[trigger warning: grief and loss]
From day to day, life can shift. We know this. Life unfolds and presents us with new perspectives. We might discover we DO like liverwurst or that we have suddenly developed an aversion to loud music or we decide to stop a habit. We've spent our lifetime deciding whether to turn left or right or stand still. We might think about moving where the sun shines all year or where we can either access more of what we love and/or slow down the pace of life. Maybe there is a new job, a new friend, a new partner, a new path. Often this change presents itself as opportunity. And then sometimes change happens without our permission; it comes in rudely, without invitation and wreaks havoc, leaving chaos in its path. Where is the opportunity in that?
On September 1, 2022, my step-dad, Steven Smith, aka Grandpa Steve/Grumpy Smitty, passed away. (I invite you to allow his legacy live on and to learn more about this extraordinary man through his obituary or this EdTalk I did in
October of 2022.) On December 21, 2022, my brother, Dale Ahonen, died due to a massive coronary event. (At some point, I will likely have more to say on Dale and the sweet boy he was and the reasons why we remember him as our baby brother.) Our family has been hurting. My stepsiblings, our children, our extended family, and our friends are feeling these losses with us. My mother and my sister and I have had the double whammy of back-to-back devastating heartbreak.
There are so many layers to what we've been experiencing and I don't want to speak for any of my family because we've each been experiencing the pain of loss in our own way. What I do want to share is my experience during this time, both of the deep grief and of the unexpectedness of being present to whatever I'm feeling, even when it hasn't been pleasant.
Varying emotions:
At the beginning, there was a sort of numbness, of disbelief maybe? I think this numbness helped get through some of the early days and of dealing with the logistics of preparing to say goodbye - and to gather our friends and family near us to share in these extraordinary transitions. Throughout there has been sadness, as I realized that life as I had known it, will never be the same again. I felt that sadness for me, for my children, and especially for my sister and my mom. There was a pervasive sense of frustration and of wonder about a universe that sets us up as humans to have to experience these depths of emotions. Sometimes there has been overwhelm, an inability to do anything in the moment, where the idea of fully engaging with the rest of humankind is next to impossible. So I just sat, sometimes for hours or days, until that feeling retreated a bit and slowly I could gather into myself again.
Intrusive thoughts, memories, dreams, and other sensory experiences.
Some days it's a smell that reminds me of my loved ones. Espresso coffee is one; reminds me of Grandpa Steve sidled up to the espresso machine on the backless stool, intent expression on making the perfect cup while making goofy comments about all kinds of other things, all at the same time. More often, though, it is a sound, the waves on the shore or a song on the radio. I was recently driving to work and Lynrd Skynrd's "Simple Man" came on and I was aching for my brother, for the loss of his life both then and now. My brother was with me much of that day, popping up in thoughts and memories and in a less tangible way of feeling him present with me. It was the hardest day in many weeks remembering him. Turns out, my mom had a similar experience that same day, though not triggered by Skynrd. I don't know what that was but it wouldn't surprise me if Dale wasn't transitioning somehow. There are also visual reminders. I have kept pictures out and visible, not so that I have to see them all the time, but so that I can see them when I want to remember scenes, events, and milestones and be reminded of the essence of who they were and of the impact they had on my life.
Physical discomfort.
Grief, for me, has had somatic expression. Sometimes there are strange twinges through my nervous system, often connected to a memory or thought. Sometimes it's solely that I am acutely aware of both the emotion and the physical manifestation of the grief and/or memory. Exhaustion has seemed to go together with the overwhelm. Having allowed myself to take the time I needed and rest or do nothing - and by telling others that I needed time - seemed to help. Illness has also been present. Right after Steve died, my stepbrother and I both contracted COVID. I have had the experience in the past of getting through a large event and then getting sick. Maybe the adrenaline that was present getting you through whatever it was - final exams, a job interview, getting married - finally drops and in that vulnerable state, the "icks" creep in. Or your body tells you, "Like it or not, you're going to get yourself to bed and rest." Frankly, I would have preferred to have NOT been in our motorhome parked in my parents driveway for more than a week, sick as a dog, while not able to be with my family; with my mom who, looking shellshocked, came out to visit me from a folding chair in the driveway.
I don't know if any of this will be of help to anyone experiencing grief. The one thing I can say definitively helped was to allow myself to be exactly where I needed to be on any given day or moment. If I needed to cry, I cried. If I needed to talk about it, I did. If I needed to sleep or withdraw, I took that time. I am still not "over it." I probably won't be for some time, if ever. I hope that when I need to do whatever is needed now and in the future, I will be able to honor that.
