This is the day

My heart used to ache on this day. This is the day that my father died. This is the day that I received the horrifying call from my sister that I needed to come home, that dad was dead. This was the day that I somehow managed to get from San Francisco to Maine, by myself, with frequent interruptions of nonstop crying. This is the day that I first learned what grief was: real, intense, there's-no-escaping-this grief. This is the day I lost a parent, one of the most familiar and loving people in my life. This is the day. November 7. It comes every year.

This is my 9th year of recognizing this strange anniversary. It's strange to have "a day" that stands out among your other days, and stranger still to be able to comparatively track your own heart's grief. This used to be a terrible day for me. Grief used to be so palpable, so on edge of my heart that simply noticing it would release a well of tears. But things have changed, and my heart has taken that grief and processed it. Slowly and gently, grief transformed. Slowly and gently grief lost its hold to gratitude. Slowly and gently I arose from underneath those sad waters and I had a healing in my heart, and a better understanding for the immensity of grief and love.

Today is the day that my father took his journey to the other side. It is the day that his soul left his failing body, released to freedom and to a place that all of us will one day visit. I'd love to know where he is. Does he still exist? Is he ever present or he is only alive as energetic memory?  I don't know. But what I do know is that what happens when we LIVE is carried on in so many innumerable ways, pulsing and taking new forms far after we die.

Today I want my sister and brother and mom to know how much I love them. And to dad, if you're still checking in...thanks. You made me a better person. I miss you. I love you. And I am so grateful that YOU were my dad.

- Summer

Being gentle.

I just went through an emotional ringer. At the risk of sounding a bit vulnerable I will tell you that I spent Saturday curled up in a ball on my bed, headphones on, and I cried and cried, just like a baby. I'd let the music take me away, then come up for air. Cry a little more. Come up for air. Cry. And then, after about an hour and a half of being a puddle on my bed, I started drying my eyes. I felt different, lighter. I cried things out that I needed to GET OUT. I needed that space to let myself go there, to that sad, sad well that is somewhat always lurking on the horizon. I wanted to visit that place yesterday, that sad well, because I could feel it all festering out of my body in ways that were not desirable.

One of the wisdoms that I have softly gained through the years is to look at my emotions when they come up. Not to BE the emotion, to WATCH the emotion. And usually from there, if I'm loving myself as I should, I listen to what I need to do. I don't always do this right away. Sometimes it takes some time of noticing undesirable qualities that won't go away. As I laid in my puddle yesterday I could hear the words "be gentle with yourself". It was like someone was whispering it in my ear. And I was.

I remembered, so poignantly, that sometimes crying is the absolute best thing you can do.

After awhile I picked myself up.  I was so grateful that my husband had graciously given me this much needed space to be alone. I went outside and I walked. I felt the sun on my face. I cried a little more but instead of tears from an unnamed grief, they were born of gratitude. I was alive, and moving, and the sun was healing my soul, and life was good and I knew it.

Even though I generally consider myself to be a happy and positive person, there is always a well of grief on the horizon. Maybe it's just because I'm sensitive. Maybe it's empathy for others that are grieving. Maybe it's grief in missing, or maybe it just lurks there for everyone. I do not know. I just know that it's there, even when it's so far out of my view. This is okay.

I'm human. I cry and grieve. I laugh and am joyous. It's not all good and it's not all bad. It's life. You do the best you can.

Stay grateful. Be gentle.

- Summer

Blazing

The tree in front of my house is blazing red. It's magnificent. To transform like that, from bare bones to a deep, lively green, to that bold red hue...it's elegant. Stunning. And fleeting. Each morning I go outside and find more and more leaves laying on the ground, turning a soft brown, saying goodbye to another perfect season.

I think of my life in chapters. Chapters can be defined by years, by experiences, by seasons. I've had some really swell chapters, really swell. Others were less desirable. All of them have come and gone, blazing like my red-leafed tree.

I feel a sadness as my tree loses more and more of its color. It's a saying goodbye. And it's a simple reminder. What if right now, these very days in which we are going through our normal, everyday motions, what if these are our red blazing moments? As a witness to so many dying peoples' experiences, I see autumn, their leaves unraveling from their bodies, stripped of their rich colors. Soon gone to winter.

I think it's my job in life to be blazing. In my routines, in my friendships, in my every day encounters, I have the option of letting these moments pass me by, unappreciated in their simplicity and in their mundanity. Or I can be bold and red. Not overbearing and intense. Just appreciative. And happy.

Life comes and goes for each and everyone of us. But right now we are all here, and we all get to be totally awesome.

In connecting...

I'm breathing today,
actual breaths in my actual lungs which are actually rising and falling
and this is my own miracle.
There are moments in life when the poignancy of this
sits on your lap with your face between her hands
and the everlasting truth of this ever present moment
is suddenly the shiniest star you've ever seen.

We walk through this world with our heart lights
shining like beacons, ready to love.

The way we touch each other,
with soft skins and smiling faces,
with caretaking and desire
habits and moments taken for granted,
these are the gems of our lives.
My heart, pressed against your heart,
listening and being heard,
pausing for a moment in the completeness of our shared space.

We are powered by connection.
but vulnerable in our humanness,
possessing the knowledge that all warm hearts will one day grow cold
and that love with not always be felt in arms embrace.
Our loving hearts become sad, full of grief and sorrow.
We long for beating hearts.

Outside, the trees continue to whisper,
the blooms open and they close
the tide ebbs and flows
night falls and day rises.

And our hearts, in those poignant moments,
open up to the beating heart of the Earth,
and her continual reminder

that love never dies.

A letter written before his death

I want to tell you about my friend Daniel Rhoda. What I fully understand in writing this is that my experience of Daniel Rhoda was purely my own, that it is but snapshots in the amount of life and love that he was a part of. But in my snapshots he's a fun loving child growing up in our small town. He's an 8 year old singing Free to Be You and Me. He's a popular and good looking pre-teen, one who was friendly and kind to my awkward and gawky 11 year old self.  He's a 20 year old young man having existential conversations with a 20 year old me at a time when my faith in religion was being rocked. He's a 28 year old man showing a 28 year old woman around the island of Kauai, teaching me about Ayurveda and Aloha, and touching me with a wisdom that was so radiant, so enchanting. As a child he was fun and accepting of others. But who he became as an adult was so gorgeous. He was captivating and smart. Wise and  receptive. He was extremely beautiful and most notably, extremely kind.

Daniel took his own life last friday. This event has sent so many, many people spinning, trying to understand, trying to make sense of something that feels unnatural: to consciously want to end your own life.

It is my belief that the people that do extensive personal work have to do so by visiting places that are very dark. Light can never know itself without darkness, and humans are no exception to this grand dichotomy. For someone that spent so much time manifesting his thoughts and his dreams, actualizing a life full of amazing people and experiences, he also had a shadow side. We are all familiar with the shadow side. The universal aspect to the shadow side is pain.

And pain is pain. I think of the excruciating pain of giving birth, howling into the ether with no thought or care as to who heard. In pain it is hard to see straight. In pain we can no longer function under the social norms that society expects of us. And Daniel had tremendous pain. Existentially yes, but physically as well. What I remember of his tour of Kauai was that I had to drive his car, that his debilitating joint pain made the simple act of sitting and pushing the gas pedal unbearable. He was 28 years old then, with more debilitation and physical pain to come. We can never understand what that was like for him. But now we are all faced with the realization that his pain was so much more than anyone understood.

Dan's brother, Les, a dear friend of mine, has asked me to post his final letter on my blog. I realize this is extremely personal, but the Rhoda family have wanted to be very up front about what has happened. As Les writes "I hope this brings comfort to those of you grieving from afar. You are all in my thoughts, prayers, and heart." 

I post this with the utmost respect for the life of Daniel Rhoda, a friend, a son, a brother, a lover, an explorer, a teacher, a student, and ultimately, a shining light. There are many hearts that are breaking with his loss, but isn't that what love is? We love, and we break. The depth of our love can only ever exist with our own vulnerability.

Aloha my friend.

"Dear Mom, Dad, and Les,It’s with great humility and sadness that I leave this letter to you today. From a place of deep chaos and yet quiet clarity, I lost a longstanding battle today. I’ve always been a delicate, sensitive soul and have questioned many times if I was supposed to be here this time around. I’ve spiraled in past months to places I didn’t know existed in me. Despondency over my physical health and latent mental illness from my youth and early 20’s came back with reckless abandon. Despite knowing the ‘right’ things to do clinically, I allowed the cycle to continue, while barely keeping it together on the surface. My physical health has deteriorated way beyond what people know. Every single day, it’s a struggle to function, and pain is ever-present. I feel like I’ve tried almost everything at this point, and I’m destined to live a life in which my physical health continues to deteriorate. Yes, I made some great strides forward and managed to do a lot over the past 10 years. However, I don’t have any fight left in me. I truly mean this, and haven’t just succumbed to a momentary sense of hopelessness and weakness. It’s weighed on me so heavily in the past years, particularly knowing I may never be well enough to have a family of my own. 

My biggest regret right now is not the loss of what my life could have been like. It’s the impact this decision will have on all of you, as well as my closest friends. I’m sorry you will have to live with questions whether you could have done more to help me. I’m particularly aware of how selfish this is to you, Mom, only shortly having healed from cancer and also what you went through with Uncle Fred. For that I am deeply sorry. It literally breaks my heart to think of the three of you mourning my loss and having to live with this the rest of your lives. I know there will also be social repercussions living in a small town, and I wish this did not have to be the case. The reality, however, is that you couldn’t have done any more for me. I know you questioned if you should have me hospitalized, but even that would not have changed the course of my actions. The choice of life is one that only an individual soul can determine. Through all my studies and experiences, I’ve become less attached to “life for life’s sake” in many ways. I haven’t been scared of death, and I’ve only wanted to be here if my soul is truly evolving. I don’t feel like this has been the case for many years now. I’ve enjoyed school and work enough, but I’ve had these deep existential questions of “why” and “what for” forming the backdrop of my being. I know my decision will be viewed as avoidable, tragic, and even cowardly by some, but it’s a decision I can only make alone. There will be so many questions and confusion about how this could happen. People will seek an easy explanation, however, so many different components led to my decision. 

The greatest smile in my heart right now is when I reflect on how blessed I have been with family. I couldn’t have asked for more loving and supportive parents. You have given me every opportunity in life. Mom, your compassion, thoughtfulness, strength, energy, and intelligence are so incredible. Please know that I will always be your “little boy” and one of my earliest memories- that of you rocking me in the chair- remains my fondest. Dad, I’ve appreciated your genuine care, interest, humor, randomness, and easy way of being. You’ve been an amazing father and friend to me. I cherish our time on East Grand Lake and our hour longs talks on the phone. Les, I’m so glad we grew closer as we got older and were able to bond through music. I have always been your biggest fan and have no question about your innate talent and passion for what you do. 

It feels ridiculous to try to encapsulate my love and appreciation for each of you in a few paragraphs. Mom, you have been such a remarkable support to me over the past few months. You took all my call and I felt so cared for without judgment when I got home. Your wisdom literally astounds me at times, and I feel proud to be your son. Dad, I also appreciated all of the times you reached out to me just to check in and let you know you love me. Les, I know you’ve been there for me even when we haven’t been in touch as much. This is something I have never questioned. 

I also leave feeling beyond grateful for the role that grandparents played in my life. Gramps literally allowed me to consciously discover what it felt like to really love someone, and Gram was so incredibly loving and caring towards us. Grandmere and Grandpere also passed along their own forms of generational wisdom. Auntie, Charlie, and Jody- you have also been important family to me, and your deep family bond and resilience have always been inspiring. 

I have also been blessed with incredible friendships, and I know my decision will come as an utter shock to people. There will be attempts to analyze what happened- did he lose the fight against his physical illness?; was he actually disturbed all along and just putting on a show?; did he have a nervous breakdown?; did he study so much about spirituality and the mind that it ultimately became a disservice?; did he break down after losing a relationship etc.? The truth is that the answer is no to any of these single explanations, despite the fact there may be elements of truth in each of them. None of these explanations alone justify my actions, because this is something that’s lived within me since I was around 19. I’ve been a deeply contemplative, lone wolf of sorts, despite what I may have shown on the exterior. The recent relationship stuff was simply a catalyst for uncovering much deeper levels of disturbance and concern within my being. Even when I moved to Hawaii, I wondered if I would conveniently get lost in an ocean wave one day, so this existential angst has been with me a long time. I’ve pushed through trying to make the best of things, but I feel too tired and worn down to keep doing so. Please don’t feel like you could have prevented this. The biggest factors in this decision in order are: feeling hopeless about my health and that I’ve exhausted my options at this point. As I said, this ways on me so heavily with respect to ever having any future quality of life and family. I also feel a lack of optimism and motivation for my career path and potential. Lastly, there’s no question that months of little sleep and food have contributed to my mental state. These were brought on by the relationship stuff, but this isn’t a case of taking my life because of a break-up. It’s more that all the factors came together at once, along with the move, and completely overwhelmed me beyond knowing how to get out of this hole. 

Regarding friendships, I’m not able to do justice in this letter to all those who have touched my life so deeply. 

Jim, you’ve been the single biggest influence in my life outside of family. Our journey together has been a soul-level journey and you have given me nothing but love. Your battle with cancer has given me strength every single day, and I know how much you love and care about me. I appreciate you letting me come visit, and I can’t thank you enough for your support, guidance, compassion, and wisdom. I know how much this will hurt and for this I am sorry. You deserve more from our friendship. I love you my friend, please always know that. 

Joe, you will always be my second dear brother. Your gentle wisdom and outlook on life is so pure. We had a good run my friend, and Ski With will be putting up walls from another place. I’m sorry I couldn’t fulfill the one request you asked of me. You are such a good soul, and I wish you nothing but happiness. Thank you for coming back to the lake for one last time together. 

Tsega, thank you so much for being in my life and for our recent time together. You are such a bright, beautiful being, and you have had such a huge impact on my life. I know that life will only continue to bless and nurture you. Thank you for coming here with such a loving heart. 

Kim, you are goddess incarnate and taught me so much about what it means to live as a conscious, creative male. Our time together on Kauai was such a gift, and I hope you always know how much I adore and respect you. 

Elliot, we’ve had such a journey, bro. From London onwards, we’ve held such a special connection. I’m sorry to leave you, Dallis, Lottie, Harlan, and Tilly. I have not fulfilled my godfather duty for which I am sorry. Please do good things for yourself and family in Cali. 

Hayes, our friendship has spanned two decades. You’ve got such a good heart. You’re also a great father and I send you and Ali love and gratitude. 

Tim, we watched each other grow from Moore 13 days, and I’ve been in awe at your ability to move so fluidly throughout life, as a father, scholar, and dear friend. 

Jericho, we’ve had such a journey together for which I am grateful. Your creativity and talents are destined for big things beyond island life…I know you know that. 

Jason, from Maine to London to NYC, we’ve had so many good time, bru. I hope this next chapter of fatherhood treats you well and I send love to you Adrienne and Amelia. 

Tom, you’ve been like a brother to me. I was grateful to bathe in your wisdom for so many years. Your thread of humanity and endless compassion are unlike anything I’ve known, and you’ve selflessly touched the lives of so many. I thank you for our last days together and for your unwavering friendship. I send love for your soul’s journey as a father, sage, and healer. 

Suhas, it’s been an honor to learn from you and be in your presence. The opportunity to study and work with a master is a true gift. I know that this will deeply disappoint you, but I ask that you do a blessing for my soul’s journey. I know you will continue to spread wisdom around the globe, and I wish the best for you Manisha and the kids. 

Jacyn, you are so amazing, and please don’t personalize this. Our recent journey is not the major factor behind my decision- please know this. You are such a bright being, and I know you will shine even brighter. I am thankful for our time together and send you nothing but love and Aloha. 

Whitney, I appreciate how we’ve laughed together, and you’ve been a good friend to me. You are such a kind, thoughtful person. Please do good things for yourself. 

Ras, we had a special sibling-like relationship almost from the beginning of grad school. I’m glad I got to introduce you to beats etc. and it’s been great to see you flourish. 

Molika, I’ve so appreciated your kind, grounded perspective. You are a talented woman and will touch the lives of many. 

Mitzi, I enjoyed our time together and what a sweet, genuine person you are. I trust that good things are in store for the one and only lady jaja. 

Gina Marie- You’re heart is one of the most beautiful I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. Please spread your wings and teach women around the world to be powerful, just like you.

Felcher- Big Jer, thanks for taking such good care of me bro, and for sharing your pearls of wisdom. I hope you’re catching waves for another 50 years.

There are so many others I could write about, but at the least please let those you can know I am grateful they were in my life: Rahul, Johnny, Alicia, Chad, Alaya, Milind, India, Angela, Jeff, Charmayne, Hilary, Shanly,Vir, Terri, Jon Rasmussen, Lori, other Kauai connections, Deerfield, Bowdoin, and Shaman school classmates, NYC friends, and the list goes on... 

Mummers, Dad, and Les, please always know that I love the three of you so incredibly dearly. I thank you for bringing such joy and blessings to my life.
As Gramps would say: Je vous aime, je vous adore. Que voulez vous de plus encore? 

With Love Always,
Daniel (Deeper)

Rabindranath Tagore
passage from Gitanjali (1912)
translated from Bengali

The same stream of life
that runs through my veins
runs through the world
and dances in rhythmic measure.
It is the same life
that shoots in joy
through the dust of the earth
into numberless blades of grass,
and breaks into tumultuous waves
of leaves and flowers.
It is the same life that is rocked
in the ocean cradle
of birth and death,
in ebb and in flow.
My limbs are made glorious
by the touch of this world of life;
and my pride is from
the life throb of ages
dancing in my blood this moment.
The song I have come to sing
remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my life
stringing and unstringing
my instrument."

When someone you care about is grieving....

There are things that you say when someone dies. Rest in peace. I'm sorry for your loss. Thinking of you. These are all important things to say when someone has lost a piece of their heart, but for me, even though those words are entirely appropriate, they feel trite, small. Of course the problem is not in these words but merely in the finiteness of language.

What I want to say to the family of my friend who has just died is something that I can not say in words. I want to stand next to them, hold their hands, and not talk. I want them to know that I (among so many others) am here, that they are loved, and that it is okay to cry, to get angry, to plead, to mourn, to grieve. It's okay to hide yourself under a wall of blankets. It's okay to scream. It's okay to not entertain the swarms of people visiting. I want to be there in person, with a hand on their backs, shedding my own tears but saying nothing. Because when it's all said and done, the grief can be done by no one other than the grieving.

As a hospice nurse I have seen so many people die. I have sat with grieving families, held the space for people to cry, watched the very raw emotion of grief unfold in loved ones. But grief, no matter how well I understand it professionally, always feels different when it happens to me and to people that I love.

I am states and years away from this loss, and I acknowledge that I am but one person, one person among the countless others that love and care for this family. But I can only speak for myself.

To my high school boyfriend and lifelong friend, my heart aches that you have lost your brother.
To his parents, my heart aches that you have to live through the nightmare of burying a child.
I wish I could say or do something to make this not hurt, something to make the sting of this new reality be somewhat less biting. But I'm stuck with the limitations of language and the prayers to hold you up in love as you navigate this sad, sad loss.

Bittersweet life.

Feel it.

This scary, beautiful, heartbreaking world.

Tornadoes and cancers and moms who will no longer be picking up their children.

We're not kids anymore. These things are so real now.

Last night I sat with a grieving family, a large family, intensely divided in their decisions about what to do with my patient. My patient who had cancer yes, but had been living her life well. My patient who came to the hospital with a pneumonia. Who through the course of the week had suffered enough respiratory failure that she required an intense and uncomfortable oxygen administration in order to keep her alive. During my shift it was the middle of the night and emotions were raw. Eventually her husband took me aside and told me it was time to take the breathing treatment off. So as I was discussing the plan with the doctor, he went to her, his wife of whom he had just celebrated 50 years. And her, under her bipap machine but still completely alert, she held him, tears running down her face, down his face. He crawled into bed with her and they knew it was the last time they would hold each other. It was one of the most raw and tender moments I have ever seen. And with a nod from the husband I administered the morphine. I took off the ridiculously uncomfortable breathing machine, and with her family by her side, she started to slip away. It took longer than most thought, and during that time her family gathered, and cried, and even shared in some laughter. Their matriarch was dying. Two hours later she took her last breath.

Each moment that we have each other is a treasure. Each time you pick up your child from school is a blessing. I think many of us know, on some sort of a spiritual level, that you have to appreciate the present moment. But that knowledge often escapes us. Often we are focused on our memories and our plans, and in doing so we lose sight of the precious moments that are happening now.

I know I am not alone in my struggle to find peace with the fact that so many children just died while a tornado ambushed their elementary school. Peace in tragedy. It's such a dichotomy.

And yet, it somehow happens.

We are born into a world where everything changes. Where things grow and things die. We open up our hearts to love, we feel connections to each other, and we do so at our own risks. We are vulnerable creatures, and sometimes our coping mechanisms are unhealthy.

I like to think we do our best.

I will tell you, as the silent observer last night as I watched my patient die, I couldn't help but feel touched by the amount of love that was in that room. A matriarch was passing, and the family was there, grieving, and she was not alone. And she knew she was loved. It was the kind of death scene you see in the movies, the kind where you get to say what you need to say, where you get to say goodbye to warm flesh and blood.

It's the kind of goodbye we should wish for. But not the kind of goodbye we are promised.

I heard a saying once that the only way to pass a storm is to go through it. With the tornado that occurred yesterday this is quite literal, but for us observers, this is so importantly metaphorical. There is pain in this world, and we will feel it because we are loving creatures. But it is my belief that the pain can not be avoided. You must take it head on, let it wash over your body, come out of your eyes, come out of your muscles and your bones. Feel it. And then, let it go.

http://www.theatlanticwire.com/national/2013/05/oklahoma-teacher-heroes/65461/

You are here.

Do you ever look at your life and wonder "How did I get here?"

I never thought my life would be centered around so much grief, grief of dying families, grief of my own. I never thought that GRIEF would be such a pervasive emotion in my life. I always thought myself to be a happy person, a positive person, yet here and now, my heart tries to navigate its own way through other peoples' dark places, as well as my own. 

I'm not a broken person. I don't believe any of us are broken people. But as we get older things start sticking, neural pathways are carved deeper, and the stories we tell ourselves start to feel true.

There is a lot of sadness in this world that also contains so much joy.  Every person you meet is hurting, in someway, in some capacity. Some are very vocal about their pain. Some keep it hidden. Some are excellent at working through it. Some internalize and let it fester.

But to each person that gets up each morning and that goes out into the world, I call you a warrior. Life is fucking hard sometimes. People hurt us. People die. People say mean things. People kill each other. It's hard to be sick. It's hard to be a caregiver. It's hard to take without giving. It's hard to give without taking. It's hard to know if our decisions are the right ones. It's hard to hurt other people with the decisions that we make.

Now that I'm a mom and can't take off and do whatever the heck I want whenever I want to do it, that adds up. Sometimes I want to take my car and drive straight for the mountains and climb to the top of one of them and let myself yell out my feelings, my anger, my grief, my frustrations, my responsibilities, my hurt, my pain, my past. That's how I want to rid myself of things I call bad. But this is hard to do now. I work. I mother. I have a partner. I need to make money. I need to listen to people that are so darn sad. And I need to listen to them with a present mind, the only kind of mind that does anyone any kind of good.

So what does this all mean? Am I different than you, my reader? Am I different from my patients that are dying? Am I different from my patients' families who are suffering? Am I different from my three year old daughter who screams and cries because she wants to lay on my arm? No, I am not different. We all suffer. It all means something to us. Our individual suffering is our own house of pain and we can live inside of it and shut out the world and let those stories we tell become more and more true for us, or we can be warriors and put our big girl/boy pants on and get out there. We can leave our houses and walk among each other, knowing that we are all carrying some kind of grief. We can walk with our heads down or we can walk with eyes up and even smile at each other. The point is, we keep walking, moving, participating, trying. We are all the same in so many ways. We all suffer, because we are all human. And we all love, because that's what we do. 

I am writing this because I want to feel BETTER. I want to walk in the world with my arms wide open, not hugging them tight to my body to diminish the person that I am. I am a warrior! I fight, every day, to do the right thing. I don't always succeed, but I always keep trying. And this unites us. We all get a new day. We all get to start from scratch. We all have a map that says "you are here" and you can take that map, recognize that this is where you are now, and go wherever the heck you want.

We are all warriors. And we will all be okay.

The Powerful Force of Grief

The Powerful Force of Grief
By Summer Nicklasson, RN, CHPN

Grief is something that happens to all of us. Anyone who goes out into the world and loves will eventually feel loss. The loss may seem overwhelming for some, tolerable for others, but for each person it is an emotion that cannot be skirted or forgotten. It comes up and hits you in the face, demanding its attention.

As a hospice nurse I see a lot of death. People often say to me "I don't know how you do it", to which I reply, "It's not my family. I can handle that". Grief to a family member and grief to a hospice nurse will surely look different. To me, it's an accumulation of loss and sadness that yields to the tightness in my chest and the solid, cathartic cry that I need every few months. For families, it's the loss of a person you loved. Very often a solid, cathartic cry is just not enough.

I did experience a great loss once. In my late 20's my father passed away. It was difficult and heartbreaking and my first taste of the great beast of Grief. My sadness was profound, and I walked in the world of people who were NOT grieving, who really had no idea how I felt, and I noticed how isolated grief made me feel. I realized, in retrospect, that grief is a terrific force, a monstrous headwind that you must walk through. On the other side of the headwind is a new you, perhaps a more jaded you who experienced such monstrous grief, but there is a peace on that side. It could be within arm’s reach, or it could far, far away, hidden behind the layers of tears and memories and achings of your heart. After the death of my father it took me a solid year to feel even somewhat normal. Years later I would still cry when visiting my memories. Now, over 8 years later, the emotion I most associate with my father is gratitude. He was a good man, and the people that you lose are good people, each with their own offering to the world. The loss of a human being is a loss for all humanity. It's not something that is easily forgotten.

My point is that grief happens, and sometimes it happens hard. So you do your best. You get up each morning, you get dressed, and you go through the motions. Sometimes this might feel hard. Sometimes you might just want to stay in bed. That is okay. Be gentle with your grieving heart. Sometimes all you need to remember is to just breathe.

There is no limit on grief. There is no perfect formula letting us as humans know how long we will grieve. It's an individual, unique experience. It is your experience and whether big or small, heavy or light, long or short, grief is your own headwind to walk through. I'm here to tell you that you can do it. If there are people you trust that want to help you, let them. If there is a support group that beckons to you, go. Just know, that one day when you are ready, (whenever that may be), you may wake up and realize the holes that grief carved are now filled with gratitude.