Tag: bereavement

  • How we carry traces of the people we’ve loved and lost …

    "... I think of the people 
    who’ve gone before me
    how I carry echoes of them 
    like layers of ash 
    debris I’ve collected 
    and cannot discard... "

    This time of year is a particularly poignant one for me as two members of my immediate family died in this past week, a year apart from each other.  I’ve touched on bereavement in an earlier blog, and I know that it’s a subject that will resonate with almost everyone.  

    Throughout my life, I’ve found different ways of relating to death.  As a child and young adult, I fully embraced the Roman Catholic tradition in which I was brought up, but from which I later departed.  These days, I don’t align myself to any religion or faith, and I find nature my best option when considering most things for which I need a reference point beyond myself.  Does that make sense?  I hope so, because I can’t think of a better way of explaining it.  

    Nature has a life cycle that, in many ways, matches our own, just on a different timescale.  Trees are a great example, and I’ve found them such an inspiration for life in general and for my poetry in particular.  Here in Iceland, I’ve encountered glaciers and the lakes that form due to melting ice, ultimately leading to the sea.  It got me thinking about life and how we can’t always control how our journeys end, when we might die or how long it might take.  Sitting by the lake at the tongue of the glacier, I felt I was watching the ice slowly die.  Ice breaks off and floats in the lake until it finally melts.  The icebergs are graceful, beautiful, and yet, at the same time, seemingly helpless.  I couldn’t help but think that, after all those years of slowing moving down the mountain, splitting from an enormous glacier above, the ice will simply vanish without trace. 

    Figure stood in front of a glacier and glacial lake with floating icebergs

    And yet, every iceberg tells a story.  They display visible layers of ash, from volcanic eruptions, in much the same way as rock reveals layers of seismic activity in its structure. We too carry traces, some visible and others not.  I’ve lost count of the physical scars present on my body, evidence of various accidents that involved broken bones and/or open wounds.  Stitches leave scars that eventually fade but never totally disappear.  Neither can I calculate the ways that my life has been enriched by others who I’ve loved and lost.  It can be little things, like the way I polish my shoes or parallel park the car (just as my father taught me), to life changing decisions, due to the words or actions of a loved one. It was remembering the advice of a very dear friend, that led me to step down from a temporary promotion at work.  It was one of the toughest but best decisions I ever made. 

    Truth is, we internalise the influence of others all the time, some of it conscious and some unconscious. You might not always welcome it: I hear both my parents in my head these days when I say something out loud and I recognise my mother’s mannerisms in my facial expressions. I purposefully make choices every day to live life to the full, to honour those who no longer have the luxury of doing so. 

    I don’t have any answers.  I don’t know if there is any form of life after death but I have memories that still feel very much alive; I believe that means a part of that person lives on in me.  At this time of year, when I’m remembering my loved ones, I miss them of course, but I also feel deep gratitude.  I’m thankful that they were part of my life, and they left their mark on me, which means I continue to cherish them.  I don’t think they would want me to feel sad but rather celebrate what they were and, in some way, still are.  On a bright day at Svínafellsjökull, I felt sad yet glad at the same time. 

    svinafellsjokullDownload

  • How life is never the same following bereavement, but still, there is life …

    "... tonight in my kitchen 
    as summer rain finally fell 
    I listened to your playlist 
    sang my heart out 
    feet tapping 
    hips swaying 
    embracing the joy of life 
    thankful for what we had 
    and for all that is yet to be ..."

    I expect that everyone reading this will have been impacted by the loss of a loved one.  It’s a funny thing, bereavement, you never know how it will affect you and each time is different. The circumstances will be unique for both the person who has died and for you who lives on.  Experiencing bereavement as a young person will be very different to how you approach it as you get older.  And, of course, your relationship with the person will shape your response to both the process of dying and their ultimate death.   

    You may lose someone suddenly and the shock of it can rock you to the core.  You’ll probably regret all the things you never had chance to say; the things you planned to do together that never happened; the questions you always meant to ask but never found the right time or place.  I’ve lost count of how many people have said to me, over the years, to remember to tell people that you love them and to say the hard things before it’s too late.  It’s not easy advice to follow. 

    Then there are the anticipated losses: loved ones that have a terminal diagnosis.  You foolishly think you’ll be prepared and you brace yourself for the worse.  But no matter how much you think you’re ready to say goodbye, you won’t be.  Even when you know that letting go is the best thing for them, it’s still hard.  You grieve whilst they are dying and then you grieve again when death comes. 

    In my experience, you’ll be guided by them. When my dad was given a diagnosis of less than 6 months to live, he was very matter of fact about it, which meant I had to be as well.  Loving a person means you respect their wishes, no matter how much it goes against your gut instinct.  

    I’ve always believed that the best way to honour the dead, is to live your life to the full.  That’s what they would want for you, I’m sure.  That’s how I’ve tried to approach every bereavement I’ve experienced and it does help, particularly when you go through tough times.  It’s the best prompt there is to make the most of every day you have. 

    Figure of a woman in a yoga pose in front of the setting sun

    My best friend died from a rare cancer that she was determined to fight.  Even when she went into the hospice for what we all knew were her last days, she was sure she was there for respite only. She died when she was just 49 and it felt utterly tragic.  I didn’t think life would ever be the same and, true, in some ways it isn’t.  There’s a hole in my life that no one else can fill.  But lots of life carried on regardless, as it must.  We did have the opportunity to say the things we wanted to say, and I’ll always be grateful for that.  I’ll never forget the wisdom she bestowed, which has guided my days without her.  

    There are so many times I wish I could talk to her, but can’t.  There have been rare occasions, since she died, when I’ve felt her presence so keenly and even heard her voice.   At times that has brought me comfort, other times it’s given me a kick up the backside; always it makes me grateful for what we had. 

    I wrote this poem some years after Karen died. It was my way of telling her I was okay.  We’d listened to a lot of music together, danced and sang our way through many a favourite track. For a long time, I couldn’t listen to the music we shared; the fact that I was able to enjoy music again reminded me that healing does come, life does go on and you do recover parts of yourself that you feared you’d lost.  If recovery feels far from you right now, then be patient.  It will come in time. 

    Since you’ve been goneDownload