GRIEF: ANOTHER CALENDAR PAGE FALLS TO THE FLOOR

... and we start a new month ... putting more and more distance between us and our beloved son and daughter. A whole new calendar? Everything is poignant, my dear ... any changes that keep slapping us with reality of our loss, the irreversible changes that have occured and our powerlessness to d'o anything to make it different.

I had to pack away last year's Christmas tree - the last one my son saw and put away the decorations he'd helped me put out. There would be no more shared trees or shared moments of decorating.

The calendar I have up in the kitchen is one I bought as a stocking stuffer for him last Christmas. He hadn't gotten around to putting it up on the wall yet. He never used it. Another stab in the heart. So I put it up on the kitchen wall. I didn't want to throw away an unused calendar that I had given to my son. However, now the year is done and the calendar is useless.

Unlike my previous calendars, filled with appointment dates - this calendar had no markings. I didn't go many places, except to work and the doctor. I didn't entertain or go out. And there were no special days to celebrate. I used to love the kitchen calendar - marked with teacher conferences, soccer games, dentist appointments, special days of celebrations, notations of expected guests. It was quite colofrul and the sign of a very busy household!

I only just watched this calendar, out of the side of my eye, as if it were now part of the conspiracy, too - the conspiracy to put more and more time between the moment I last saw, talked to and held my son; the conspiracy to keep moving on with life.

I will need to recycle the calendar realistically. It's time for a new month and a whole new year. But now I'm saying goodbye to the last year that contained memories of my son and something inside me makes me want to cling to every and anything that has anything to do with him.

The calendar ... it's just paper with beautiful photos of wolves. He liked Native American things and eagles and wolves. Unseen to others who might look at it, however, it contains the dates of the last nine days he was alive. It contains the date of that morning I was at work and received a phone call from the sheriff giving me news that would cause me to actually collapse and my whole world to spin out of control. It contains the date of our appointment at the funeral home where I would view my son's body for the last time. The date of his memorial service. The date of his 33rd birthday which he wouldn't like to celebrate. The dates of his two daughters' birthdays that came up right after his - and the dates in between their birthdays where he was hoping to get back to Iowa to celebrate with them and see and hold them again. He had only been able to talk by phone to them for over a year and a half before he died. He had missed them desperately every single day.

There's Easter - my beloved Matthew would take me to services during that holiday because I wanted to be at church but couldn't actually get myself there on my own. Matthew and I would take communion together for the last time on Good Friday and I would watch him happily perform in a wonderful, comforting and inspirational cantata with the choir.

I would relate to Mary, mother of Jesus, that Easter with a new deeper understanding. She lost her son at approximately the same age. She watched and knew about his suffering before he died, too. Mary, however, was given some peace and hope and joy just a few days later. I'm still waiting for God to give me just the teeniest of signs that all is well.

Mother's Day would follow. No card from Michael this year and he had never failed to give me a special card he had made or purchased. Fourth of July - our annual family gathering which he loved so much - I could only just sit on the sidelines this year. I didn't even really want to attend but I just keep trying to do these things which are customary and traditional and part of normal livng.

The September page contains more dates of pain - my last phone conversation with Matthew, his death on the 14th (unknown to me at the time), my surgery on the 18th (I thought he was praying for me all that day), the 21st when he was supposed to be coming home and would come to see me and bring me home from my mother's. All those phone calls I kept making to a phone that wouldn't answer. And that last call to his cell when the recording told me the cell phone had been disconnected. The frantic call to one of his daughters to find out where Matthew was and what was going on.

The first Thanksgiving without Michael and Matthew. Matthew's memorial service. Christmas Eve. Christmas Day. New Year's Eve....

A lot of people think I'm strong and brave. I suppose from the outside they may well get that idea. Inside I'm so tired and hurting, still hoping that someone will make me wake up to find this was all a bad dream. I cry often, almost daily, when I'm alone. Almost anything can trigger it - even just glancing at that calendar on the wall.

It has been a year of sorrow. Ah, that reminds me - my given pagaen name is Deidre, of the Sorrows - a name selected for me by a very kind and wise man many years before this all came to be. He also told me tjat the panther was my spirit guide and the wolf was my abiding friend.

I stop at the doorway to the New Year. I don't want to enter and leave 2007. But there is no lingering and no going backwards. There will be the first anniversary of each of their deaths this year, and more holidays to celebrate without them. There is no longer a relationship with possiblities of happiness and comfort in the future now.

I reach up to take down the calendar and walk by the recycling basket. I keep walking right on by it down to my room. I open the closet and pull out a plastic box and place the calendar inside. At least for now..

GRIEF: Holiday Memorial Wreath

Holiday Memorial Wreath (or green swag) - For the winter holidays or can be adapted to any holiday or day of memorial...

A tribute to our loved ones who have passed away, this way shared with me by my ex-husband, father of our son Michael who died January 9, 2007. My ex attended a grief workshop several months after his death and found it quite benefical to share with others who were also experiencing grief. He brought back some little booklets and papers of ideas for the holidays. I really like this one and plan to use it this Christmas.

As we light these three candles in honor of you, we light one for our courage, one for our memories, and one for our love.

The first candle represents our courage -
To confront our sorrow
To comfort each other
To change our lives

The second light is in your memory -
The times we laughed
The times we cried
The times we were angry with each other
The silly things you did
The caring and joy you gave us

The third candle is the light of love. As we enter this holiday season, day by day we cherish the special place in our hearts that will always be reserved for you. We thank you for the gift your living brought to each of us.

GRIEF: The Grief Pack

I think I put my arms out and someone helped me get my arms through the shoulder straps, one at a time, slowly; adjusting it to the place in the center of my back where I could carry it the best.

I didn't realize its full impact until they let go of the shoulder straps. The heaviness alarmed me. It pulled on my shoulders. It threw off my sense of balance. Wearing it, carrying all this added weight, slowed me down and made me tire so much quicker. It was hard to think of anything else. It took all my concentration to carry it at first.

I would learn there were now places that would be difficult to go - places I'd often been to before, but now with this huge object on my back I wouldn't be able to slip through small places without a lot of twisting and turning and maneuvering. I would need to plan the routes of any trips I wanted to take, in advance, to avoid difficult pits in the road, steep hills that would be too hard to climb. I would need to seek flat paths with few obstacles.

I was now wearing the Grief Pack.

When I first put on the Grief Pack, it seemed a lot like wearing a cumbersome backpack. But the Grief Pack is invisible to most eyes, so although some close relatives and friends know that when it is put on and realize again when you are adding more weight to it, most people don't realize you are wearing it, have no idea how heavy it, or understand how it affects the rest of your life. And because you adjust your stride and become more careful in planning your movements through life, even those close to you may forget you are wearing it.

It's not something you can take off. It makes getting out of bed in the morning a chore. It makes sitting at the breakfast table somewhat uncomfortable. It makes working at your job or doing your chores more difficult. It makes trying to get a good night's sleep almost impossible.

The Grief Pack.
It's filled with shock and denial and loss and all the tears that don't pour out your eyes, and all the things you think but cannot say, and all the feelings you can't even find words to express. It's filled with memories of good times that will not happen again, and the voice and touch of loved ones that you won't hear or feel again. It's the things that you wish you would have done; the things you wish you could undo. It's filled with a deep longing and sorrow. It's filled with anger at life and frustration at being so powerless to change anything.

Your back aches and so do your shoulders and your neck, and even your head aches. You try to adjust the shoulder straps or shift the weight of the pack to bring some relief. But it doesn't change. It's still there.

I remember whenever it was first put on, the bewilderment and frightening feeling of something so permanent being put on my body. Against my protests and resistance, the straps were secured. Why were those around me allowing this to happen to me? Why didn't anyone help me fight against it? Why did everyone in the world continue on with their normal routines? Couldn't they see this awful pack and didn't they realize how wrong it was for it to be strapped on to someone? Wouldn't anyone intervene?

People kept getting up and going to work and about their daily tasks. Cars kept driving past me. Cash registers kept ringing up purchases for food and cleaning items and piles of useless things. Deadlines still needed to be met in business. Calls still needed to be returned. Deposits needed to be made. Bills still needed to be paid.

Eventually you become accustomed to the extra weight and bulk of it and learn how to stand and walk with it on. Sometimes it feels a little lighter as you grow to accept it as part of you - when a friend or even a stranger reaches out and puts their hand under it for a while to relieve some of the weight - as you learn how to accept the unacceptable. And you realize and begin to understand how invisible it is to others and forgive them when they accidentally bump into you and knock you off balance unknowingly.

Each time we encounter the loss of a loved one, the loss of a friend or relative, a beloved pet, the pack is opened and new weight is dropped into the pack. We have to struggle with the new burden of grief and will become aware of the weights we already are carrying with us. We'll struggle with our balance, our plans, our needs, our survival again. We'll find that the amount of weight dropped into our pack will vary with the "touchpoints" we had with the person (or pet) we've lost - what our history was with them, how important they were to our daily lives, how often we interacted with them, what their place was in our plans for the future, and, of course, how much unfinished business we had with them.

When we lose a child, I've found the weight to be almost unbearably heavy. It takes a lot more time and strength to even stand up and learn to walk again.

The Grief Pack never comes off. We simply learn how to live with it. It's something we never enjoy wearing, but we wear it because we have loved someone and lost them, and they are worth the weight of mourning and remembrance. We pull ourselves to an upright position, grabbing onto anything we can. We put one foot in front of the other and move forward. And on we go ...

GRIEF: No More Compensation ...

When I gave birth to Michael, I missed my pregnancy. I missed the fullness of my tummy, the movement from within, the connection with my child.

Of course, in compensation, I had the memories of my pregnancy and this awesome baby to hold in my arms and see with my eyes. A little bit of sadness, a tremendous amount of joy!

When Michael started to crawl, he became extremely mobile fast. Gone were the days of holding him for unending periods of time, sitting beside him dangling little toys to amuse him. He was off and crawling everywhere. A little sadness, but memories added to my growing store, and a whole new adventure in front of us to enjoy!

And so it would go ...

Gone the toothless grin, but a beautiful tooth in its place.
Gone the crawling little baby, but in his place a toddler
Gone the diapers, an independent little boy
Gone my little all-day companion, instead a young school boy coming and going
Then my school boy turned into a young man
Then a boyfriend
Then he left home (too early...and not quite the compensation)
Then a husband
Then a father...

Each time, I lost a little of what Mike had been, but he was developing into who he was to be. Each time a little sadness; most of the time more joy and delight in what he was becoming or had accomplished. I still had the memories of what had been, and I still had him ... and within him, incorporated into what he was, and what he was becoming, was still that little baby, that little boy, that young man ... with each loss, I ended up with more .. all that had been plus all that was.

But when you lose a child, that compensation factor ends. You still have the memories, and you cling to them and sort through them over and over, trying desperately not to forget even one, and even more desperately trying to resurrect even more, but they bring to the front of things, even more acutely, the fact that there is no more stages, no more to look forward to with this child, no more man who incorporates all that has been, is and will be.

It abruptly ends with the child's death.

Tremendous sadness, no compensating joy.

GRIEF: The Red Light That Won't Go Off...

Losing a child ... no parent should ever have to bury their child. Only parents who have experienced this loss can truly understand how deep and different it is from other types of losses.

Somehow, when we become parents, a type of warning lights are installed inside us, the parents. We sleep lighter and wake more easily when our baby stirs in the middle of the night. Breastfeeding mothers can have milk let-downs while shopping and hearing another hungry baby. We worry about hunger, comfort, sickness, or pain in our child.

This light goes on RED when our child, for instance, gets an ear infection and is complaining of intense discomfort. We triage the child and we go on high alert. Something is wrong. Something is causing them pain. We aren't sure what it is for sure, but we are worried that our child is in pain and some infection or condition may be developing. We have troubles sleeping soundly because we are listening more intensely. We may feel an anxiousness or aggitation.

Once we've made the doctor appointment and are on our way to the appointment, we find the light getting a little more orange. We are almost to a source of help for our child. As we sit in the waiting room and then get escorted to our examination room, it even gets a little lighter. By the time the doctor has seen our child, nodded confirmation to a diagnosis of ear infection, and put the prescription in our hand, we are on YELLOW light. We are still a little anxious; still a little nervous; still on alert. But we are on the way to remedy.

We get the prescription and start administering it to our child. The relief isn't immediate, so we still check on them more frequently. We still sleep with one ear to their direction at night, just in case. The antibiotic starts to work and the symtoms begin to subside. The yellow light is beginning to get a greenish tint.

Finally, our child is back to normal. The infection is gone - the pain is gone. All is well. We hardly notice that our internal light has become completely GREEN. All systems are go - we return to our normal routines. We start sleeping more soundly.

This kind of alert system seems to continue on throughout our children's lives, regardless of their age. The intensity of the lights is synchronized with the seriousness of the situation. If our young adult child is sick, even though they no longer live at home, we go on a light red alert until we hear they are better. If they lose their job, if their spouse leaves them, or they are experiencing serious financial stresses, our signal lights go on - returning to green things return to normal.

When a child develops a life-threatening condition, the parent may bounce back and forth between red and yellow lights as new treatments and medications are sought out.. But life doesn't return to normal.

When a child dies, with or without any warning, the parents alarm system goes off: SERIOUS FLASHING RED LIGHTS! Something is wrong with our child. We want to fix it. We seek all sorts of mental avenues to remedy it - we wish to go back in time, we wish someone will tell us it isn't true, we want to meet someone who knows how to cure this situation. Our bodies and minds know something is wrong and needs to be fixed.

Unfortunately, there are no more remedies or cures or sources of new treatments or miracles to seek.

We are left in limbo, with the RED light still on. Even when we can manage to focus our minds in another direction, there is that flashing red light in our peripheral vision. We will learn how to lesson the intensity, perhaps even lighten the color to yellow again, but it will never again be green.

No parent should ever have to bury their child ....

GRIEF: Grief Journeys - Heading for Dry Land

It's not a journey any of us plan to take or want to take. Most of us will resist going - some of us will beg and cry and scream and pray, asking God and everyone around us to show us how to do anything else, but to take this journey.

There are no magic solutions - no wands - no prescriptions or erasers to change the fact that a loss has occurred. And nothing to help us complete the journey any faster or easier. It's a day-by-day and minute-by-minute and step-by-step effort. It has no time line or mapped out trail, and only we, ourselves, will know when we have found the goal line.

We can delay the journey. We can take paths that lead off from the main trail and wander around a bit. We may even meet others on their own journeys, but the roads we take, though they may intersect and even follow along for a while here and there, are individual.

We can't go over it or around it. We can try to avoid it. We can delay it. We can even deny it for a while. But the only way through grief is to actually walk the journey THROUGH it.

We'll have to go through shock, and denial, bargaining, anger and blaming, and eventually, hopefully, we'll reach the acceptance stage. Some go through each stage quickly and quietly. Others experience a more roller coaster journey - back and forth, up and down, up to the top and then dropping down too quickly, sometimes swirling in a loop to the point of nausea. We might have walked through all the stages and even started to enter the acceptance stage only to find something tips the scales and send us right back to a previous stage. It can rock and roll back and forth, around and around, until we travel through all of it, understand it and process it. Even when we have processed it and reached the acceptance stage, we can find events in our lives that remind us that those scars are there.

I think of grief as a hole in the heart. A piece of what we loved or believed in is gone and will always be missing. It hurts terribly when that hole is first shot out, but the initial wave of shock paralyzes our nerve endings so we don't feel the pain so badly. In fact, some might look down at their chests and say, "I've been shot! I don't believe that I've been shot! Look, I'm bleeding so I must have been shot!"

I suspect that few people who have just had a hole shot through their chests feel much of anything except the pain and can think of little else but what has just happened to them. During the process of the other stages of grief, the body's natural rhythms and functions become greatly disturbed. Sleep, hunger, energy levels, moods, bodily eliminations, concentration, memory are all out of whack. You are more apt to incur or be aware of more aches and pains during this time and have less tolerance, your immunities are down and you are more susceptible to illness and infection, and you are more apt to have accidents and injury during this time of your life.

Some of the changes in our body and minds are emotional, some chemical. We need to make allowances for ourselves; we are entitled to feeling more depressed, more tired, less hungry, more restless, to lose track of time, to misplace things during the Grief Journey. It will pass. We will become stronger and healthier and things will get back on track in time.

We can do some simple things though to help ourselves on the journey. We can keep our activities curtailed, even extra driving of vehicles. We can cancel unnecessary appointments, pass on volunteer projects. We can lay down and close our eyes and rest when we can not sleep. We need to restrict fires and candles during the first few months to prevent the possibility of forgetting to extinquish them. We can take vitamin supplements and sip on water throughout the day when we have no appetite. We can take short walks around the block when we are feeling restless.

We can see a doctor if we begin to feel too depressed or too overwhelmed.

Part of the journey is telling our stories over and over again until we, ourselves, begin to absorb the reality of them. Unfortunately our family and friends will start to distance themselves from a never-ending pit of depression. They will hear the story once and know it; they will listen a time or two again to be helpful to you. But they will tire of hearing the same story over and over again.

We need lots of time to heal, but unless another person has been on the same type of journey before themselves, they may or may not have the level of endurance for listening to our vocal examinations of our feelings, our retelling of events over and over again.

We can, however, find ways to retell our stories and examine our feelings through councilors and journaling. Professionals will also offer you guidance on your journey. And you can retell your story a hundred times in the same way or a different way each time in a journal. Also, consider finding grief support groups for your type of loss. As I mentioned before, those who have been on a similar journey may have a better tolerance and understanding of your need to retell your story.

We will hate to be alone, but we won't have the energy to go out, or the internal drive to call someone. We are tired, exhausted and sad and want to cry, but sometimes it feels like the tears are stuck in our chests, making it difficult to breathe normally or deeply. Grief is a heavy pack to carry. Some of us climb into bed early or don't even get out of bed, trying to compensate for sleep that doesn't come easily during the night. Also while we are sleeping, we don't seem to feel what is going on for that period of time. Unfortunately, just like going on a drinking binge or doing drugs to cover up the pain, you wake up .. and there it still is, waiting to be dealt with.

Another nasty, but necessary plague during grief is that normal activities of daily living need to be accomplished - taking care of our children, bathing and dressing, preparing and eating meals, laundry, dishes, feeding and caring for our pets, paying bills, and returning to work. Grief takes out so much from your physical and mental system that just getting out of bed in the morning feels like ten times the work it did before. Try to keep things as simple as possible; accept help with the housework if offered. Take baby steps in resuming your life and pat yourself on the back frequently for those things you accomplish.

It is still hard for me to sit and record receipts and do paperwork. Money is tight and spending is scary. But it has to be done and I need, now more than ever, to be on top of my finances. I've set it up as a little game - I do 30-40 minutes of paperwork and then I will do something else away from the desk, such as vacuum one room of the house or load the dishwasher.

I keep a spiral notebook handy to keep grocery lists in, make lists of chores that need to be done, calls to make (with the numbers listed right there as well as the questions or topics I want to discuss), bills to be paid, thank you notes to be written, future dreams or goals, worries or concerns (write them down and carry them in the notebook so you don't have to carry them around in your head), things I might like to try or places to explore when I'm ready, unfinished projects I might like to resurrect when I have the time.

If you find yourself alone too much and feel the need for more social interaction, again a divorce recovery group or a grief support group may be a good thing to investigate. It will give you an outing, new people to meet in small doses who have similar situations, and a place to take off your mask and be yourself. You may learn some new tips for coping with life from others, too, or learn about resources that are available in your area that might be of help to you during this time.

Eventually you may want to try some new things, but be careful not to commit yourself to anything to wild or different or to make any drastic changes in your life - at least not at first. Don't change your job right now. Don't sell your house if you can avoid it. Don't start a serious dating relationship.

When you are ready, you might want to start a new exercise program - perhaps just start incorporating some extra walking into your day, again in baby steps. Go around the block during your lunch break. Go a little further each day. Check out exercise programs in your area (don't sign contracts yet until you know you are financially, physically and mentally ready to make such a commitment). Go to the library once or twice a month and browse through the books. Sit in on a new Bible study class or check out a new craft class. Invite a friend or two over to play a game of cards, a board game, or to watch a video with you.

The people you will meet, the friendships from the past that you activate, the new activities you try ... no, none of them are replacements for what you have lost. There is no replacement for someone we have loved and lost to death or divorce. In our society almost everything is fixable or replaceable. If our favorite doll's arm breaks, we can usually find a replacement arm at a garage sale or we can buy an entirely new doll who looks exactly the same. When a button falls off our favorite shirt, we can sew it back on. When we drop and break a favorite coffee cup, we can search and buy another cup to replace it ... maybe not exactly the same, but it will serve the same purpose and fill the empty spot on the shelf just fine.

But relationships are ended are not fixable, nor replaceable. Trying new things, meeting new people, going to new places will help you join the mainstream of life again, but you will find they don't fill in that "hole." As you journey through grief, the hole may shrink a little and not be so obviously gaping and painful, but it is still there. I think of it as scabbing over, like an exterior body wound. Bumps and friction can loosen the scab and sometimes remove it completely and the healing has to start again. Underneath the scab, I envision scar tissue developing. It's not got the same feeling to me; it's tighter and heavier than the normal tissue that was in its place before my trauma. It doesn't have the same flexibility or pliancy - I can feel it resist when I encounter other emotional struggles. And, for me, the bigger the loss, the bigger the hole, the longer the healing, the bigger the scar.

It doesn't heal overnight, or in a month, or even in a year's time for everyone. Each individual has to tread the grief path at their own pace. I believe I read that it can actually take 2-3 years to really recover from a divorce or death. We see people who are "look" and "sound" recovered much earlier than that, and, perhaps, some of them have successfully finished their grief journey much sooner than others. But many continue to work on issues quietly behind closed doors, at the end of their work days, on the weekends, when they find themselves alone or a situation comes up that brings their hurt and loss to the front of their minds. One of my councelor's suggested that the little fragments from the gun shot of divorce or death are so deeply embedded around the wound in us that it may take many years for all of them to work their way to the surface and be removed.

You won't heal unless you take steps to start making it happen.

You won't meet people unless you go out into the world again.

You aren't going to find your future soul-mate if you are sitting at home, isolated and lonely and sad.

You won't feel happy and healthy again unless you start vesting yourself in some good habits and in life itself.

Take time on your journey to realize that you don't always want to feel this way or life this way. Make some notes on how you can start, in small ways, to heal and improve yourself during this journey. Consider starting with medical or counseling help. Seek out recovery groups. Check out self-improvement books or tapes. Set a bedtime and a rising time and follow them, even if you are not sleeping soundly (eventually you will, and if not, do seek some professional assistance). Start eating more nutritious meals and snacks, even if they are small, and try eating at more routine times in your day. Cut back on refined sugars and other carbs which can give you a bit of a boost initially, but are usually followed by a decline of energy that can cause more tiredness and depression. Sip on water throughout your day. Get outdoors every day, rain or shine, for at least 15 minutes, if possible, or at least open your curtains and let natural light into your home. Get some physical exercise every day. Start reading a new book before bed. Look up a new word in the dictionary once a week. Put some music on while you do your household chores.
Staying in immobile grief does nothing to bring our loved ones back to us. But it does waste away the precious days we have left on this earth and prevents us from experiencing any new and different joys that may lie in our futures.
Healing won't bring our loved ones back to us either. At least, however, it allows us to function more fully and participate in life and better handle the loss we have experienced.

None of us wanted, most of us didn't even anticipate, having to take this grief journey.

I still cry. A lot. Sometimes in the shower, sometimes as I lay alone in my bed before sleep overtakes me.

Sometimes my eyes will well up while I'm at work staring into the computer monitor.

Sometimes I feel anxious and panicked, sometimes lonely and sad. Sometimes all these things at once. I have to keep repeating, "I am feeling these things because I have experienced some great losses and changes in my life. I have a right to feel these things. It is NORMAL to feel these things. This will pass."

I did not want my father to die. I did not want my father-in-law, my grandparents, my aunt, nor my friend to die. I did not want to get in an automobile accident and get injured. I did not want my husband to leave me for someone else. I did not want a divorce. I did not want my granddaughters to move half-way across the country with their mother. I did not want my granddaughters to lose their daddy. I did not want to lose my business and be unemployed. I did not want to be starting all over in every aspect of my life at my age. I did not want to fall down some stairs and dislocate my shoulder. I did not want my beautiful first-born son to have to endure so much pain and suffering and to die so young.

I did not want any of these things, and it certainly was a little more difficult to handle them in multiples and overlapping the way they did. But this is what life has presented. This is the way it is now. Saying I didn't want them to happen, over and over again, has not made them go away. This is reality. I don't like the way things have turned out, but I have to face reality. And then, in some small way, I need to do some of what needs to be done in an attempt to move forward.

So many changes forced upon us can be scary. Even one change can be scary ... like just coming home from work at night to an empty house or seeing an empty place at the dinner table. There's a multitude of minor and major changes that accompany a loss - sleeping alone at night, not having someone to talk to at the end of the day, cooking for less people, no one to help with the decision making or chores, maybe less money to have to stretch further. And it's difficult to deal with them all at once. The only way to get through the changes and come out on top is to deal with them one by one, starting to facilitate ways to deal with them slowly, continually.

I've read and heard from others on grief journeys that with time and work, things will get better. Never the same, but better. A lot will depend on the type of your loss. A lot will depend on you.

If you are divorced, the feelings for your ex-spouse may fade, even disappear with time. You may lose contact and never see each other again. Or if you have children, you may find yourself having to interact with your ex for years to come. Perhaps you'll develop a different type of friendship or learn how to conduct needed business in a brief, unemotional way. Sometimes the interaction can irritate the healing process and you'll find yourself, unexpectedly, returning to various states of grief or anger for a longer period of time.

A loss that occurs because of death has some other dimensions to it, especially the loss of a child. I'm just starting this journey and am quite unsure of the terrain I'm going to have to travel.

Those just starting the journey may feel that they have just been dropped into the middle of a storming, raging ocean of emotions, despair and disappointments, without so much as even a life preserver. They certainly can't comprehend that there may be land ahead. They can't do anything more than just battle to stay above the crashing waves.

Connecting with others who are on similar journeys can be encouraging. One who is further ahead in the healing process calls back to you, "I see a glimmer of land ahead!" Another one, even further ahead, shouts back, "I've landed on some solid ground!" It gives the rest of us that follow some hope. There are calmer seas ahead. There is land. We still will have some bumpy and frothy waves to deal with. We will still get smacked in the face with a sneaker wave and probably swallow a lot of salty water in the process. But if we keep trying, if we keep moving forward, eventually we'll be able to glance back and see how far we've come. And eventually, we, too, will spot dry land ahead. And someday, we, too, will land on solid ground.

I still love and miss my dad, and I've found that camping trips and Christmas bring a lump to my throat. But I think more of good memories now than dwelling on the painful loss. I've found that the losses and changes that have occurred since he died have tended to pull and strain and stress the scar tissue I have from his loss. And I still miss my grandparents, my aunt and my friend. Sometimes these will well up unexpectedly because so much was happening at once, I didn't get a chance to mourn each one separately and completely. I still miss my granddaughters, but I can write and email them and talk to them on the phone.I don't miss my ex-husband anymore. I have a new job. I still struggle with finances. I am in the beginning of the journey with the loss of my son and finding this journey may be the hardest, most difficult one I've ever experienced. I am also aware that my youngest child is on the edge of the nest, ready to spread her wings and fly off on her own. That will be yet another type of loss, another change to experience.

But I've seen the solid ground, even stepped on it a time or two before getting tossed back into the sea. I know it is more comfortable, more secure, a better place for me to be.

With one foot in front of the other, with one stroke after another, even if I have to stop and rest on the way, I am headed for dry land.