From Sad to Silly: Christmas Memories Salve Widow’s Pain

By Michele Neff Hernandez –

There is a song on the radio at this time of year, sung by the Carpenters, called “Merry Christmas, Darling.”  The first Christmas after my husband Phil died, hearing this song sent me into fits of tears.  Not the sweet, sad, nostalgic type of tears-these were the hitting my hands on the dashboard or kicking my bed, angry, unreasonable type of tears. 

Every time the song came on, I wanted to scream at the beautiful voice on the radio because the sentiment was so infuriating.  The lyrics proclaim that every day is a holiday with the one you love, so even if you aren’t together on Christmas Eve, no worries, you can be together in your dreams.  At that point, I was way beyond wanting to spend Christmas with Phil in my dreams! What I wanted was to hold him, to feel his warm breath on my cheek, and to sit on the couch, side by side, sipping coffee while the kids opened their gifts on Christmas morning.

Every holiday tradition felt like a chore.  Determined to check off each task on the holiday list, I dutifully put up outdoor lights–crying yet again when I discovered how meticulously Phil had packed away the lights the year before.  The kids and I dragged the tree into the house, but the glittering lights seemed to emphasize my gloominess. 

Opening a storage box, I found old Christmas cards full of cheerful greetings and good wishes.  I sighed out loud as I read each one, thinking of how radically our lives had changed in only 365 days. 

One evening I reached into the bottom of the last plastic bin, and pulled out “Frosty.” Phil was famous in our family for the dance he did when Frosty, who played “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” at the push of a button, made his holiday debut.  Phil’s dance included booty shaking, heel tapping, and all manner of silliness–unfailingly creating throughout the house gales of laughter. 

No one could look at Frosty without giggling, because Phil’s dance was so outrageous.  The kids would even try to get him to perform for their friends; they were always thrilled when he was successfully talked into a crowd-pleasing dance recital. 

Sitting in front of the Frosty box alone, my sorrow surrounded me and filled me with self-pity.  All the things I missed most about my husband were represented by that stupid box. His love of life, his adoration of silliness, his ability to be completely in the moment, and his constant attempts to keep me laughing. My world was so empty and joyless without him. 

While I sat contemplating how awful my life had become since Phil’s death, I absently reached over and pushed Frosty’s button. Even through my tears, I could not suppress the smile that Frosty’s song brought to my face.  It was as if Phil was standing right in front of me, in all his holiday glory, telling me to wipe my tears and accept the joy the holiday season still offered. 

Spontaneously I recreated my husband’s holiday jig–that night, Phil and I danced together, right in the middle of the kitchen.  I could see his big smile and feel the warmth of his love with every note that the silly toy snowman warbled.  Plopping down in my seat at the end of the song–breathless and a little surprised–I felt a glimmer of joy for the first time in months.

The next time “Merry Christmas, Darling” came on the radio, I knew I needed to make peace with my inner Scrooge. As the opening chords played, I sat quietly and really listened.  This time I heard a new message:  Phil and I can no longer physically share the same couch on Christmas morning, but the memory of the many precious moments we shared over the years is mine forever. 

In the years since his death, I have come to realize that I can have Christmas with Phil in my dreams for the rest of my life.  There are still days when my heart aches with the need to feel his touch, and I often find the holidays to be bittersweet. Nonetheless, whenever I feel my despair growing, I counter it with a holiday jig and the love of the man who can still make me smile. 

Reach Michele Neff Hernandez at widowsbond@sbcglobal.net

Widow in Shock: ‘I Can’t Forget His Eyes’

Arlene writes: I lost my husband a week ago today; I buried him yesterday. One minute I am numb, the next I am crying my eyes out. I love and miss my best friend. I just don’t know what to do. I can’t forget his eyes in the ambulance; they were pleading with me and I couldn’t help him….I can’t close my eyes without seeing his pleading eyes. He knew he was dying; it was a massive heart attack and he died in the ambulance in front of my house. I am staying with my sons, and can’t go home. What do I do?

Beverly Chantalle McManus, Grief Companion responds:  Arlene, first of all, I’m so sorry to hear of your loss.  You are experiencing one of the hardest things any human can be asked to face, and it’s important to know that you’re not alone. You are surrounded by a circle of love and support from me and others, who, like you and me, have lived through the shock and tragedy of spouse loss.  What you are experiencing is a very normal aspect of grief - the shock, the numbness, the horror… all blended together and leaving you feeling shattered and like your life will never be the same.  You have embarked on a grief journey, one with its own unique stepping stones and time line.

Yes, your life will never be the same again, but you can get through this.  Even though it’s hard to believe now, you will be able to survive this.  When I lost my husband, the key was to try to stay in the present moment, and not forecast myself too far into the future, which seemed so scary and foreboding.

Initially, I focused only on breathing… if I could just keep breathing, I knew I’d be okay.  Then I focused on making it through each hour… it seemed that with every hour, there was another reminder of all I had lost. I’d wake up and look for that sweet face on the pillow next to me.  I’d pick up the phone and begin calling him.  I’d start thinking about what to cook for dinner.  And then the reality would hit:  He’s not here.  But as I got through each hour, eventually found I could make it through the entire day.

Not without tears, mind you.  Tears are a very important part of your grief journey.  When we cry, we release a cascade of hormones and chemicals that affect every cell of our body in a positive, healing way.  We cry as long as we need to; we know we no longer need to cry only when the tears stop falling.  And afterwards, even if for a transitory moment, we feel a tiny bit better.  When you feel the tears coming, let them fall.  You’re crying because you’re in pain and your heart is broken.  As you cry, as you really feel and embrace all the emotions you are experiencing, you will gradually begin to heal.

Right now, you are very raw… this is a major life trauma, and the experience will always be with you.  I’m glad to hear that you’re staying with your sons now, and hope they are providing some strength you can lean against during this hard time.  At some point - and only you will know when - you will feel like you can return to your home.  You will enter, and feel the absence of that very important person in your life.  But just because one very important heart has stopped beating, your heart will not stop loving.  You will see your home in a new light, and eventually, the love you shared there will be a comfort for you.  Memories will flood you, at times bringing tears, but also with them a healing presence.

I’d like to ask you to consider a couple of things, and hope these will provide a bit of comfort in the days ahead:

As you close your eyes and see your husband’s pleading eyes in front of you, I’d like you to remember the love those eyes have expressed to you, and ask you to consider thinking of him pleading with you so that you will know that even though he may be gone, he will always love you, forever.

I also would like to ask you to continue to stay in touch, and let me know how you’re doing.  Perhaps when you’re ready, consider finding a grief support group or workshop where you can share your story, and find comfort and support from others.  Above all, please do not feel alone.  Know that we are walking this grief journey with you, and most importantly, know that within you is the strength to carry you through this hard time.

Beverly Chantalle McManus lives in Northern California with her two daughters, who have each now graduated from college. She is a bereavement facilitator and core team member of the Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey Workshops, and a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief. In addition to grief support, she is also a marketing executive for professional services firms.

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus

Last Conversation With Son is Deep, Loving

By Yvonne E. Lancaster –

Coming home was a tough time of day.

It signaled the end of the occupational work day, and the beginning of the personal work evening…preparing dinner, doing laundry, taxiing kids, whatever else kept me going until 11 p.m.

My 5 p.m. homecoming blues had often been softened by seeing my oldest son Brian’s familiar dark blue Chevy Citation sitting in the driveway.

His bumper stickers read: “Free the Beaches” and “Save the Whales.”  My heart was always warmed to know I’d raised a son who was a caring person.

As I deftly balanced grocery bags, a trick I’ve learned over the years, Brian sat snacking at the kitchen table with the newspaper opened to the comic strip section.

“Hey Mom, what’s up?”

“Not much, Sonny Boy,” I replied, ruffling his thick blond hair that had made people downright jealous for the last 19 years.

Brian helped put the groceries away, checking out all of the goodies.

“How’s school going?” I asked.

“Alright.  We’re getting psyched-up for exams.  Ugh!” He held up a jar of pickles.

“How come you’re still buying so much food?” he said.  “You’re forgetting I’m away at school.”

“No, Sonny, I’m remembering that you pop in two or three times a week with your friends.  Actually, our grocery bill has inflated.  You’ve forgotten you have a teenage sister and brother who are human eating machines.”

“Yes, that’s true,” he said, reconsidering.

“How are they, Mom?” he asked.

“They miss you, and I do too.”

“I miss all of you, too,” he said slowly.  “But, after I graduate from the Mount, there’s a possibility I can come home before I go to Southeastern.”

“That would be great, Brian.  It’s not the same without you.  It’s an adjustment period for all of us with you away,” I said, my voice trailing off.

“Is everything really alright with you?” I asked.

“Well,” he hesitated before beginning again.  “Between studies, the job and girls, I’m not sure which is worse,” chin in hand, his elbow resting on the table.

“Remember that personal and educational plan we worked out for you?”  I said.  “Well, maybe you should review it,” I said, looking at him from the corner of my eye, trying not to sound like a mother.

“It’s tough out there,” he said.

“Yeh, I know it.  Life truly tests the soul,” I said.

Darkness began to fill the kitchen the kitchen.  I switched on the light and decided to have some tea.

“Gotta run, Mom.” Brian gathered his books, his jacket and an apple.

“Why so soon?” I asked.

“I promised to give a friend a lift.   Her car has been in the shop.”

“Oh,” I said, trying not to show too much disappointment.

“How about dinner and conversation on Saturday?” he asked.

“Sounds good, Sonny.  My treat.”

We hugged and kissed goodbye.

As my head left his broad shoulder, I couldn’t help feeling the years that the years had gone by too quickly.  How could he have become a man so fast?  Wasn’t it just yesterday that he laid his head against my shoulder?

As I watched him leave, I kept the door open, letting the December coldness inside.  My old mother’s heart ached for simpler times; my new mother’s heart felt pride and joy in seeing him become an independent young man.

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

“Thanks, Brian.  I love you, too.  Always know we are here.”

He smiled with renewed confidence and waved. His boyish grin found a place deep within my heart.

The next time I saw Brian was five days later. He was in a coma and died, after a tragic car accident caused by a drunk driver.

It’s OK to Laugh… and Other Hints for the Holidays

By Tom Zuba –

My 18-month-old daughter Erin died suddenly on July 18, 1990.  Had she lived, we’d be preparing for her 20^th birthday this January 2.  Even though I had grown up aware that children do die - my own baby brother Danny died when I was just 6 years old - nothing prepared me for my daughter’s death. 

I was ill-equipped and ill-prepared as were most, if not all, of the people in my circle.  That first holiday season, and the next, and even the next were difficult for my wife and me. I wish someone had handed us the following information.  It might have made the journey a little easier.  That is my wish for you.

1. Remind yourself that you will survive.  You will.

2. Think about what will bring you the most peace. 

* Keeping all traditions in tact? 

* Tweaking some traditions a bit and adding new ones?

* Throwing out all the old traditions and starting new ones?

* Flying to Florida and completely skipping the holidays this year? It’s okay to do that.

3.  Don’t expect anyone to mention your deceased loved one by name.  Believe it or not, that’s your job.  People will look to you to determine whether or not it’s safe to talk about the deceased.  A few subtle ways to do that:

* Serve/bring your deceased loved one’s favorite holiday dish - talk about it!

* Bring a favorite picture - pass it around. Work it into the dining table centerpiece.

* Bring a favorite memento - a book, a poem, a watch, a piece of jewelry - share it after dinner.

* Have your loved one’s favorite music playing in the background - tell the story. 

4. Plan a special evening for close family and friends when you REMEMBER.  Ask everyone to bring a favorite photo and write down a special memory.  Set time aside to sit in a circle and share the photos and stories.

5. Remember that it’s okay - it’s even healthy - to cry.

6. It’s okay to stay in bed…you will get out, when you are ready and able.

7. It’s okay to smile or even laugh, a bit.  You’re not being disloyal.

8. Buy yourself a gift.  Wrap it.  Write a note - to you - from the deceased.

9. Be gentle.  Most of all be gentle with yourself.  You are doing the best you can.

10. Light a candle.  Hope.

Tom Zuba can be reached at tom@tomzuba.com or through his website: www.tomzuba.com

What To Say When Someone’s Parent Has Died

By Annette Gonzalez –

My parents died within five months of one another.  This was a most difficult time in my life, and I was looking to family and friends for strength and comfort. 

At my parents’ funerals, people would say things to me that were of no comfort.  In fact, some of their words made me feel worse.  I’m sure that these people did not want to be insensitive; it’s just difficult to know what to say.  Sometimes the right words of comfort elude us.  I believe at times, it is appropriate to say nothing. 

I remember people telling me what a good life my father and mother had led, how they were in a better place, and that their time had come.  I didn’t want to hear any of these observations, even if they were true statements.  I wanted my father to live forever; I wanted my mother to live forever. 

If you feel the need to say something to someone who has just lost a parent, I hope the following two lists of comments will assist you:

Five Things to Say

* I understand that you are in pain. Let me know if I can help you.

* No matter how old your parent is, I know the death is difficult.

* Even though your mother/father was elderly, I understand that you always want him (or her) to be around for a longer time.

* Even though your parents were sick, we are almost never prepared for the reality of the death.

* Take your time in grieving; there is no time limit. 

Five Things Not to Say

* He (or she) was old.

* He (or she) had a good life.

* His (or her) time had come.

* This too shall pass.

* You will get over it in a couple of months

No one knows the depth of the loss, even if one has lost a parent.  We should all be aware that our comments can console, or add to the pain, so we should think before we speak.

Reach Annette at annetted.gonzalez@yahoo.com.

Gratitude Journal Brings Grieving Mother Relief

By Debra Reagan –

There came a point in my grief over the death of my son Clint when I became so tired of being tired. I began to search for something that would offer a bit of relief. I purchased a small notebook and began keeping a daily gratitude journal. Every day, I tried to find something to write in my journal.

Most days, at first, I was just grateful that I had made it through another day. As time went on, I began to find small things of which I was truly grateful. I began to see that I had received many blessings. These were blessings that I would happily give back if I could turn back the clock, but they were blessings nonetheless.

It seemed that as my journal grew, so did my strength. I began to look forward to logging my gratitude in my journal. I suppose my focus was changing and my pain over the loss was being replaced with my appreciation of those around me. This felt right for me.

At one point, I expanded my journal by adding a section where I could record events that had brought me brief moments of happiness. I wanted to determine if there was a pattern to these moments. I longed so much to be happy again. My dear Clint wanted everyone to be happy.

It has been awhile since I began my journal and I continue to take one day at a time as I search to find what is right for me. I accept that my new normal will always have a level of the pain because of our great loss; I want to find ways to carry this loss. I want Clint’s life to also have a legacy of love, joy and happiness. The tears still come, but sometimes now smiles come too. Those smiles represent the love and precious memories.

My husband once asked me if I would do it all again. I knew what he meant. He was asking me if I would marry him again and have our two beautiful sons if I knew this would be the outcome. In the depth of the pain, I must admit I paused and wondered what person would ever choose to go through this anguish? But then the answer came: If avoiding the pain meant avoiding the love, then I would choose the love with all the strings attached. I am grateful for this love.

I am grateful for the past and the time we shared as a family. I am grateful for many things in the present:  my family and friends, the special connection I still have with Clint. I am grateful for my faith and the future, because I believe I will see Clint again.

Reach Debra Reagan through her website, www.clint-reagan.memory-of.com

Don’t Go It Alone After Loss of Husband

Jackie writes in: I just lost my husband of 25 years to liver cancer, October 2008, lived for 6 months after he was diagnosed. I cry day and night because I miss him so much. He was my world and I don’t think I can cope with his death!!! We were the best of friends and we never went any where without each other, we were inseparable. We have a 17-year-old son, who I have to sleep with every night in order to be able to close my eyes at night. He is also so devastated. I’d give anything to be able to hold my husband, hear his amazing voice, and kiss him once more…it hurts soooo bad!!!!!!  

Drs. Heidi Horsley and Gloria Horsley respond: We are so sorry to hear of the death of your husband. Right now it feels like you can’t cope because you were so close for those 25 years. We encourage you to be gentle with yourself while the pain is so new and so great. Give yourself time to grieve and do what you need to do for comfort as you begin to heal. Know that others have made it before you and you can too.

Don’t try to go it alone.  You have reached out to us and now we hope that you will help yourself and your son by finding additional support in your community.  We suggest that you reach out to friends, family, religious community, and possibly professional counseling for support. Try contacting your local hospital or hospice to find a support group.  We also suggest that you go to our blog for those who have lost a spouse, http://opentohopedeathofaspouse.com/ and consider blogging about your experiences. Writing is a wonderful outlet that helps not only you but at the same times gives encouragement and hope to others.

Your son may also need help and counseling to deal with the loss of his dad. While it is not unusual for a family to sleep in the same room after the sudden death of a family member, we feel that your grief and need may be putting undue stress on your son. It is important to remember that teens need their space and they often feel like they have to remain strong for their grieving parent and take care of them. 

Teens can feel responsible for parents and feel like they need to be with them to fill the void left by the deceased parent. It’s important that we as parents gently encourage our teens to go through the normal developmental stage of separation and individuation - spending time with friends and sleeping by themselves.  Reassuring teens that you (the parent) will be OK even though you are grieving right now often is a relief to teens who are carrying the burden of thinking they have to comfort bereaved parents. You and your son may both find help in reading our book, Teen Grief Relief.

You may also find help and comfort in listening to some of our archived Healing the Grieving Heart radio shows. You can find them by going to The Grief Blog and clicking on the Radio Show Archives tab or going to http://thegriefblog.com/grief-grieving-death-of-a-child/. We specifically recommend the following shows:

June 26, 2008
Meanings of Life, Death, Loss, and Grieving
Guests: Thomas Attig, PhD and Nancy Cincotta   April 17, 2008
Healing After the Death of a Husband
Guest: Tammy Stoner

December 20, 2007
Getting Through the Holidays Without Your Spouse
Linda Della Donna

December 7, 2007
How to Help Your Teens Grieve in a Healthy Way
Drs. Heidi and Gloria are guests on
The Parents Hour with Dr. Arline Kerman

We are posting your letter and our response on the Open to Hope website because we believe it will be a help to many of our readers. We encourage you to check back for comments which may be left by our loving and compassionate visitors. We wish you well as you walk this very difficult path we call grief.

Drs. Heidi Horsley and Gloria Horsley are founders of the Open to Hope Foundation. 

Stillbirth: ‘We Knew You Before You Were Born’

By Judith O’Reilly –I love my children. All four of them: there is one I cannot hold. Not true. I hold him in my heart. I just cannot hold his hand in mine. He would be eight today.

Two days before he was due to be born, he stopped moving. I did the things you do, ate vanilla ice cream for which I had no appetite, climbed awkwardly into a hot bath, dribbled water onto my still belly, fell silent, thought: “Fuck and buggery.”

My husband drove me to hospital. I spoke. “I’m sure it’s fine, but I can’t feel the baby move.” The midwife took me in, laid me down, wired me up, turned off the light. She cold-gelled and swept the veined mound with ultrasound. I thought: “Now’s the time to wave, baby.” No wave. She could not find a pulsing beat in the grainy black and white. I thought: “I shan’t ask for a picture then this time.” She said: “I’m going to get someone else to have a look.” I thought: “That’s not what you’d call a good sign,” as the door shush closed behind her.

A brief pause before an older woman came in. Kind. Experienced with bad news. Sweep and look again to find death, tragedy, horror, and desolation. She leant in towards me, said her prayers for the dead: “I am very sorry to have to tell you . . . ” My husband and I clung together as if our world had ended. Our world had ended. I can tell you the exact sound a heart makes when it breaks. It sounds like a wolf. Both of us heard it.

If you have a stillbirth, they do not cut you up, rip out the babe, sew you up, and send you away, almost whole again. Lick split. Instead, they say, “Don’t swallow this,” and hand you a torpedo; connect you to a drip and “start you off.” They say: “This isn’t going to hurt,” and lie. “We’ll break your waters,” and take up a crochet hook but not to make a table mat. “Let’s give you morphine. Usually, we don’t do this.” The morphine helps but not enough. “Not long now” and “Push” and “Stop” and sixty hours later: “Well done,” and you see how your life could have been.

My baby boy was beautiful. These babies often are. My baby boy was dead. Stillbirth can be like that. Lying on a paper blanket, the bones in his skull all pushed around, misshapen. The dead, they do decay. Yet, when I felt his head push out from me, he had felt wet, warm, and wonderful. Don’t look now. The skin, already flayed from his neck, came off at a too tender touch. I do not know the colour of his eyes but his fingers, tips tinted in scarlet, folded to hold my finger. The first and last time I held his hand in mine.

My hand splayed on his chest, his, left hand curled round my little finger; my thumb tucked in the other. I felt along the romper for his feet, the curve of his calf, the better to remember his body. We had time with him, but not enough; I kissed his rosebud mouth, but not enough; I showered him in tears, too many.

I know how death smells. We lit candles in tins. One for vitality. It did not work. We took endless photos of a subject who never moved. As my husband slept for an hour through the London night, I sat with my baby, told him about Christmas and birthdays and jungle animals and Northumberland which his father loved and where we holidayed each New Year. I swear he heard me. Then the smell got too much and we buried him. I have the bill yet. Keepsakes are hard to come by when a baby dies.

Supply of a small white coffin and transport:

• Fee: £150
• Extra mileage: £80
• Gravediggers: £60

They were toothless. The gravediggers, standing too close and anxious to get on with the job, leaning on their spades as we buried our future. In his coffin we put a teddy bear (cruel of us to bury a teddy), photo of a kiss, crucifix (I have its mate), tulip, and a letter. Hardly room in there for the baby. We printed the letter on the order of service for the funeral. It said: “We knew you before you were born and we wouldn’t have missed a moment of our time together as a family. Wherever we go in life, you will be with us and part of us. You will always be the little blond-haired boy running alongside us on a Northumberland beach and the sound of your laughter will always fill our home. ”

No reason for the death. As the hospital report said: “No malformations or obvious infection.” Often the way. His heart weighed 19g. Not a heavy heart. Mine weighed more. No medic in rubbered hands can weigh a mother’s love though. The fact my husband touches me reminds me not to die and he pulls me through the anguish of the days and nights and days. And we whisper a promise to each other that we will not compromise; we will think differently; do what it takes to strive for happiness together.

From the book Wife in the North by Judith O’Reilly. Reprinted by arrangement with PublicAffairs (www.publicaffairsbooks.com), a member of the Perseus Books Group. Copyright © 2008.

Judith O’Reilly was the education correspondent for The Sunday Times of London, where she also reported on politics and news, and worked undercover on education, social, and criminal justice investigations. She is a former political producer for ITV’s Channel 4 News and BBC2’s Newsnight. A freelance journalist, she started her blog, www.wifeinthenorth.com in 2006. She lives in England.

Prescription Drug Addiction Leads to Brother’s Death

By Rod Colvin – 

I wrapped my birthday gift and left it on the kitchen table. As I headed to work, I pondered where to take my brother Randy for his birthda. The upcoming evening was to be one of celebration. Not only was Randy turning 35, he had just completed his college degree in business. But around noon, I got a telephone call at my office. It was a nurse from a nearby hospital, informing me that my brother had just been brought in by rescue squad. He was in critical condition.

Terrified, I jumped in the car and sped toward the hospital. Minutes later, I was in the emergency room, frantically scanning the bays of bed, looking for Randy, but I didn’t see him anywhere.

Just then, a nurse approached me, “Are you Randy’s brother?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Let’s step out into the hall,” she said.

My heart sunk. At that moment, I knew the worst had happened. “Is he dead?” I asked, not wanting to hear her response.

The nurse dropped her gaze and nodded.

Randy was gone.

The death of my brother-and only sibling-was one of the most profound losses of my life, but I must tell you, his early passing was not a total shock. For years, Randy had battled a prescription drug dependency that started at age 20 when a psychiatrist first prescribed tranquilizers to help him cope with anxiety. The drugs made him feel good, so he started using them more and more. Over the years, he became very clever in obtaining Valium, Xanax, Percodan, Percocet, and other painkillers by a common scam known as “doctor shopping.”

My parents and I had long feared the toll this behavior was taking on him emotionally and physically. Repeatedly, we had pleaded with Randy to get help, but he always denied that he had a problem.

Still, at times he appeared to be leaving the drugs behind - he would be clearheaded and showed no signs of abusing drugs. He even enrolled in college. Each time we observed such positive changes, we thought he had beaten the problem.

In fact, just before he died, he had been drug free for nearly a year. However, as I later pieced together the last hours of his life, I learned that he had relapsed-prescription drugs, mixed with alcohol, a dangerous combination, had contributed to Randy’s death. He had gone into cardiac arrest at a friend’s house.

My brother’s long battle-our family’s agonizing battle-with prescription drug dependency was over. Sadly, we had lost. Randy died on October 19, 1988 -his thirty-fifth birthday.

In the years since my brother died, I’ve healed from the acute pain , but I still feel the loss deeply. Left now with only memories, I’m especially grateful for an experience I had with him shortly before his death.

I’d had minor surgery, and Randy drove me home from the clinic. He fixed me a bite to eat and stayed close by while I napped. He seemed to enjoy being the caretaker, the role I was so used to playing with him. “It’s so nice to have a brother,” I said. He just smiled and patted me on the shoulder.

It’s a memory I’ll treasure always.

Rod Colvin is author of Overcoming Prescription Drug Addiction. This article is excerpted, with permission, from that book. For more about Rod and his work, visit   www.prescriptiondrugaddiction.com

                                                                                     

 

Obama Right to Interrupt Campaign

By Neil Chethik –

President-elect Barack Obama’s decision to leave the campaign trail to visit his dying grandmother may have been difficult in the short run: it came less than two weeks before election day. But the decision is almost certain to help him now as he comes to terms with her death.

Research from The FatherLoss Survey, which I conducted for my book, FatherLoss, indicates that taking the time to connect with a dying loved one in the last days of his or her life promotes successful grieving.

In the survey of 300 men whose fathers had died, only 40 percent said they had a chance to directly say good-bye to in the days or weeks before their father’s death. But among those who did say good-bye, 82 percent that it helped them in their subsequent grieving.

The final good-bye is important in several ways. First, the surviving person often gets a chance to see that the dying person has accepted his or her mortality. One man I interviewed, a mechanic who was 36 when his father died, talked with his dad in the final days about the afterlife. He learned that his father expected after his death to go through a “doorway” into eternal love and acceptance.

The son said later: “When he died, I was sad, yet I felt a sense of peace knowing that he wanted us to let him go into that doorway. He looked forward to death, not in a fatalistic suicidal way, but as more of an adventure into the great beyond.”

Another opportunity at the final good-bye is giving and receiving a blessing from the dying person. Sen. Obama’s grandmother helped raise him, and Obama undoubtedly wants her to know for sure that she was instrumental in bringing him to the brink of the presidency. Meanwhile, it’s likely that he would want to hear from her that no matter what happened in the election, she is proud of him and who he has become.

Those kinds of exchanges often take place at good-byes - and they make a difference. One man I interviewed for FatherLoss, who had struggled in his relationship with his father throughout his life, recalled their last meeting.

At that meeting, in the hospital, the father said to his 34-year-old son: “You’ve got a beautiful wife, and a gorgeous child. You’ve got a good life. You’re going to be fine.” He then kissed his son and asked him to leave. A couple of hours later, the father died.

Later, the son told me that had that last encounter not occurred, he (the son) would “probably have doubted a lot of things. I would have wondered if he was still angry. But I never worried about it… (The last good-bye) reduced my mourning to the sadness of losing him.”

Obama, by visiting his dying grandmother last month, may have lost a couple of days on the campaign trail, but he will likely gain a significant measure of peace from the decision.

Neil Chethik is executive editor of Open to Hope Foundation, and author of FatherLoss: How Sons of All Ages Come To Terms With the Deaths of Their Dads (Hyperion). Reach him at www.NeilChethik.com.

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