resistance

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

One thing I have noticed since my dad passed away is that he is so much easier to love. His resistance to my love has vanished. In death his pure essence is unencumbered by his addiction, his painful history, or his inability to accept love. When I think of him, or mention him I feel a warmth of love from his spirit that shadows even the most hurtful memories.

sharing

I sat down for a long overdue coffee visit recently with a dear, sweet friend of mine. When I say, "dear, sweet" I'm not throwing down meaningless words to fill a blog post. This woman is possibly the dearest, sweetest woman I've ever known, next to my mom and my grandma. I do believe we all possess the ability to express sweet light in the world, but few achieve the gift of lifting other's burdens with such grace as this individual.

It should have been no surprise to me then that the pained expression on her lovely face when she shared with me the sad news of her cancer diagnosis was due to her concern that I might be hurt by her disclosure. With everything to contend with, financial concerns, possible loss of employment, fears of personal mortality, her paramount worry was to spare others the potential grief her condition may cause.

For me, I felt no fear. I suspect that's due to my lack of intimate experience with cancer and the anguish left in it's wake. With the warm summer sun blanketing our back deck I sat across the shaded table from my cherished friend and witnessed her confession. In that moment I saw a beautiful soul sharing a personal challenge and felt her compassionate heart reach out to mine.

She said, "I am surrounded by loving friends and family, all praying for me. I'm doing fine. I'm already finding blessings in this situation and I can see that everything will be okay."

I pray that her burden of shielding others from her pain will ease as her self care progresses. I pray that she is lifted with love and tenderness and carried through this journey with the grace and kindness she bestows on all she encounters.

silence

Maria Shrivers wrote in her online blog at, mariashriver.com...

"There are few words to adequately describe the grief a new widow endures. If you must say something, be honest and offer, "I don't know what to say. I am so very sorry. I am here for you." And then for the widow's good be there. Sit next to her. Hold her hand. Hug her. Bring her whatever she wants and don't judge. Put your arms around her and listen to her. Don't be afraid of her tears or silence. Sometimes the deepest laments are silent."

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

With popular focus on self improvement.. workshops, seminars, books, t.v. shows.. the pressure to 'know' ourselves, and to have access to a plethora of supportive advice for our loved ones, can be immense. Catch phrases like - "How's that working for you? - 'ah ha' moment. - let go and let God." - have created a culture of armchair physiologists. Although the benefits of using these popular communication skills are many, the powerful value of silence is often set aside in order to assume the celebrated role of wise advocate.

If the intent is to provide solace, one might consider the benefits of silence.. always there, ripe with wisdom.

wisdom

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

The truth of the matter is that the best place to find the most appropriate response to any outcry (or whisper) for help is within oneself. Inner wisdom is always available if only it can be accessed. By the end of any day we are so filled up with noise that the quiet space necessary for harvesting inner truth may be difficult to achieve. However, if one adopts a daily practice of silence or meditation, the truths found in that quiet inner space can be well within reach throughout a busy day.

complicated grief

I lingered at the hospital with my two sisters, my brother and my mom not really knowing what to do or say when my father was dying. He was an alcoholic and had been quite verbally abusive throughout the last two decades of his life. The father I knew was a very difficult person to love; not because he was unlovable, but because he found it impossible to receive love.

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

As the baby of the family, I was the one who lived with him longest during those years. Because my other three siblings knew him mostly as an engaged, loving father, before he was twisted from drinking, they experienced a profound and confusing loss many years before he actually died. For the last twenty years of his life his older children resented, not only who he became, but also the unnecessary loss of the dad they knew and loved. I, on the other hand, only really knew the alcoholic version of my father, so it was easier for me to love him for who he had become, the father I knew him to be, in spite of his mean, hurtful behaviour.

When he finally left this earth on that warm August morning I experienced a different flavour of grief than that of my siblings. While they mourned the loss of the 'concept' of having a father, I mourned the man himself. Many years earlier their anger had shepherd them through their grief of loosing the loving father they knew. My dad's death bed was the place and time of final farewell for me and when my grief of losing my father officially began.

transformation

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

Author Chris McGoff wrote in his book "The Primes",
"A butterfly is a transformation.. not a better version of a caterpillar".

There is an unknowing within transformation that is absent within change. To allow transformation to occur one must relinquish control of ones current reality and surrender to the unknown power of the cosmos in which all of creation effortlessly evolves.

Surrender may be one of the most uncomfortable aspects of the dying process. If one is clinging to the mistaken belief that absolute control is mandatory to survival then the road to death requires insurmountable courage, physically and emotionally. However, if our culture supports the reality that ultimately we are not in absolute control of this earthly existence, loosening one's grip on the many layers of self preservation may soften the experience of loss and fear that dying commonly manifests.

self

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Do you remember the first time you were asked that question? The first time my daughter was asked that question by her elementary school teacher she said, "I want to do what my mom does." Her teacher asked, "And what does your mom do?"... "I don't know, but she loves it." She replied.

At that period in my life, I identified first as the mother of a beautiful young girl, and second as Director of Operations for a mid sized, International Advertising Agency based out of Vancouver. When my daughter was only 13, I was forced to leave my job, the job I absolutely loved, due to illness. We had to move into my brothers home for a few weeks as I was unable to take care of myself, let alone my child.

In a matter of weeks I completely lost my identity. I was no longer the attentive mom - no longer the successful professional.  Unable to comprehend how I was going to continue living with this empty Self, I sunk into a blinding, profound depression.

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

"A fundamental form of that suffering is the loss of self in chronically ill persons who observe their former self-images crumbling away without the simultaneous development of equally valued new ones. As a result of their illnesses, these individuals suffer from (1) leading restricted lives, (2) experiencing social isolation, (3) being discredited and (4) burdening others." 
(Kathy Charmaz, DOI: 10.1111/1467-9566.ep10491512, Article first published online: 28 June, 2008)

If who I am is defined by what I do, and I am suddenly or expectedly unable to do anything, who am I?

waiting

With elbows resting comfortably on her yellow formica tabletop, precious, long afternoon visits with my Grandma were steeped in the aroma of freshly baked buns and strong brewed coffee. The two of us would sit, sometimes in gentle silence, watching the fluffy, gossamer snowflakes float outside the big picture window overlooking her modest front yard. I wish I had recorded those delicious moments, silence and all. More than mere coffee talk, these visits were a mutual opportunity to rinse off our jumbled thoughts and enjoy the comforting rhythm of each others breath.

In one moment my Grandma would be describing how it is to feel as though her insides are still 26 years old, while her outsides continue to age; when the only distraction from believing she's still young is the ache in her bones and the shocking reflection greeting her in the mirror each morning. In the next moment, especially when the conversation would lead us to long for my deceased Grandpa, she would confide, in all seriousness, that she was simply waiting to die.

My Grandma passed away some thirty years ago. Since then I have experienced my own moments when I believed I may be simply waiting to die. Whenever I disengage from my own life purpose, whatever I believe that may be on that day, the passing of time seems to stall. With nothing further ahead on which to focus, inertia has me waiting.

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

Facing the final chapter of one's life, when life purpose and long term goals are no longer required, one inhabits a new state of being devoid of the pressure to perform, impulse to impress, or need to achieve. This surprising state of grace creates a stillness in which peace resides. A profound waiting elevates the spirit and consoles the soul in preparation for the final step out of this lifetime.

karma

In western society we are indoctrinated throughout our lives to believe that a death sentence means we are guilty. Death row is reserved for those convicted of the worst, most heinous of crimes.

“You got the wrong guy!” 

“I didn’t do it!”

“I’m innocent, I tell ya!”

Although these cries may be heard echoing within the halls of justice, the overwhelming consensus outside of those halls is often.. 

“If he’s been sentenced to death, he must have done something really bad.”

http://www.thepassingdiaries.blogspot.ca

When a terminally ill patient receives his dire prognosis, often the response is.. 

“Why me?”

“I don’t deserve to die!”

“But I’ve never smoked a day in my life!”

At that moment (because he has denied his own mortality all his life), the shock that his body has ‘failed’ him raps a blinding veil around his being, shielding him from the reality of his own inevitable fate. Death.

The weight of karma’s rule, if you are bad, bad things will happen to you, burdens us with the belief.. 

What did I do to deserve death.. the king of all bad things.

hope

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

When one is receiving news of a terminal illness the overwhelming initial reaction is simple disbelief.  One of my own family members recently faced such a conversation with her oncologist. As the news was shared on a private Facebook message stream, disbelief spread throughout the family and in flooded prayers and hopes for a miracle recovery. 

While hope is a comforting and potentially valuable stance to take, it is not a plan and can often derail us from having important, time sensitive, quality of life conversations with our loved ones and medical teams.

In Dr Atul Gawande's bestseller "Being Mortal" he says..

"What happens when you get sick is that you're governed most of all by your fears, and of course your biggest fear is that you might die. People are becoming more aware of the ways in which their care can take away other things that sometimes are even more important to them, and those things can be their ability to be aware and communicate with others; their ability to be at home and in control of their lives; their ability to interact and work and do things important to them..

.. There's a lot of folks for whom there's nothing else except, "Look, whatever it takes, I want to be aggressive, and give me everything that we've got." as the starting point, but these are journeys. The first round of effort succeeds, then you're happy. It's really what happens when the first round of what you think is going to work doesn't work, and then you get to the second round, and then you get to the third round. And somewhere around there your life has become your disease and your treatment, and the possibilities that you're going to win the lottery with your ticket start to diminish. That's where most people start to be concerned about losing things that are really important to them. But they have a hard time talking about it with their families, sometimes have a hard time talking about it with themselves, and certainly have a hard time talking about it with their doctors."

If our society was to provide the container in which discussions regarding personal end of life possibilities could occur, we may require less time and energy to review eleventh hour options and priorities and more time and space to lovingly hope and pray.

equalizer

Each of us begin our lifetime on a similar footing. Some may struggle with breathing. Others may be unable to effectively process sounds. Whatever the physical challenges or mental struggles, we all arrive prepared to experience this existence for however long a life we are granted. What happens within the fulfillment of that life, whether it's deemed positive or negative, is determined by our societal and earthly circumstances and how we, and the rest of our world, respond to the hand each of us are dealt.

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

However, there will come a moment, one single second, when all of that is irrelevant. If we went to a good school, met the love of our life, accomplished positive social advances, and amassed great wealth, we will die. If we lived an impoverished life, filled with loss, anger, and loneliness,
we will die.

Death is the all-mighty equalizer.

shield

When I was ten years old life was all about living. Although I moved around a lot as an army brat, which meant I was making new friends every few months and saying goodbye to old ones constantly, I had not yet said a final farewell to any of my beloved family members. The concept of grief was not yet in my emotional vocabulary.

All of that changed one morning during our regular summer stay in my mom's home town. Along with her two brothers and their families, and a few other more distant relations, my grandparents lived in a sweet little house tucked into the cozy valley town in which they had lived since immigrating to Canada from Sweden some fifty years earlier. Only the CNN train whistle would ever disrupt, at regular intervals throughout the evening, the tranquility of this peaceful world.

On this particular occasion, I'd slept over at my cousins place the previous night. That tranquil summer morning, as we lumbered down the road, back to my Grandma's kitchen rich with the aroma of fried bacon and freshly baked bread, we noticed the ethereal reflection of flashing lights waving to us from over the crest of the hill. The closer we came to the unusual scene, the more confusing the vision grew.

As was his habit, my Great Uncle had been cycling to the post office to pick up his early mail. From Grandma's kitchen window my mother witnessed him fall and rushed out to help. By the time she reached him he was not breathing. She immediately began CPR and my Grandma called for the ambulance.

Later that morning, as the grownups huddled around their coffees in Grandma's kitchen nook, I struggled to understand what had happened. People I knew, had known all of my young life, were avoiding my eyes. Their hushed conversations were stilted, lacking the warm banter I would naturally expect from a family gathering. My mom was especially distant. Something astounding had happened, of that I was sure, but I had no idea what.

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

I don't recall exactly how I discovered that someone close to me had died, but at some point I understood I would never again see this person. That I would come to accept death and dying as an inevitable aspect of living was not yet present in my awareness. It would take many more shocking events for me to witness my life through the profound gratitude only accessible to those who understand mortality.

As we strive to shield our children from the unavoidable pain of grief, we also rob them of the rich benefits experienced from appreciating the fleeting nature of life.

puzzle

If I am the centre of my life puzzle with all of the characters in my life fitting in perfectly around me, one of three things happen if one piece of the puzzle, one person, is removed.
1. All of the remaining pieces must adjust their shapes and sizes to fit together once again.
2. I must find a replacement for that character.
3. I must transform myself to accommodate the lost puzzle piece.

Four years ago, while my husband and I were living in Mexico, my oldest sibling, Anne, had a brain aneurism and passed away. The flight home was the most emotionally explosive 24 hours in my life.

As we flew north I lay with my head on my husbands lap sobbing uncontrollably. When we finally landed in Vancouver, and everyone on the plane stood up to organise themselves, the folks behind us began some playful banter clearly reflecting the joy of their holiday. As I stood up, one of them asked if we'd had a good vacation. I turned in absolute anguish and wailed, "My big sister just died!"

Illustrations © Barbara J Holzapfel

In that moment I wouldn't have been surprised if the oxygen masks had fallen down. It felt as though the air was sucked out of the cabin and everyone got very still and silent. Shocked faces stared back at me as I attempted to share the full measure of my grief. It was simply inconceivable that my big sister was gone.

In retrospect, I believe the heart of my grief may have been related to my own sense of self and how, in loosing Anne, I was also loosing an aspect of my own identity.. a beautiful part of me of which I had always been proud. Anne's little sister.

As the youngest in my birth family, every moment of my life, four of my most cherished, influential humans reinforced my identity as a little sister. Without my delight and honour with being Anne's little sister, who was I? The process of transforming my sense of self to hold my puzzle pieces together was forced to begin.