Angelic Hands

The other day I was driving home, thinking about how we are given more signs it seems right after our loved one pass, but as the time goes on, you seem to be given less and less. It make sense, when you first lose a child or a spouse or a parent you cannot even believe it is your new reality. Honestly if I hear “new normal” one more time I might gag.

I have been contemplating my career during these Covid times, I decided I wanted to go back to school to get my Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner degree a few months ago, and I have been wading through the grueling admission process and trying to talk my husband into believing it’s a good idea, (not a goal I have achieved yet), ever since. Since I was taken out of the role of Charge nurse or Head nurse for putting in missed breaks all at one time for a year, when I learned from my union a break isn’t a break if you are eating your lunch on the toilet with the desk phone, I have been re-evaluating my career life choices.

For eight years I was used to the chaos of the role, and I found myself looking to find my new work identity. Lately, I found myself really disliking my limited time with patients and limited interactions with other employees since now I was in the operating room every day with my patient asleep for the most part. The only communication you have with your patients awake, is about five minutes of their time before surgery and about five minutes after they have opened their eyes as a surgical nurse. Not to say the job isn’t interesting or important, (but to be honest, there are days it doesn’t feel either).

There are some days your five minutes are cut even shorter, like when your nurse checking in the patient hasn’t had a chance to check the patient in earlier, so as a surgical nurse you might listen in, ask three to five questions and leave getting a report from the other nurse when he/she is finished.

I was having one of those days. We were moving ahead of schedule, faster than the check in process could keep up. I popped my head in to see if I could introduce myself and the other nurse let me jump in. I asked my few safety questions and before I was about to leave and looked down at her hand and saw a large glass ring.

The ring was very unusual, it looked like blown glass, colorful and smooth, slightly large for a ring. Besides her hospital gown, that was all she was wearing. I said, “Oh, I see you still have a ring on.” She said, “the ring is very important to me, I never take it off.” I noticed it was glass, so I wasn’t worried about it being metal and interfering with anything. I said, “well your hand can swell during surgery and I also would hate for it to get lost.” I looked at her face and she had tears in her eyes that were about to spill over. It is not uncommon for patients to be anxious before surgery, but this patient had not showed any signs of anxiety earlier, she had no history of mental health issues listed or that were reported to me. I waited a few heartbeats for her to explain.

She said, “this ring was my twin sister’s ring. My identical twin sister. She died, and you see I never take it off because I feel like I am bringing her with me”. I immediately felt a lump in my throat form and I quickly said, “your surgery is only twenty minutes long, and we are working nowhere near your hand, we can tape your ring, so it doesn’t move or fall off.” Most people that know me at work, know I am a stickler for the rules, there are exceptions, of course, but I like to follow them and I am constantly trying to keep up with the policies as they ebb and flow.

She was so grateful, the tears now threatening to fall. She said without prodding, and to be honest I felt the words coming before they tumbled out of her mouth, “it was suicide.”I was thankful no one was standing near me, I felt my own eyes well up. I held her hand with the ring. “I lost my own daughter,” I said, “the same way.” She looked into my eyes and felt the common bond between us that no words can describe. I reached over with her other hand to hold mine. She told me how losing her twin had been like loosing half of herself as she imagined losing a child might be. She then asked me if I knew any good grief therapists. She was still struggling she said. Again somehow knowing she lived near me, I asked, “what city do you live in?” and she answered a city near mine. I told her I was going to get her room ready but I would give her some information about local groups. Before I ran off, she told me how we were meant to meet.

In the operating room I heard the surgeon mention to his resident how our patient had gone through the tragedy of her sisters suicide. I wondered how this one surgeon didn’t know my story, I had thought they all did. As the years go on though, I realize people forget, and new surgeons come and people tend to say things at work or in life around me now they don’t realize still makes me internally cringe. It seems so often people say things like, “I would ki** myself if that happened to me, or just sh**t me in the head why don’t you.” These dumb idioms or whatever they are, make the minority of us grief-walkers just wring our hands and clench our jaw while walking away.

After surgery, I usually only have a couple minutes to report off to the recovery nurse and go see my next patient. This just happened to be my last case of the day and we were done early. I stood next to her ask she became fully awake. I told her everything went well and I had put the info for her in her bag. I noticed her ring was off and I asked, “where is your ring?” I had a moment of panic as I looked down at her blankets. She said, “it was uncomfortable taped and I didn’t want to lose it, besides I know my sister was with me because of you and I think my sister and your daughter brought us together.” For the second time that day, I felt a lump in my throat. She talked a little more to me, and at one point I asked her what year her sister passed. Again somehow I knew we would have another common bond as she said 2018. I agreed with her as I told her to take care while , I was meant to be her nurse today. It doesn’t matter if I am head nurse or not, maybe we are used where we are at in life, and though I hope to have a different path in my career in the future, hopefully as a PMHNP, for now I am ok where I am at.

Will There Be Joy?

Will there be joy again? It was a question I asked myself as I watched my oldest daughter graduate from college six months after the death of her sister. I took stock of my emotions, I was “happy” for her, I was proud of her, but it came with ache I would never see my daughter Mikenna graduate from university. The last two Holidays came and went and I felt the same emotions, I was thankful to be with my family and sad that part of it will forever be missing. I came up with ways to endure Holidays and special occasions, I created new traditions and I made sure to make plans on days that I new would be hard. But where was JOY?

I remember just months after I lost my daughter one of my doctor friends asked if we could all go out, to cheer me up. My old group of work friends kept asking me for dates and times to go. It sounded horrible. It sounded like a lot of me trying to act like I was fine. The truth was I am a social creature, but being around a lot of people, at least during the first couple years drained me. I knew at the time I was asked that someday that invitation might sound nice, but at that time It was the last thing I wanted to do. Two and a half years went by and now I might like the occasional invite, though many of the invites have stopped coming. Then the world went into a pandemic. How rude!

It made me realize that we do move away from people that seem like drama, they have something always going on or they might be emotional, it’s our natural instinct to move away from them. How often before my daughter passed did I not call or text someone because I felt uncomfortable with what they had going on in their life? It’s funny how life experiences change your perspective. At one point in my life, I learned to avoid people that might drag me into any unhealthy relationships, but as I matured I learned that you can also have healthy boundaries with your friends and their drama. Most people have messy lives, and you can still have relationships without taking on everyone’s issues.

My core people are still around me, some live far or I only see them once in awhile, but the main people that supported me at work, at home or online are still around. They still ask me to get coffee, have a bonfire, go for a walk, or send a text here and there, even if I don’t take them up on it. That’s what you find when you go through something terrible, you find your people. I am luckier than most people I know online dealing with loss, I have a larger support group than most, even two years later, they still send a message here and there to make sure I have left my house beyond work once in awhile. If you are reading this, and you know someone like me or my family, keep reaching out. It might seem like it’s been a very long time and we should be “back to normal” but we aren’t, our social energy as I call it, has changed. We don’t think about calling or texting most days but we still need you in our lives! To us two years or four years seems like five minutes ago and we get lost as days float by without even knowing it.

The question still hung over my head? Will I ever feel pure JOY again? Have I felt any joy since the tragedy? I replayed the last couple of years in my mind. Maybe I had to redefine what Joy would be. A year after the tragedy I was given tickets for my oldest daughter and I to go to a comedy show. I felt so awkward going out. It was like I forgot how to be in public. Once the show started though, I found myself laughing hysterically I would consider that joy. Another time that comes to mind is the trip I took to Ireland with my oldest daughter for a graduation present. We still shed many tears knowing that we were in a place her sister would have loved, but we had moments of joy as we took castle crypt tours, tromped through farming fields to view the cliffs and visited local pubs in every town we came across.

Then last month I was invited to a 50th birthday party with just a few people I already carpool with to work. I wasn’t sure why they wanted a “kill joy” with them, but I decided to go. Only two very strong cocktails was all I needed to be ready for bed, but we were at the coast so I kept myself from dozing off. My friend was laying on the rocks and watching the meteor shower, so I joined her. Looking up and seeing the stars so clear was amazing and I would say, that was contentment. For whatever reason, that moment was void of anything but looking up at the shooting stars.

Two days ago, one of my closest friends asked if I wanted to make dinner with her and double the recipe, to be honest I almost bailed, but I ended up going anyway. We cooked and had a glass of wine and talked about both of our own trips to Ireland. I was there for just a couple of hours but it was enjoyable to laugh and be with someone I am comfortable with. Besides my “people” one of my other loves in my life are my kitties. It might be because my daughter that passed also loved them. I was never an animal person when I was younger, but now when my little fluff ball curls up in my lap, (Tonks who is supposed to be a warrior kitty), it makes my heart feel like it is getting a little hug. What I am realizing, is that I didn’t have a ton of experiences over the last couple years of pure JOY, but I did have them. I am redefining my definition of Joy.

For me, I am finding joy in laughter. In those moments you are laughing you are not focused on anything else. I also find my joy in discovery and travel. (Now if we weren’t in a pandemic that would be nice!) I find joy in effortless friendship, where I can be myself, where we can cook, craft, travel, play games or laugh. I find joy in the unconditional love of animals, the way my Puggle follows me everywhere and sleeps practically on top of me. If you have had tragedy, loss, or trauma, you will not experience happiness and joy the same way you had before, for instance I will never have all my girls here on Christmas morning and that kind of joy is now a fond memory unable to be had again. Find the little things that give you even a moment of contentment, no matter what it is. Identify these things so that you can redefine your JOY and put a little bit of it back into your life.

JOY, Twirling in Extravagance

To Thine Own Self Be True

To Thine Own Self Be True….Shakespeare uses this line in Hamlet, and this phrase has multiple meanings. The first meaning is that someone can better judge himself if he has done what he should or could have done. The second meaning is that one must be honest in his ways and relations. The third meaning is that one must always do the right thing. ‘True’ can also mean beneficial; therefore, his advice to his son meant that he must think of his own benefit first.

These words came to me as I read over and over again, in different online groups, mother’s and father’s being ostracized for the way they deal with their grief of loosing their child. Why? “Get over it, You need to move on, you need to get rid of those clothes,” and many other harmful words aimed at the grieving person. I had a pretty good idea why, but I decided to double check my Psychology degree. With just a quick search in Psychology Today, I found what I was looking for, I call it the mirror effect.

When we criticize someone, it is because we see ourselves in the reflection of the criticism. It is a form of ego defense it is not because we disagree with the behavior. We feel devalued by the behavior. The way we as grieving people deal with our loss makes some people feel personally insulted and it makes them feel very uncomfortable.

I remember when I decided to have a third child and then a fourth. I had a close girlfriend who was actually disgusted in my choice. She had one child and I know somehow she felt it reflected on her choice to only have one child that she could never imagine making my choice. The truth is we all do this to some extent, just know that you might have your own ego involved when you criticize.

The truth is, each of your lives, whoever you are grieving, matters. Your might be grieving your child, your niece, your grandchild, your husband, or sister. To Thine Own Self Be True, is posted in one blog I read as self serving, and in a way it is. You are valuing your own life, you are doing what you need to do to survive, to go on. You might need to hike the Pacific Coast Trail, spread your loved ones ashes at the Pirates of the Caribbean, or Grand Canyon, make their clothes into quilts or teddy bears, make scented candles, form an organization, write a book, plant a tree, built a garden, a plaque where they loved, frame their pictures, create art, scream in an empty field, leave their room the way it is, leave their clothes in the closet, post a picture every day, try acupuncture, therapy, walk or run, medication, prayer, or have days where you hide under the covers and sob.

In nursing school I remember being taught about pain. Margo McCaffery’s, the pioneer of pain management definition of pain, “It’s whatever the experiencing person says it is, existing whenever and wherever the person says it does.” Her words have become a touchstone for clinicians addressing and treating patients in pain. The widely used 0-10 pain scale assessment tool came from this definition. Today, patient self-report is the standard of care for evaluating pain.

Many times when I am reading about different people’s grief, or responding to a question about what they should do in a situation, I think about pain as something hard to assess such as grief, it is whatever people say it is and for that person it will be different than my own. I remember one of the first questions I read was about burial verses cremation. I knew instantly what I needed for my child. It was different than many other grieving parents. Newly in my loss I remember thinking I could never choose their choice, but then it occurred to me, their choice was not wrong, it was just different.

To Thine own self be true, do what you need to do to take care of you. You have many people around you or even people you have not met yet that need you. I remember one online friend who was a single mother that lost her only child, she moves on to help other people in similar situations because only she knows that kind of pain and her pain is different than my own.

The tricky part can be grief in a family related to roles. My grief as a mother is different than my daughter’s grief of loosing her sister and my mother’s to loosing her grand-daughter. Sometimes it can be hard to understand each of their grief, so I listen when they want me to. Loss is a grenade who’s shrapnel hits all it can reach. We have to give each other grace. Give each other a little room to have a different relationship with it. I think of a grenade going off, and one person losing a leg, one an arm, another an eye. One person is partially blind, one cannot walk, the other cannot swim, they all experience pain. What we all need to remember is their prothesis device, used to individually navigate their world, is fit specifically only to that one person and no two are the same.

Do What You Can Do

Chaos was what I was born into, I was born from two creative 60’s parents, both amazing artists and musicians. They were barely out of their teens when Vietnam hit. Their parents were WWII pilots and heros that had lived through the depression before there was maternity leave, birth control, or anything related to mental health care. After Vietnam the short love affair they had was gone and the reality of the harsh world set in. My mother and I lived alone for a few years as she worked at anything she could, leaving her amazing talents to the curb for practicality and I secretly loved every moment we had alone together. She soon married her best friend who had a career and a soon a home. My two sweet sisters were born ten years after me and I learned the care taking role. Addiction though plagued my family tree, and friction was a part of every day.

I joined the military at 18 and left the minute I graduated. The lesson I am focused on today, is the one I have been fighting against my entire life. You can only control your choices in life but you cannot control all the other factors of your choice or other people’s choices. I chose the military, for opportunity, and a sense of control over my life. Just months after I finished basic training, I was shipped off to a war torn country. (Excuse me, that’s not what I signed up for!). In that situation all I could control were my choices for that day, who I would spend my time with, the words that would come out of my mouth, the way I would act, my attitude. For some reason at 19, I had less of a problem with that in 1991 than I do now. I was not anxious, I was not overly sad. I think because I knew all I could do was what I could do. Why has that been so hard since then?

I tried to finish college but I lacked support in all ways. I married a few years later and had two kids back to back, a four year gap and another set of Irish twins making a busy house of 6. I finished school and went on to go to nursing school, able to do so with the support and stability I needed. But life still had a lot of curveballs and line drives to the forehead awaiting me.

I remember the first one being an ADHD diagnosis with one of my daughters, and another curveball with another daughter having an extremely high IQ. I thought ok, I’ll learn all about this and do all the things I need to do. I moved the kids to a school more equipped to deal with both. I even helped start the talented and gifted program at the new school. A few years later another child was diagnosed with a very rare learning disability, that affects anything spatial. I threw myself into years of research, IEP meetings and honestly still I am trying to learn and teach people about it. It took years, but I finally learned that I had to teach my daughter about her disability and how to advocate for herself because I couldn’t be in her pocket for ever.

In 2014 we hit the wall with depression and eating disorder behavior with one child and my husband and I threw everything we had at. I never could wrap my head around what we could have done wrong. Our children had everything they needed, they had love, and education, activities, pets, faith. (Ah, but you cannot outrun genetics, and depression is genetically linked to addiction, eating disorders, OCD, ADHD. They are all cut from the same cloth). In remission, she came out the other side but her sister soon followed and in 2018 she lost the battle with her depression before we could even get a handle on what was going on.

The loss rippled through my family like a grenade. It left shrapnel inside the rest of us that we have been adapting to for over two years. My remaining three girls each fighting their own battle that I could not fight for them. The part of the story most outsiders are unknowing, the devastation didn’t stop with the loss of my daughter. My oldest a year later, December 2019, lost the person she planned to start her life with, to untreated bipolar depression and moved home a couple months later the pandemic hit. All I could do then and still do, is to hold her and remind her of all the talent and beauty that still lives inside of her. I remind her daily.

My middle child, broke-up with her three year boyfriend that spiraled her into facing her the loss of her sister also, the realization that people you love can leave without warning and again I couldn’t fix it, she had to fight her way through it, learn to control her own actions and claw her way out of the pit she was in while loosing every friend around her. Going from the most popular, to being ridiculed, her property vandalized, being cyber bullied and deserted my friends instead of supported by those around her. From my observation, people just back away from anything they don’t understand and look for the easiest explanation instead of taking a closer look and sitting down in the mess with someone. I can honestly say I am so proud of her for literally putting a crown on her head at her senior parade and managing to still keep her scholarship. She is day by day moving forward in this Covid world at college. All I could do during those darker days was make accommodations for her the last few months of school, encourage her to talk and to keep moving forward one day at a time.

Today my youngest battles her own major depression, with learning challenges she has always battled some, but in a similar fashion to her sister, the recent loss of her year-long relationship with the one person she trusted more than anything, knocked her depression into turbo gear and brought the loss of her sister even more to the forefront. Learning that you have no control over people leaving, can bring everything you know to a complete halt. I wish I could fix it, but the words of my mother come to mind. “People do only what people can do.”

She told me this on the day of my wedding, when the turmoil of having my husband’s west coast family members and my Ohio family member all together in one building had me stressed and crying. Basically she was trying to tell me to not focus on things out of my control, you do what you can. People do only what they can. Focus on those things. As my youngest works through her depression currently in militant-like therapy center all I can do is be her cheer-leader. I can advocate for her and support her in any way I can through it, but the up-hill battle is hers and I am proud of her because she has always had to work twice as hard as anyone else in the room, though she rarely gives up. I am proud of all my girls for pulling themself up, without a lot of outside support to cheer them on.

I sit this morning with fires raging in my county ten miles away, with a pandemic still silently threatening, smoke filling the city streets making the sky like a scene from Twilight. I debate if airing my family struggles in my blog is helpful or damaging, but ultimately I believe talking about mental health is more important than any negative opinion lobbed my way. It is therapeutic for me to write and maybe someone will read it this and see they are not alone.

I can only control, what I can control. Today I can slowly work on cleaning up my office space, organize some of my non-profit, paperwork and maybe brainstorm ways our non-profit could help those affected by the fires or pandemic. I can try and figure out how to use my new air fryer and make something new or different in it, I can open up one of the games I love to play tonight and play a game with my husband and daughters. Instead of focusing on the fact I can’t breathe outside, and that I can’t socialize or travel, I will focus on what I can do and that’s all I can do.



Permanence, until now I never realized the full gravity of something being permanent.  We use a permanent marker to write our names on our children’s clothing aa they head off to summer camp.  Of course you can also scratch out the name, tear out a tag. You can cover it up with another name, make one name into part of another’s name.  What is permanent?

Right now our country is debating the national monuments, what do they represent?   I am sure that when Mount Rushmore was carved, by artist Gutzon Borglum, he considered his art would be permanent.  Carved into the granite mountainside in 1927, it was to be left for future generations to appreciate.  Granite, though slow to erode, does erode over time and the political climate and views could someday lead to the removal of this monument.  My point being, that even things we perceive as permanent, aren’t alway so.

Since I moved into my house thirteen years ago, I have debated with my husband the blue spruce tree at the end of the side of our driveway.  The blue spruce was the last tree in a beautiful hedge that graced the side of our driveway.  I only knew of its existence by black and white photos found from the city zoning department.  Across the driveway, in my yard were two giant oak trees.   The November before my daughter passed, we had a wind storm and lost one of the giant oaks.

That day I will never forget.  One of the few videos I still have on my phone, is her fake freaking out, standing in the wind storm.  30 minutes later we heard a terrible crack and the oak tree laid across our lawn and the street.  In that moment I realized my youngest daughter was missing.   Her and a friend had gone for a walk around the block in the wind storm.   I yelled for Genae and Mikenna, her two sisters living at home still, to look for their youngest sister with me.  I screamed her name outside.  For 30 seconds I was terrified at the tiniest possibility she was under the large disastrous mess in the street until she came walking in the door clueless to the cortisol racing through my body.

The blue spruce tree, searching for sun, leaned away from the large expanding branches of the remaining oak tree. It stood bent at a thirty degree angle, so not visually appealing.  I had to trim the lower pine branches to keep from scratching the neighbors car since the previous owner put a driveway next to ours, on the other side of the pine tree.  At Christmas I would use the low lying branches to make a large wreath, the smell of pine filling my living room, and hiding the fact my Christmas tree is made of plastic.

Last week I lost the battle of the blue spruce as our tree guy, who was tending to the oaks, determined that it should also come down. Et tu, Brute?  To add insult to injury, the city decided, almost at the same time, that our power line was connected to one of those oak trees in my yard and we needed a telephone pole to be up to code.  So where did they put it? Four feet from the pine tree the day before it came down.  Now I’m left with the eye sore of a telephone pole instead.  When I saw my beautiful blue spruce in a pile, I cried.   I now tell my carpool when they pull up, to pay homage to the totem pole. (it has yet to have power attached to it, so its just a pole)

I don’t really understand my connection and hurt over the tree, I know it somehow has been made worse since the loss of my daughter.  It is another loss?  It is a feeling of a loss of control?   Is is the fact that trees outlive us or the feeling of destroying something living?   I am not sure, but most likely when my children own this house, long after I have past, the telephone pole will still be there.

The point I am leading up to, is that most people do not truly understand what permanent feels like.  The only thing I had to relate to before my daughter Mikenna passed was my grandmother.  It was sad, and I still think of her often, but it was the natural progression of life.   As the years went by it has been easier.  It is not the same when you loose someone in a tragedy or unexpectedly.  As the months and years tick by, you slowly start to feel what permanent is.  The initial shock is gone, but the pain never leaves.  At first we cannot even fathom it.   I cannot image an entire lifetime without her.  Still two years later, I have some understanding of the fact I will never see her face again, see her wedding or children, hear her voice, but I still do not understand the true, complete, and full weight of it and may never until the day I meet her again.

This newfound understanding somewhat explains the lack of empathy of others to my grief or the grief of others in this same club.   If I can barely understand the magnitude of the permanence of my loss, then how can I expect others around me to empathize?   When they relate to me by using the loss of their pet, or a grandparent, all I can say is, that it isn’t the same kind of feeling, at all.  In everything I do, I am reminded of that someone who is missing.  In every joy, I am given a pinch of sorrow.   Every celebration brings some sadness.   All I can say to my loved ones is that though it may feel uncomfortable, that two, five, ten or twenty years might have gone by yes we are still sad, or have moments of uncontrollable sadness.  Sit in the awkward silence with us, say our loved ones name, don’t try and fix it or tell your experience of loosing Fluffy.  Just be there, and be forever thankful, that your Mt. Rushmore has not been torn down to the ground.







Grief is like….

Grief is like your life was like a beautiful pool until one day a storm came along placing a giant crack through it and releasing a large amount of the water.  Now, you are still grateful for the pool you still have left but it will never be the same.  You still can sit in your pool, but every now and then without warning a few teaspoons are drained from the pool as a result of the storm. 

I sat in the river and felt the water roll over my toes the other day.  It was a tiny peaceful moment as I let go of another little human activity with my autoimmune disease.   As I felt the mud squish between my toes, memories of my childhood came flooding back.  Running with my next door neighbor through the grass, my first bee sting where I figured out I was allergic to bees as my father dumped my entire leg in an ice bucket.  The feeling of the different types of grass on the soles of my feet.  My cousins and I could never be wrangled down when we were together, there was no need for sunblock or shoes most summers days.  We would run outside through the hose, through the yards and sometimes across the Metro parks river rocks laughing and splashing on endless summer days.

I had finally had the chance to go for a tiny hike after the weather subsided enough that I could at least hike a trail on the Clackamas River.  My daughter ahead of me took her shoes off following a trail in and out of the water along the river.  I happily took mine off also, walking along the river rock happily following behind. Within minutes the rocks became painful on my feet. Most of the rocks were smooth but my type of autoimmune disease targets small joints.  I was determined to keep up so I trudged on. Before long my eyes were watering and I stopped for a break, letting the water roll over my toes one last time.   It seems silly, but for me it was giving up another tiny thing, like the tiny things I had already given up, sitting in the sun, being in the snow, gardening, etc.     I was thankful it wasn’t worse, but it was one more teaspoon out of my pool. A tiny injustice.

I made a quick decision and threw on my expensive tennis shoes and started back through the water.  Shoes could be replaced, time with my daughter couldn’t.

Though grief and autoimmune diseases are nothing alike, I keep finding similarities in them when I would think about it.    Both of these groups have only found solace in others going through the same thing.  The truth being that most people don’t understand until they are unfortunately walking the same path.   Both are somewhat lonely and how I imagine my daughter with learning challenges feels sometimes, as if no one understands all the challenges you face unless you also face them.

Later I sat with my youngest watching a movie.   It was a cute movie called “A Thousand Words” with Eddie Murphy.  At one point he says something along the lines of “I guess you never know if the last time you see someone is going to be the last time you ever see someone” and instantly the image of my beautiful smiling daughter, standing on the steps of her new apartment holding the laundry basket of goodies I had just brought her came to mind, the last time I saw her.   It was not that big of a deal, tears don’t really phase any of my family members at this point, and I’ve always supported showing your emotions, but it reminded me how I can’t always be prepared when I am watching a movie, even when looking it up first.

It may seem like a tiny thing, but I am a huge movie buff.  As a matter of fact it was something my daughter that passed and I had in common.  I now try and see all the movies that her and I would have seen together, even alone, in her honor.   We would spontaneously grab a movie whenever we could though sometimes I regretted not reading about it before hand like when sex scenes would pop up. She would laugh at how uncomfortable I would get.

Now though, If a friend ask me to see a movie, I have to look it up, and unfortunately there are many movies I have to give up.  Not just movies but entire genres.   I cannot sit through desensitized any more, horror, war, crime, it’s just not for me.   My grief or PTSD rocks me still to see the devastation.   It’s a tiny teaspoon out of my pool.  It’s another thing I give up to the storm.

Along those same lines, we also both were avid readers.   Both Harry Potter heads, we were sometimes almost competitive with our books.  After my daughter passed I took a hiatus from reading for over a year.  A unknown side effect of an initial tragedy, is the inability to focus on much of anything.  To help with some of that, I started a little book club recently, thankfully most of the people in it are ok if someone decides to pass on a book.   We adapt, like wearing shoes in the river. 5F539D02-F442-470C-A9FF-91D647D14E19

If you have experienced loss, what is your metaphor?


Grief is like…

Grief is like a catastrophic physical injury ~ Louise

Grief is like riding a roller coaster that never stops without a seatbelt. ~ Kris

Grief is like getting up every day to a job you hate and which you feel completely unskilled for. ~ Louise

Grief is like trying to comprehend what is beyond comprehension. ~Amy

Grief is like a shadow. ~Ann

Grief is like waiting for a bomb to go off. ~ Joni

Grief is like a mixture of recreating an identity and a bittersweet processing of memory. ~Peter

Grief is like trying to sort through the rubble of what’s left of your life after the earthquake of loss has hit. ~ Cathy Lee

Grief is like walking through hip-high mud. ~ Loretta

Grief is like being a walking dead zombie. ~Jackie

Grief is like crazy weather. Sometimes showers and storms pop up when you least expect them. ~LauraJay

Grief is like walking in the dark and feeling your way as you slowly go. ~ Deb

Grief is like a guilty addiction, reminding you of a time when your life was right. ~ Geri

Grief is like a boomerang, it keeps coming back and wounding you anew. ~Susan

Grief is like an image which recalls a bad acid trip. ~ Phyllis

Grief is like being extremely homesick but knowing your home no longer exists. ~ Leesa

Grief is like a constant pain that never goes away and is worsened by “triggers”. ~ Vicki

Grief is like being burned alive. ~ Deborah

Grief is like a landmine. ~ Kevin

Grief is like waking up to a hundred pound monkey on your back. ~ April

Grief is like being in a constant nightmare. ~Kathleen

Grief is like a soaking wet wool blanket over your whole body. ~ Alice

Grief is like having an incurable affliction. ~ Allen

Grief is like being in the middle of a twister that wreaks havoc all around you. ~ Leslie

Grief is like losing a part of yourself. ~ Peter

Grief is like being continuously hit by a tsunami. ~ Teklya

Grief is like being in a chronic state of anxiety. – Frankie

Grief is like being the pinball in a game you never chose to play. ~ Miss Mac

Grief is like sitting on the sidelines. ~ Michelle

Grief is like your insides being munched away by parasites and wanting to vomit but you can’t because you’re empty. ~Kay

Grief is like a bottomless pit. ~ Tara

Grief is like a concussion that lasts for months. ~ Lillian

Grief is like a wound. Over time it heals but it leaves a scar. ~ Theresa

Grief is like waking up every day as a stranger in a foreign land. ~ Elizabeth


Destination Unknown

2191903D-4520-4FEA-9368-F170ED4C83E3I had seen the waterfall a half dozen times, but walking towards it on the narrow path that circled behind the waterfall always gave me a sense of anticipation.  As I grew closer to it I would begin to feel the slide of the mud under my feet, the mist of the spray hitting my face even yards away.   The air slightly cooler from the shelter of the rock overhang and the cliff walls almost icy to my palms as I would walk under, the loud roar of the vertical river flowing above my head.   For just a moment, the beautiful imagery is slightly magical, surreal, and I can experience a feeling of escapism from the weight of the world as I know it.

As I round the corner and start to pass the lower pools I would still feel the remnants of fairyland as if I just missed the magical creatures sunning themselves amongst the moss and rainbows made by the lower falls and sunlight.    Starting the long climb up the hill to leave the falls it occurred to me the metaphor the falls was showing me.   See its always harder to walk away from something then it is to walk towards something.

I was thinking about the death of my daughter at first.   It has been two years.  Moving forward for the longest time felt like walking away from her and was impossible.  My friend and who had walked my same path years earlier told me that for awhile we walk with one foot in this world and one foot in the spirit world, and it sounds crazy but it’s true.  It’s why I believe we get the most signs from our loved ones in the first years and I think it’s also a way of being spirtual comforted.  It’s like the world is just to harsh in full focus and we walk around with everything slightly blurred.  In a way its some sort of protective mechanism.  I remember my friend saying I needed to be grounded (like with meditation) I told her I was content with my mind somewhere else honestly, staring at clouds and watching for heart rocks every place I walked.  In this metaphor I was stuck, and in someways will always be stuck, with the unique mysterious waterfall directly behind me and the hill out of the valley in front of me.

I’ve recently found myself with Covid-19 unknowns and my work environment to be in a comparable metaphor.  Years ago we worked in a small environment, we had our struggles but we were a family.  I was one of a few leaders that advocated for staff in a mama bear like fashion, and also had the ability to communicate to staff the direction of our higher-ups.  We had potlucks when someone got married or had a baby, we mourned when someone lost a family member.   We became a larger unit, we were in the labor pains of growth and then Covid hit.  My voice became misinterpreted, schedules and patient loads has become uncertain, the work/family dynamic has been undone.  I found myself looking back at what we had filled with sadness.

As I faced uncertainty with work, I contemplated the waterfall metaphor.  It Is much easier to walk towards something than to walk away from something.   The family atmosphere will always be a part of us, at least with the staff still remaining and even those that have moved on.  We carry it with us.   It is in our work ethic.  It is in our compassion.  What I needed to focus on was not walking away but I needed a horizon to focus on, something to move towards.   I needed something that during these uncertain times, my focus could be not on the daily changes, but on something else.  I decided to start taking classes towards an advanced degree.  As the seasickness of uncertainty in my work environment continues, working towards an MSN could adjust my focus, and give me something to move towards.

D7C627BE-A361-4FB4-8DFF-4109A8D0957BPeople give advice about moving on and letting go.  The truth is, the process is different for everyone and no one that hasn’t experienced the same type of loss, should ever give advice about it.  The truth is, you don’t EVER let go of your child or loved one, you figure out how to carry them with you as you try and move forward.  It makes me think of Jesus carrying the cross.  As a parent that has lost a child, I carry my daughter Mikenna with me always in everything I do now.  Sometimes it is a heavy load and though you cannot carry my grief for me, you can always help with a metaphorical hand when you see me or someone like me struggling with the weight of it.

C30150BC-4FD2-4DD9-B268-3B744A2C5424Just like the waterfall, I carry all the sounds, the sights, the smells with me climbing the hill of the rest of my life.   I wish I could tell you that I could go back somehow to before my life was changed forever with one phone call.  As I write this blog the image stands out like it was moments ago.   I stood in an operating room changing room.  I had just started to give a dinner break to another nurse in a Cleft Palate surgery for an infant with a mission team called F.A.C.E.S. The words Mikenna died from my husband, my own alien sounding wail.   She had told me she was proud of me.  I would be never again be able to work in Peru and it would take months to be able to work through the PTSD of the operating room and longer still for that kind of surgery without mild panic attacks.

As I stood momentarily in my perfect world, that was like my amazing waterfall, a life with her in it.  For almost two years I stood just on the other side, unable to move at all, back or forward.

A543F7D4-AEEE-4EC4-958F-BA09609D6274I know it will be at the end of this life and into the next that I experience and hold my daughter again.  I  move forward, up the hill, one step at a time now carrying that life and her with me, not letting it or her go.   Some people may not ever know what it feels like to have to move away from such a gift.  They can’t imagine it and that’s ok. (I wouldn’t ever want anyone I know or care about to be able to).  So I move forward with it in my heart, walking through the uncertainty of life knowing that it will be a lifetime but I can keep that knowledge as my horizon,  my focal point to keep me steady, what I walk towards instead of what I walk away from.  The moment someday, 20, 30, 40 years from now that I hold my child again.  But I move.




5AA7BF25-6D22-4373-A823-7DDAD085F563Have you ever seen an image and had it resonate with you?  Like the metaphor or similarities were created only for you, at the moment you were to see it,  the poetic imagery that would then stir the emotions inside you?

That is how I felt when I viewed the few hundred year old tree from the side of the enormous root system protruding out of the ground on my casual hike through the nature preserve.   I couldn’t use words to describe the bizarre kinship I felt, but I snapped a quick cell phone image and kept moving while I considered it.

The giant pine was grounded well in thick nutrient rich soil, the base of the tree almost six feet in width, and my sixth grade outdoor school guesstimate had taught me a lot of rings, means the tree lived a lot of years.  I wondered how did a massive tree become uprooted?  A lightning storm, disease, flooding, old age?  I could only imagine that it came unexpectedly.  Something so strong and deeply rooted, overturned possible in a flash of lightning.    I couldn’t help but feel like nature had created visual imagery of the way I felt on the inside.

The truth is, there is no putting it back.   There is no undoing what has happened. The tree is left to create a new story, even if the new story is not part of the original plan.  I wonder about how often, or rather rarely, the plans we make actually go as we have scripted.  Life is messy, and one of the only things we can bank on to happen is change.

I wonder when I started to tell myself the false narrative that I could have a perfect life if I followed all the rules.   I taught my children all the things, I was a good example, I was a part of our community and participated in every school function.  When do we start telling ourselves that lie?  Watching Disney movies?  When do we fool ourselves into believing tragedies only happen if you do something wrong?  That they will not happen to us if we pray enough or believe enough?   We believe the lie that we must be flawed as a person or a parent if tragedy befalls us.

Almost to further prove my point, the next day at work I found that Covid had broke the happiest person on Earth.  I work with a nurse who I have see smile and blow off the worse of the intolerant patient, surgeon, and most terrible work situation.  She ends each day asking if there is anything she can do to help you before she leaves and insists you have a wonderful night or weekend.  She starts off every morning with Gooood morning in a sing song type voice, way before my coffee has set in.  She asks if you need a hug anytime she sees you looking down.   You would think that would be how all nurses are, but honestly I can assure you that this is a rare find, at least in the operating room.

More popular is the mixture between sarcasm and 7th grade locker room humor to get through the days of extreme stress, though our underlying commitment to our patients is always first and foremost.  On this day though she quietly asked to go home.  I asked if she was sick and she said she couldn’t quit having moments of being tearful.  It was like someone broke Disneyland, the happiest (nurse) place on earth.   With all the social distancing she found herself alone day in and day out.  She couldn’t give hugs or receive them and all the news with death and sadness had left her feeling distraught.  We talked about the fact that taking a moment to cry or tear up is ok.  It’s become my new normal.  It’s ok to take a moment to splash water on your face between patients, it’s ok to take a moment and dab your eyes.   We are human and having emotions is in our nature.   I also gave her a much needed hug, a very long much needed hug.  I consider it a nursing treatment.  We talked about things she could do at home, maybe a kitty, more communication through FaceTime or another platform.  She was having trouble living through her new normal, one that had been thrown at her without warning.  It was obviously not the same as losing a child, but it was a feeling I could relate to and it broke my heart to see someone so full of joy, broken.32E6E79D-E368-4F21-A9FB-88E9B03BC93B

8F849D99-6001-44CE-B594-5DBFF64F1551As if nature was following up with a second act, I ran across another unusual tree on my next hike on my daughter’s birthday.   The tree I ran across grew parallel to the ground.  It looked like it had seen many years and was covered in thirty or more very large knots. Knots are imperfections from stress, the changes in it’s environment and also what makes this tree so beautiful.  The stress causes weakness in the structure of the tree.  This tree had nothing but knots from the trunk up at least three fourths of the way and then two branches, that grew straight out of the knotted tree as if they were coming out of the ground itself..   There was beauty in the imperfectness, the deep lines, the dark rich color that was created over many years the drastic difference in the angle of the tree and its remaining branches.  I was having another moment of comparing similarities as I examined the way the tree survived in an unusual manor each stress to its core.  The irony of my two youngest (sapling) survivors standing next to it was not lost on me.

What do you see?

Unconventional Times

FD1F108D-7F28-45C1-BB6C-B53C0765A7D8The world is in a pandemic.  Duh, you say.   Well for some of us you are experiencing just a glimpse of what many people have already been feeing, fighting and struggling with.   For two months now I have been struggling to figure out this weird emotion I have towards hearing people complain about not being able to keep track of what day it is, to have any structure to their day.  They are becoming forgetful, unmotivated and isolated. People struggle with being able to focus long enough to read a book or lack energy to go back to work even with being gone for so weeks.   Reading and hearing these words irritated me, and at first I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.   Oh yeah, welcome to my life, my husband’s life, my mother-in-laws life, my surviving daughter’s lives, as they tried to navigated high school feeling this way, along with all the other people I have met in this club of traumatic loss.   People that have suffered and unexpected tragedy such as the loss of a child, sibling or spouse unexpectedly, usually deal with complicated grief, or PTSD, or prolonged bereavement.

(Here is an explanation of the cycle of isolation from  The Center for Growth website, “isolation is kept in place by the PTSD symptoms themselves, the person’s coping mechanism’s to these symptoms, and other’s responses to the trauma survivor.  The person with PTSD is not the only person impacted by the PTSD symptoms.  Family, friends, co-workers, even strangers will respond to the behavior that the trauma survivor is engaging in.  Without understanding and explanation, there is a lot of room for misinterpretation on both sides.  Sadly, the negative experiences that the trauma survivor have in interacting with others, and the experiences that others have interacting with the trauma survivor, can reinforce the desire or need for isolation.”

The last two years has changed my behavior to the point where I no longer consider myself an extreme extrovert.  I am considering retaking the 16 personality test and seeing if I am still the Protagonist. Spending time socializing takes more effort, and though I still can enjoy it, I don’t seek it out.  That makes it difficult when we are trying to reach out to our isolated friends.

The only thing I miss now is the ability to go where I want and to plan where I want to go in the future. To be honest, nothing for me at home has changed except I get to actually spend more time with my young adult daughter, teens and husband.  Honestly it is a mother’s dream to have her child have to actually spend time with her.

ED33027F-87DE-4084-BFAB-F0794B2DCCE3Speaking of mourning a loss, I have a high school senior.   She should be graduating with honors, walking across a stage, showing all her haters through the worst period in her life what she managed to accomplish, 4.0 GPA, an academic and sports scholarship while struggling with the death of her sister, anxiety, and depression.  The last two years were sometimes torturous as she navigated it all and alongside her was her younger sister struggling with similar issues and a rare learning disability.  Their oldest sister, then losing her boyfriend, only a year later traumatically.   Somehow through the grace of God,  they have managed to keep it together and now my child number three should be graduating.   Yes, it is a loss.

But it’s not the same.  Am I disappointed at the turn of events?   Yep.   Most likely they will be doing a drive-through graduation.  It is unconventional.   It is not optimal, but it will be remembered that is for sure.   One of my friends recently posted about how Covid-19 is sad, the deaths are sad, and the economic issues are sad, but she is mourning the loss of her daughter’s graduation.   It was like fingers on a chalk board reading her statement.   I am sure she didn’t mean to, but she had put the loss of her daughter’s graduation right up there with the deaths from Covid-19.  Loss has a hierarchy.  Mourning has a hierarchy.   The loss of my husband’s grandmother was sad.  She will be missed.   She lived until she was in her 90s.   The unexpected loss of my 19-year-old is not the same.   The loss of a beloved pet, is not the same.   The loss of my daughter’s graduation is very sad, but it doesn’t. even. compare.   If you asked her, she would say she is bummed, but it doesn’t compare to the last two years of hell she has navigated, not in the least.  For that I would give her an award if I could. I would call it the Overcomer Award.

E2ACB698-B916-434F-958B-D2D09F25CB9DI’ve had a couple of recent difficult days at work related to my loss.   There are days I struggle with different emotions attached to what I have gone through, but I consider myself a decent operating room nurse, so I usually just march through it most days.   Last week I had a patient about 18 years old.   Something about the way the young adult talked reminded me of Mikenna, my daughter.  There was talk of bipolar and eating disorder issues, but you wouldn’t know it hearing the silly bantering between my patient and the friend that had come along side.   I wondered where the parents were?  Did they disapprove of the kind of surgery, did the patient not want any parent in the waiting area.  All I could think of is how I would do anything to have my girl next to me and how I would have been there no matter what kind of surgery she was having.   Luckily I was able to shake and set aside those thoughts until later, an unexpected ability I have mastered.   Then Mother’s day came and went and it was pleasant.   Of course I had more than a few moments of missing my sweet girl, but it was ok.  I hope that someday I can feel true joy without a touch of sadness, but I am not sure if that will be possible.

Yesterday, back at work. I opened Facebook while drinking my coffee before the day was to begin.  My heart sinks.   My childhood friend, one that was in GirlScouts with me, played Barbies with me, and my neighbor for 18 years, lost her 24-year-old son unexpectedly.  It didn’t matter how.  Tears filled my eyes and nausea filled my stomach with the thought of someone I cared about ever feeling this kind of grief.   I remembered those initial days and how they were a blur.  I remembered when all the food and family left how I felt.   How could people during Covid help?  Would there be a funeral or memorial? Maybe an unconventional later date memorial?  I wanted to fly across the country and hold my childhood friend.  I was irrationally mad at myself for not somehow preventing it.  What about my newfound cause of wanting to prevent mental health related deaths in our youths? I just want to know of one thing, anything that can help.  I will keep trying though my heart aches.   It doesn’t matter if mental health was related in this situation, It makes me feel helpless.   I don’t want anyone else to ever feel this pain, no matter how it happens, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, and I have a bit of a vengeful side, trust me.

I still believe in signs, or gifts from heaven or messages or synchronicities.  I went on to set up for my cases as the anesthesiologist came in the room, I hadn’t met him before.  I looked at the name on his badge.  Dr. McKenna.  My heart did a little leap.  I had never heard of it as a last name.  I introduced myself.   I said I had a daughter Mikenna was his last name by chance Irish?  Yes he responded.   I felt like it was a little hug to me.  It’s ok mama was what I felt, real or not.

What can we do? What can we do for those hurting during a pandemic from loss, depression, isolation, PTSD?   We can do the awkward things.  We can make a phone call (yes I am the worst at this).  Not a text.   Sending a text instead of making a call is like the difference between instant coffee and french press, or drinking coffee from styrofoam or a ceramic mug, or the difference of watching a movie in SD instead of HD.  You get my point.  We can check in on each other, we can just listen (also something I struggle with a problem-solver).

Go for a social distance walk with someone struggling, six feet apart of course.  One of the only things that got me through the most difficult days of isolation after my loss was walking.  I had a couple people make me walk long after the flowers had dried.  They still make me walk or get out, because we don’t give up on those we care about even if we have to be unconventional.



Emotional Tides

When my husband and I were first married, we would daydream about where we would own a vacation home.  Though I grew up in Ohio, I was an ocean girl.  I used to joke that I moved as far away from the Midwest as possible until I hit the ocean.

I moved to California to live with my aunt and to transfer to the California guard after being trained in the military as a surgical tech or assistant.   Only six weeks in Northern California and I knew I wanted to be in Southern California.  I lived there for two years before I met my future husband.   Living without family as a young adult across the country can be difficult,  I had difficulty navigating going back to school, dating, the military obligations and getting work as a surgical tech, so I worked for a year spinning blood in the operating room.    I took 24 hour call most days, and tragically this was before cellphones and GPS.   I carried a pager and a Thomas guide.  I would find myself in the wrong part of town constantly, trying to find some tiny hospital in the middle of nowhere.   I once had a nice man in Compton interrupt me while asking directions at a gas station, tell me, to ” just get back in my car and go the other way,” I was too nice of a girl to be where I was.

imageBetween my love life, my job, and missing my own crazy family, not to mention the depression I was would  battling on and off, I would find myself at the ocean.   I would have to drive down Highway 1 multiple times a day for work and many times I would just stop and sit to watch the waves.   I would use a mental picture of throwing my worst fears and worries into the ocean to be carried away.  I would think about them floating all the way to Japan.  I would always contemplate the tides and the gravitational pull of the moon.  I considered visiting the Bay of Fudy and the reversal of the tides caused from the shape of the Bay.  (I almost made that trip but it was thwarted by a selfish traveling companion and a story for another time.) I imagined the ocean in God’s hands like a cereal bowl, slish-sloshing from one side to another. (I made that word up.)

When I met my husband Todd, I lived at the beach and would attempt running on the beach while he read a newspaper and drank coffee.  He was a climber, not a runner.  I moved out to the desert where he lived and we were married a year later.   When kids came another year or two in, and he had graduated from U.C. Riverside, we moved to Oregon where the kids could have their Mimi and Papa.

When we would sit and daydream, as young couples do, we would talk about his love for the mountains.  The quiet, the waterfalls and rivers, and the fishing.  I also loved the mountains, but after a knee repair I could no longer ski, but hiking was still a love of mine.  He already knew my love of the ocean.  Our honeymoon turned out to be a combination of both.  We traveled up the West coast, visiting the beaches like Monterey and Santa Cruz, spending a few nights at the Madana Inn and then an actual log cabin in Big Sur with its own tributary running through it.

imageOver the last 24 years of marriage, we found ourselves in an unspoken compromise.  We ended up spending many family vacations up and down the Oregon and Washington coast.  Astoria, Newport, Beverly Beach, the Redwoods, and when we were alone we went many years to a quiet mountain town in Eastern Oregon.  (I’m not saying where 😉 We would bike, cross country ski, or just enjoy quiet time alone, but I still had an affinity to being near water always wanting to hike the waterfalls and along the river.


Recently I was blessed with having the ability to visit an empty beach house.  I took the girls and all our food.  My goal was to not bring any of our cooties.  We didn’t stop for gas, coffee or anything.  We didn’t talk to anyone or invade anyone’s space at the tiny beach.  My girls were getting cabin fever and they genetically struggle with depression and anxiety.

for a couple days, the change of scenery was such a gift and I was back at my favorite place.  As I walked just a short distance to the bluff, the well-hidden owl would hoot his hello.  I wondered if anyone had told him when he was suppose to hoot?  Google had told me they hoot before sunset and just before sunrise.  Single owls hoot the same time every day, he or she would hoot in the morning around 10am.  Was Mr. or Ms. Owl single?  Had he or she lost their mate?  Who was I to tell him or her when to hoot, for how long or when?  It is like someone telling me when to cry,  how long and when. Owls mate for life I read.  Somehow reading this fact brings me comfort and a little sadness.

As I would visit the unruly ocean, I would almost dare the waves to rise higher.  My husband had sent me a message to beware of sneaker waves, so after trying to walk a few yards near the ocean, and seeing the tiny beach shrink as the high-tide waves rolled higher, I decided to observe the tumultuous  waves from the safety of the bluff.   The girls didn’t need to endure any more loss in their short lives as it was.

I write those words transparently, because I believe that every parent that loses a child examines these feelings of helplessness.  I imagine, people that have lost their spouse may also go through these emotions.  I am not saying necessarily they are suicidal, though in the first year I believe the statistics are higher, people should acknowledge and talk about these things, and it’s why we need to really stay close to people going through  loss.   When loss happened we examine our place in this world, our change in roles, and honestly we try on this new sackcloth we are brought to wear and the bag of heartache we must carry for the rest of their lives.  We feel it’s weight, we adjust it in our arms, we feel the scratch of the material against our skin and we endure it.

So I do spend just one moment contemplating the sneaker wave, how relentless and uncaring it is.  I always think about a the story of the grand-mother staying at the same hotel in Mexico as my husband and I, that had taken her grand-daughter out to the beach to let her own daughter and son sleep in and how the sneaker wave had come and taken her away.  I thought how this water would be ice cold and how terrifying it would be for those few moments.

But ultimately I am grateful for the ocean.  It has always been there.  What I am most grateful for, on this trip, is that standing beside it the roar is a thousand times louder than any wail I could ever cry.  That next to it, I can be tiny, the oceans power is one of the only things that can make my grief seem small, and I am thankful.  When you carry an enormous, overpowering emotion, it helps to stand near something that makes your burden seem less huge.   lee Ann Rimes song comes to mind here, “I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean….”

There are scientist that study our connection to water.  It is called Blue Mind.  The dopamine in our brain may increase when we are at the ocean, our pre-frontal cortex is engaged, we become more mindful and attentive.  Maybe some of this is why, I feel drawn to water wherever I am.  The power, the calming effect, the mystery.  I also have the feeling of being closer to my daughter that passed, memories of the girls running up and down the beach yelling and laughing.  The ocean is a mother’s happy place where her kids can be as loud as they want.  The ocean also brings me feelings of Faith, of things more powerful than I can grasp or imagine, the few tears on my cheeks swiftly brushed away by the wind and the salt-water mist.  I stood there on the bluff and lifted my chin higher, a slight satisfied grin emerged as I stood there for those brief moments as I defiantly asked the sea air to go ahead and “Bring it.”