her sense of self and often told me to simply “Go for it” whenever I had an idea about something. So, in my own way, without her around now, I am going for every damn thing I said I would in the past. It is time. It is past time.

I will leave you with a comment a fellow writer on Medium, DL Nemeril, shared with me about grief on the introduction to The Grieving Room, “There is no good way. There is no easy way. There is only your way.”

Welcome to The Grieving Room. I am here. You are here. We are not alone in this.

See you next Saturday.

©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt Originally shared via LinkedIn.

The Grieving Room

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Photo by Alex Green via Pexels

The beginning of a lifelong process and the space in which to do it.

It is not always easy to listen to what pushes and pulls in this mind of mine, but I experienced a loss so gargantuan to me recently, that I am now compelled to find avenues, outlets, and ways to catapult myself from the depths of the darkest pits to survive the loss — become one with the loss — move on from the disabling effects of the loss.

To say that I endured the death of someone close is an understatement; it does not completely encompass from what my heart is trying to heal. There is no proper way to describe, let’s say, on a scale of one to ten, just how crucial this loss is.

On February 18, 2022, I muttered my last “I love you” to my closest cousin — one of the greatest loves of my life. She had been significantly older than me, so she mothered me — nurtured me — allowed me to be guided by her.

She could rain down love without being coaxed or manipulated. It simply fell out of her and onto/into you without caution. If you loved her or had been loved by her, you knew it. You felt it. There was no reason to question this love. It was genuine and given with every ounce of her being.

Every single day now since the day of her death has been an excruciating trial in living. There are days I say to myself, “You’re fine. You’re doing just fine.” And on those days, I do feel a sense of all-rightedness, but as a whole, they — those days are fleeting. I have had to learn how to swim in choppy waters — maneuver through bone-chilling nights — slide myself out of bed, press my feet onto the floor, and push myself up and out slowly; attempting to gauge just how my body and mind feel when beginning a new day.

What I am learning about grief.

Grief, as described by Psychology Today, is

The acute pain that accompanies loss. Because it is a reflection of what we love, it can feel all-encompassing. Grief is not limited to the loss of people, but when it follows the loss of a loved one, it may be compounded by feelings of guilt and confusion, especially if the relationship was a difficult one.

How am I grieving? How am I mourning? I have to strip bare — down to the bones of myself and cry when the tears fall. I allow myself the time and space to break down — literally feel every emotion that comes at me during those moments. I am using writing as a tool — an outlet to get me through the hardest parts of this journey. There are days when all I can do is write poem after poem in honor of/for her. If there’s a song I want to hear — one that reminds me of her gentle ways — her kindness, I play it. If there is a meal I want to eat to pull her into my space for the enjoyment of my evening, I will cook it.

I am wading through these waters as best as I can because the hard truth is, even though I have had other significant deaths in my life, none of them have affected me the way this one has. Learning to be gentle with myself as I create or allow words to spill out of me, detailing my thoughts or describing various emotions, is key. A learning curve has been assigned because this will never be perfected.

The goal? To wake up feeling less heavy than I did the day before. I want to breathe and not risk passing out. I intend to grow in both mental and physical preparedness for my world without her. In order to do this, any of it, I must grieve — in its most wholly and authentic form, and not feel ashamed of it.

How does this pertain to you?

It is, I am certain, probably safe to say many of you reading this article have experienced some form of grief. Perhaps you are trying to move through the hell of it right now. Maybe you haven’t found the sure footing you thought you would have under you at this point. Or is it possible you’re not giving yourself the time you need to grieve, mourn, and properly feel or experience your loss?

This newsletter will be a weekly synopsis of how I am moving through the hell of it all. It will also be a space for you, should you feel so inclined, to share your thoughts, moments of progress, despair, etc. in the comments as discussion.

Welcome to The Grieving Room. I am here. You are here. We are not alone in this.

See you next Saturday.

Originally shared via LinkedIn.

remembering

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I catch myself–I nearly click your phone number, desperate to hear your voice. my world is shifting and I have to remind myself that death does not issue refunds.

I back out of my contacts and slap my thigh . . . “You can’t call her anymore.” it’s a stern statement I allow to slither in my mind more times than I can count, yet, I forget.

it’s the remembering . . . the recollections of good times and big love we shared, and now it’s all a matter of discarded hopes and dreams never to see the light of day.

I should be better by now, but by whose standards or expectations . . . and why is betterment the goal?

I flit from sleeping soundly to tossing and turning frequently and my body clock is on vacation.

tonight, I listen for you in the wind–the trees send your voice to me, and I lose my way to a place that shelters me from every storm. you’re there, and I’m happy again.

__________

©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt, Originally published via Simily

Your Poem From Me Request #2

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The Giving Cause: Still, I Grieve . . .

Photo by Bennie P. Baretta via ReShot

I try to give myself grace,
to lend myself peace, but
thoughts of you stir about
in my head during the witching
hours, and I cannot find comfort.
I don’t know it. It doesn’t come
to my aid.

What more could I have done?
What more could I have given?
I am bone-dry and my heart
breaks every time I think of you.
You . . . my father. my love. my light.
I am walking in darkness–the days
are longer–nights are colder.
Do I still have meaning?

Every day without you is
a stab to my heart–salt to
the wound, but I’m trying.
I’m trying.
I know if you were here, you’d
guide me in your own little way–
you’d create a path for
my weary feet to follow.

I have to look for peace
from the stars. I have to lure
it in from the moon. I have to
search for it around every corner,
and still, I grieve . . .
I grieve . . . and I wish I didn’t
have to.

Thank you to Kim Smyth for allowing me to gift a poem to you. It has helped me too.

To learn more about the Your Poem From Me: The Giving Cause, click here. Let me write a poem for you. I can give it life.

Non-fiction Saturdays

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Grief

It Comes When You Don’t Want It

Photo by Ksenia Makagonova via Unsplash

When you’re shopping. When you’re on an important phone call. When you’re at your youngest child’s soccer game. When you’re cleaning up the house . . . It strikes without warning and all you can do is succumb to it. All you can do is let it grab you and swallow you whole and try to breathe in breaks, counting to ten, and allow yourself the chance to be overcome by a force much stronger than you. This is what happened to a patient I was registering for a particular scan on Wednesday, March 04, 2020. A certain phrase triggered her and she shook her head quickly, held up a hand to me as if to say, “Please, just give me a moment,” and then the tears flooded her face.

I respect life. I honor death. I give grief the space it needs. I directed her to the box of Kleenex to her left and advised her to “Please, take your time, ma’am.” She wiped her face, huffed out a regretful sigh, and began to explain to me that her husband died three weeks ago. It’s still fresh, you see. She isn’t used to the frequent interruptions that her heart issues to her because life is still trying to go on, however, she is feeling stuck.

She took the tissue and dabbed at her eyes. She talked while I listened. I went over her medical information, the purpose for her scan, verified her demographics, then gave her a little more time to be in that space. That space was comforting. It was necessary for the moment. And me — this stranger she met at an imaging center preparing her for what’s to come is now apart of her growth.

She apologized profusely and I looked at her with a clear intent to demonstrate that there was no need for an apology. I asked her if she needed more time before we pressed on and she told me that she was okay — we could continue. I finished the registration process, slipped a wristband on her left wrist, and directed her to the waiting room where she would be called for her scan. I asked her before saying goodbye if I could hug her. She nodded yes, and I lifted myself up from my chair, walked around to the patient lobby, and pulled her in for a long, tight hug.

The tears came quicker then, but this time, she did not apologize. I told her that I wished her well — I wanted peace to be something she could gain and soon. She thanked me and we ended our time together. I have never been married. I cannot tell you what it feels like to lose a spouse, but I have lost a grandmother, two-great-grandmothers, a grandfather, an aunt, a few cousins, and a couple of close friends. I know that this type of pain — this death pain comes and goes. It never truly ceases.

We cannot time it. We do not have a map for it. We cannot direct it. It comes when it wants and usually when you do not want it to. It sneaks up on you when all you want to do is find sweet rest, but you cannot and eerily enough, it’s almost like grief knows this. It’s as if it knows you want to move on, you want to be lifted up from the belly of the infected beast, but no matter what you do, you are pulled back into its sweaty grip.

The next few people I registered happened to be in line waiting while I interacted with this particular patient and each of them thanked me for what I did. It must have been the look on my face because I thought and I assumed, most would think this way too, that this is how we are to react when someone needs a moment — to give them the time to step back, lose it a bit, and come back to life. There’s still humanity, people — some of us are truly humane.

Grief does not wait for you to get it together. It does not care who is watching. It does not think about the life you have to live after your loved one dies and will never come back. It moves and shakes and hits you when you least expect it. I hugged a patient today. We embraced until she stopped crying and nothing else mattered to me at that moment. Nothing else could have pulled me from what I thought mattered most.

All that mattered is that she knew I cared and I had to show her — I did.

Originally published in Other Doors via Medium.

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