The Six Stages of Grief

This last semester has been a struggle for me. My students have been good, thank the universe, but everthing else has just been difficult. I have been feeling inadequate, and as though I can't do anything right. I didn't really think it had anything to do with Mom's death. I don't remember experiencing anything like this when Dad died. Forget the fact that I'd always been much closer to Mom than to Dad. And the fact that I cared for Mom on a daily basis for the six years that she lived with us, that I was responsible for her, that I was with her when she died, that I helped clean her and dress her for the funeral home. It's taken me a couple of months, but I finally figured out that these feelings are a part of my grief. Kubler-Ross missed this one; the sixth stage is inadequacy.

And now that we have just celebrated Thanksgiving, I feel a grief that feels more like what I think grief should feel like. Our first major holiday (summer holidays don't count, and for some reason, neither did Easter) without Mom. We had Jerri and Dave and the grandgirls over for our traditional holiday brunch, and realized it was the first one without her. There was a lot less stress, not having to get her up, to feed her, toilet her, and get her down for a nap during this family time. And I felt my loss of her keenly. Then the realization that we were almost to my birthday, followed by Christmas. The first Christmas without her. That's something I'm not looking forward to.

We watched The Family Stone last night. I've seen it 3 or 4 times before, so I knew I was running the risk of a meltdown (if you are't familiar with the film, all I'll say is that it is about a family of parents and their adult children and partners getting together for Christmas. If you are familiar with the film, you don't need a spoiler to tell you why it was loaded territory for me). I didn't meltdown, but it was "helpful" in getting me in touch with my grief. I don't think I'm through with the inadequacy stage, but I am also moving into sadness, which according to what I read, is technically part of depression. That's where I would guess inadequacy falls, as well.

What I most have to remind myself is that there is no timeframe around when I should be "over" this. Some people have told me it took them 2 years to feel normal again after the death of a parent. I guess I shouldn't necessarily expect next semester to go more smoothly than this one. At any rate, grief is upon me, and rather than try to think ahead, I think I need to live today. Grief and all.

Happy Birthday, Dad

He would have been 88 today. His mother lived to be 90; she was the only biological grandparent I knew. Dad's dad died young. I think my dad was 17 when his dad died. I'll have to look it up. Dad died a month short of his 69th birthday, 19 years ago. And Mom died 6 months ago yesterday.

So many dates and anniversaries, I begin to wonder if there are too many to really mean anything, other than I get lots of memory prompts in the summer. They each mean a little less the farther I move away from them. I used to go to the shore of Lake Michigan and send Dad a Happy Birthday balloon every year on this date. After 3 or 4 years I stopped. I no longer felt that need.

Yet I also notice that I do not forget these dates. I make a point not to forget all these dates. They must mean something; in fact, I feel as though their meaning is probably fairly obvious. Maybe it's too close, staring me in the face, as they say, so that I cannot make out the relevance of remembering these milestones. Or maybe that's the point, remembering. Those casually tossed off "memory prompts" are the meaning. Wisdom has it that one mustn't live in the past. Ignoring the past is, on the other hand, ignoring what made us what we are in the present.

Whatever the meaning, the memories are here, as is the love (and the fights and the laughs and the dysfunction). Another milestone, more memories, another summer day.

Another milestone

When last I wrote, I mentioned that my dad's birthday is this week--tomorrow, actually. What I didn't even realize was that today, August 12, is the 6-month anniversary of Mom's death.

I had lunch with a friend/colleague today, a mutual friend of my colleague who died two months ago tomorrow. We talked a lot about death, and her aging parents (her mom has Alzheimer's). I would not say it was a morbid conversation, however, or even a depressing one. It was a necessary one, perhaps. What I have found, especially in these past 6 months, is that there are a fair number of people out there who will do anything to avoid talking about, and thus thinking about, death. Quite frankly, that doesn't work for me. Death is a natural consequence of life. To try to ignore it makes absolutely no sense to me. Acknowledging it, accepting it, even expecting it seems not only rational, but helpful. Being at my mom's side when she died was an incredibly grace-filled moment. I felt that she honored me by allowing me to witness that transition.

So a lunch conversation about death does not strike me as odd or morbid, but in many ways as helpful. Death happens.

And Mom, wherever you are now, it cannot be as bad as the hell of Alzheimer's, so I don't wish you back, but I do miss you. I hope that whatever place you are in, in whatever form you are in, it's giving you peace.

Pilgrimage

Monday, July 26, would have been Mom's 88th birthday. To mark the occasion, Jeanne and I drove up to Green Bay (with our dog Cleo). We hadn't been to the cemetery since Mom's burial and the engraving being finished. So I bought a plant, which is surely dead by now unless "neighbors" are watering it, and placed it on the grave. Here is a partially shaded photo:

We didn't stay long at the cemetery; there's not much to do there. So we cruised past Mom & Dad's old condo. We also found my childhood home, which got moved when the YWCA bought the lot for parking. I knew what street they moved it to, but not which block. So we drove up the street until I recognized it; it's a big house, and had a few identifying features that made me confident that I'd correctly identified it. That was enjoyable; I loved that house. We also drove past my old high school, to make sure the headless children still had their heads reattached (long story, but one that always brings a smile. I may have to tell it some day, as Mom has a significant role in it).

Then we picked up some lunch, and had a little picnic at a park by the river. It felt surprisingly freeing to be in my home town with no agenda, no one to have to see, nowhere to have to be.

And then we drove home. I did not feel overtly emotional that day, but I could feel the next day that things were not their placid normal selves. Not much more to report than that. Getting ready for Dad's birthday next week. As I mentioned in my previous post, this is the season of remembering for me.

Anniversaries

Today is the 19th anniversary of my dad's death. Monday is the 88th anniversary of my mom's birth. Mom was never crazy about her birthday, and once Dad died, 3 days before her birthday, she liked them even less. Even as Alzheimer's took her mind, some part of her seemed to remember these dates. Ever since she came to live with us, and possibly before, this time of the year was difficult for her. Her moods and demeanor would be a little darker and agitated in mid-to-late summer. She was unhappier. And it definitely was not because of the weather. Wisconsin summers are too short, and she disliked the winters too much for us to think it was a "seasonal" effect. We're sure it was an anniversary effect, though perhaps never conscious.


For me, this is also a time to remember these anniversaries. I try to stay focused on the happy memories.

88 here we come?

Mom and Cleo, 6/5/09

Today is Mom's birthday. She's 87, and going stronger than imagination can fathom. Every time I think she's heading for her final decline, she rallies. Some months ago I was sure she'd be gone by or around Christmas, but now I think she could keep going another year or longer. Her weight keeps dropping; at last measure 2 weeks ago, she was down to 98 lbs. with all her clothes and shoes on. But she is strong, strong, strong.

I can't believe she's happy to be alive. Nothing brings her happiness anymore, and the only things she likes to do are eating and sleeping. Her level of awareness, while low, still shows some amazing windows of clarity. She can be sitting in her wheelchair, eyes closed, refusing to respond, and then you ask her if she wants some chocolate. She still won't open her eyes, but up comes her hand, as she reaches for the chocolate. And if you tell her she needs to do something before she can go to bed, she will stop resistance and cooperate. But I don't think she knows I'm her daughter. She knows both me and Jeanne, but I don't know that she recognizes us beyond "those people who are always making me do what I don't want to," like drink, transfer from the chair or bed to any place else, get dressed, etc. She does usually recognize that I play the good cop and Jeanne plays the bad cop (Jeanne does enforcer better than I do).

We took her off both Aricept and Namenda. We were told it would accelerate her decline. If anything, she seems more alert now. Someone said that she's clearly not ready to die yet, though we don't know why she isn't ready to let go. So we keep schlepping on, trying to stay whole and healthy and sane. Then again, were we ever all three?