Grieving This Holiday

"Here is one of the ways grief works in our minds… I fall asleep thinking about my new cat, and how quickly she slipped into her own night time pattern. And how different her pattern is from any of the other cats I’ve had. Had. Because they’re dead now. Bella died in June. Bella hasn’t even been dead for a year. Bella’s only been gone for six months. And I miss her. As cute as Mara is, she is an addition, not a replacement. And I want to have them both. Then I want all five of the deceased and alive cats all in one space. In one time. Right now.

And then I remember that time is a cycle of wheels and gears interlocking and pulling away. Some return to meet over and over and some gears only touch once before travelling onward. Our lives are these wheels within gears, within circles of family and friends. We need time and distance to distort the powerful emotion of feeling all that love at once or we would explode from the wonder of it. But sometimes, in the wake of the awe, we forget that these cycles and shifting circles are what our lives are made up of. And grief is part of that cycle.

I remember Bella’s night time pattern. Every night, before sleep, a kiss on the nose. If I forgot she would cry at me, kneading her feet angrily or worriedly on the bed. It was never the same emotion. And I remembered them, every one of those separate occasions as if they were a flip book of images in my mind until they became the same still. A thousand emotional moments becoming one feeling, one memory, and bringing her back to life. I could hear her tinny, obnoxious cry. And I could feel her coat under my hand. I could feel her push her face against my lips. I started to cry with a kind of grief I haven’t let myself feel for months."

I wrote that four years ago. Rereading it stings at my heart. I remember like it was yesterday. The house is decorated for the holidays. We give our cats a stocking of toys and catnip in the morning. It was hard enough when Luna died. And then, Bella... This year Zami won’t be there either. I know our holiday morning will be bittersweet, making new memories while being haunted by old ones. It’s why learning to be in the moment is important. This year, more than any other, I have a long list of friends who are dealing with the loss of a parent or pet, most of them within the last few weeks. It’s the cycle of life. And it’s heartbreaking.
             It's only been two months since Zami died. Mara is part of this family now, having found her niche. But Zami was the last of the originally babies. Her loss is still palpable. There are three boxes on my altar of cremains. At least they are together again, in a way.

It’s hard to lose someone at the holiday season. And it’s hard to be missing them when we are focused on family and loved ones. The weight of our grief directly correlates to the weight of the love we held for the lost. And when we are surrounded by family, by joyous, loving emotions like the holidays evoke, some of that grief will seep through. The most important piece of advice I can give you is to be gentle with yourself. The holidays are about compassion and you have to start with yourself.
             There’s no timetable for grief. What takes some people months, takes others years. Even then, it never truly goes away. The loss is always with us. So go easy on your grief. Allow it to flow through you.

Four years ago, sitting with friends, I realized that I would never say to Bella again, “Nobody wants your anus,” as she was prone to presenting it to people in greeting. Insistently. I cried for a minute, out of nowhere. They asked what was wrong and I told them and immediately laughed through my tears, because it was such a strange thing to miss. I said that it was stupid and my friends said, No. It wasn’t.
             And they were right. The tears gave way to smiles and funny stories and the day went on. I didn’t ruin it with my grief. I allowed it to move through me.

So who cares if you’re at a holiday party and you think about your dad and you cry. Everyone loses people they love. Everyone understands. And if they don’t, maybe we need to make them. I cry for my Grandpa every Christmas morning when I eat my orange, because he’s not here.

The last Christmas with the Original trio, 2009.

It’s when we hold our grief in that it eats at us and it hurts. That’s when keeping it behind walls until it bursts ruins our days and moods. At the holidays, it’s impossible not to think about our fresh losses. We’re afraid of our grief. We’re afraid to bring it up because of the tears that threaten to follow. But what doesn’t work through us lives within us. So those who are grieving need to be able to be sad so that we can push through the crust of grief to the happy memories underneath it. The swifter you allow the flood, the sooner it ebbs.

If you aren’t the one grieving?
             Give your friends a break. Invite them to your festivities even if they’re dealing with a loss. Remind them they still have you. Be understanding if they choose not to come. Be understanding if they show up and are not the life of the party. Holidays are not about how things look. They’re about brotherhood and sisterhood and compassion.
At least they should be.

I spend a lot of my time hanging natural ribbons on trees in memory of those no longer with me. So I both make and collect ornaments that do the same thing. I have an angel cat for both Luna and Bella and now, Zami. A hummingbird for my grandparents and an owl for my grandma. You could also get some heavy card stock and cut out suns and snowflakes. Write the names of your Recent and Beloved Dead on them and hang them on your tree.

Drink a toast to those you miss when you are all gathered together. Have everyone raise a glass and speak their name. Speak their names. Invoke them into your joy. Share funny or heartwarming stories about them. Set a favored cocktail out on a clear space as an altar and offering for them. Bake the cookies they loved or used to make themselves and share them.
Cry when you need to.

Put out a bunch of tea lights and candles, unlit. Throughout the day, as you remember a happy memory, light another candle. Literally allow the love and memories you had to bring light into your holiday. The darkness of winter seems to last forever, but this is when the light begins to return. I use the holiday as a reminder that there is joy after the sadness. Grief may pull at our hearts but love will win out in the end.

Blessings to you and yours this holiday season.



[Originally published December 18, 2013 as Grieving at the Holidays, after the loss of Bella.]

Beauty in Grief

Grief. It welcomes itself into your life in multiple occasions of loss: jobs, homes, health, pets, loved ones.

I feel it now, even though the sun is shining outside of my office window. I am sitting in my chair typing, resting my damaged legs after a half hour of standing still. I could feel grief over the change in my health, and I do. But staring at the sun, my heart is sore because I miss my Grandpa.

He died right after the spring equinox. He was a bright light in my heart and the loss of him still hurts. But not as much. Not as sharply, which is normal. It's been over a decade now. It hardly seems possible.

It was gloomy the day he died, and cold still. But you could feel the change of season in the air. The day we buried him, the sun was bright and warm. He would have loved it. I didn't feel that way at the time, but I see that now. Then, I was grieving.

Grief is dark. It's smothering and it eats the oxygen from the air. It manipulates gravity until every push and pull of your muscles is a battle you don't want to win.

Grief is a tool of change and transition. It serves a purpose. Something in our lives has altered incredibly and will never be the same. Grief steals in and colors our world to better sharpen the contrast between what has changed and what remains the same. It reminds us so that our brains can't lie to us. Otherwise it would.

So when I look at the sun on a warming spring day, and my heart hurts, it is a reminder that my Grandpa isn't here to see that sun. But then I think about him. About him. Not the loss of him, but about the life he lived and the people he loved and those who loved him in return.

I tell his stories, about how he used to tell us he made dessert, and even boxed it up special, just for us. For years I thought he made the best coffee cakes, and just put them in Sara Lee boxes. I really did. And he almost had me until he said he grew a cantaloupe in one day... and the whole family thought I had known all along that he was joking about his baking skills.

I tell his stories, and they make me smile. Grief blankets the heartbreak so that it's bearable. And on the other side of it, the light becomes a welcome sight again. Green shoots poke their way out of the warming earth. Flowers bloom and birds return. So do the memories.

What is remembered, lives.

Imminent Death

I wasn’t sure what to call this article. That sounded so urgent, but it’s what I want to talk about. I want to talk about those times in your life when death knocks. When you know to expect it… soon, and you have a little push time until it arrives. Where “soon” is the closest you can get to any certainty.

I’m packing for an annual retreat in the mountains, away from technology, away from traffic, and away from my senile, dying 20 year-old cat. It’s not that a vet has told us she’s dying. She’s 20 years old. That’s like, 96 in human years. She’s looking tired and worn. She sleeps twenty hours a day and walks stiffly through the house. We don’t know when, but we know it’s coming, likely sooner, rather than later.

I have a ritual now, before I leave overnight to go anywhere. I snuggle my cat, now affectionately called Grams, in a blanket and I cradle her in my lap. I listen to the familiar heavy-motor purr, the only thing that hasn’t faded. From just one touch of my finger she could run for hours, without breaking. I often woke in the night, distressed that something was different- only to discover that my kitty sound-machine had finally stopped purring.

And in my ritual, I listen to her purr. I tell her how much I love her. I tell her how lucky we were that she picked us in that winter storm in Fredonia. I tell her how happy she has made us. I listen as her purr turns to chirp as she headbutts my elbow crook. I listen to her chirp turn to chirrup turn to coo as she goes limp with bliss in my lap.

I use the special singsong voice she loves most. And then I sing to her, “Songbird” by Fleetwood Mac. My cat trills a special note she only uses when I sing. And I sit with my beloved friend, who has been in my life for seventeen years. The things she has seen no one else knows. The ways we have changed, only she has witnessed.

I know this. I hold her. I feel sorrow for what is coming. And I feed that sorrow my love. In that last moment, whether I am with her or whether I am away on retreat somewhere, I know I will not have regret, because I told her how I felt and I showed her what she meant. She will know how much I loved her, she will feel how grateful I was for her, and she will remember the vibrations of my chest on her muscles as I sang sweet words to her:

“For you, there will be no crying.

For you, the sun will be shining.

And I feel that when I’m with you, it’s all right.

I know it’s all right…”

I could talk about my uncle, the first of my father’s siblings to be gravely ill. I could talk about his fight that he’s winning and losing. I could say that I am afraid I won’t see him again, and I know that’s why we had the conversation we had at Christmas. Because he might not see me again, and he didn’t want to leave things unsaid.

In that moment, it broke my heart. I wanted to push him away. I didn’t want him to say the words because to me words are magic. But this is my work. This is what I do. So I stood and I listened, overwhelmed with gratitude to be witness to his life, to stories he’d never told anyone else. To be gifted a shared intimacy that will last longer than this flesh.

I would talk about it more but I am sensitive to those loved ones who may not want to hear the words, he is dying. He is, right now. But he could get better. But right now, he’s not. But I get it. Words are magic. To act as if he is dying, to acknowledge it so that loved ones can prepare for its arrival, is as if to invite it in sooner. As if you are lighting a beacon. As if saying you acknowledge you will die, sooner than later, is the same thing as saying “I’m ready.”

But what walled city saw the fleet of ships arriving with weapons drawn and said, “I’m ready to fall?”

Are we ever ready? I snuggle my cat close to me. I tell her it’s all right. It’s all right if she hangs out with her moments of dementia for more years. It’s all right if I wake up tomorrow and she’s gone. It’s all right if she passes while we’re away. As long as she knows we love her and what an important part of our family she is, will always be.

I think of my uncle, the funny one, and I feel bad saying he’s sick. As if somehow I am unweaving any healing work he is undergoing to get better. I pray to my Grandpa Mark and Grandma Ruth and ask them to watch over my uncle every morning, to give him as much life as he has in him. I ask them to watch over their other children as they deal with their varying levels of grief over the idea that, eventually, one of them will be the first to die.

I pray to my cats that have crossed over, Luna and Bella, and ask them to watch over Zami, and to welcome her across when she is ready to take that journey.

May we live each day with our eyes open.

May we know the light and the darkness,

and may we fear neither.

May we learn to feed the shadow with light.

May we know joy and sadness.

May we feed our sorrow with love.

May we live without regret.

May those we love know our hearts.

May our last moments be good moments.

May our last words be words of love.

The Stages of Victorian Mourning

Queen Victoria in mourning with white trim.

The Victorian Period lasted for the reign of Queen Victoria, from 1837-1901. It’s strict mourning structure was influenced by the Georgian Period 1714-1830, and continued into the succeeding Edwardian Period, 1901-1910, though strictures relaxed a bit. Formal mourning etiquette and practice peaked during Victoria’s reign. After the death of her beloved husband, Prince Albert, in 1861, the Queen spent three years in deep mourning, and the rest of her rule in more relaxed mourning attire.

Mourning etiquette was as strictly held in the antebellum South as it was in England. As a cultural custom, it was quite expensive. It either required the immediate building of an entire new wardrobe, or it necessitated that existing wardrobe pieces be “overdyed” black. This process would forever pull them out of daily use. One has to wonder if some poorer widows chose to spend the rest of their lives in black, not out of continued grief, but out of poverty and the inability to create a new wardrobe.

In death, curtains were closed and clocks were stopped. Mourning clothes were meant to serve as an outward display of inner sorrow, in a time when emotional hysterics were taboo. Popular household journals like The Queen and Cassell’s listed proper mourning etiquette in great detail, and were a staple for respectable housewives. It described in detail what was expected of them for the death of a third cousin, for example, or that of a brother-in-law. Children were not expected to wear mourning colors, though it wasn’t uncommon for girls to wear white dresses for mourning.

Full Mourning

Civil War widow in full veil.

The first stage in the death of a loved one was the Full Mourning period, and the most dramatic. The fashion itself became a means of removing oneself from regular society. I can understand the sentiment. It’s the grief period of surreal disbelief, where every mundane is no longer mundane because the deceased is no longer with you.

Women wore heavy and concealing black clothes, and long, weighted crepe veils attached to special hats and bonnets. The term “widow’s weeds” comes from the Old English waed for “garment.” Dresses were made out of flat black fabrics, like a non-reflective parramatta silk, or a more affordable bombazine. Cashmeres, grenadines, and tulles were also acceptable. The dresses were trimmed with crepe, a stiff, scratchy, crimped silk that didn’t combine well with other fabrics.

The main adornment was jewelry made of jet. It was a lesser stone with organic origins, decayed wood under extreme pressure (think ‘hard coal’). The wealthy often wore cameos or lockets which would hold hair or some other relic of the deceased. These items were considered sentimental jewelry and were not specifically mourning ware.

Widows wore mourning clothes for two to four years after the death of their husband, actual time varying by region. She could choose to dress in blacks for the rest of her life. In the American South, the full mourning crepe would be applied as one piece, starting about an inch below the waist and a couple inches above the hem. For a year widows would seclude themselves and see no one but close family. Outside of her home she would wear a black bonnet with a long opaque veil. It was a signal for others to leave her alone, and let her about her business.

"Fell asleep, June 27th 1870, aged 17."

Full Mourning lasted for at least a year and changing out of full mourning dress early was a sign of disrespect. If the widow was young enough, it was also an act that stigmatized probable promiscuity and sullied her reputation. A widow was not permitted to enter society for twelve months. No man or woman was supposed to attend social events while deep in mourning.

Men were not subject to quite the same restrictions as women. Those in service that required a uniform could wear a simple black armband while in mourning. For other men, an armband instead of full proper mourning attire was a break in etiquette. Gentlemen were expected to wear a Mourning Suit, which was a black frock coat, trousers, and matching waistcoat. It included black gloves, hatbands, and cravats. This should not be confused with the traditional Morning Suit, a suit for weddings and other formal occasions that would often include striped or checked trousers.

Husbands mourned wives for six months to a year. Wearing a black armband, he was allowed to business, as well as social parties. The widower could remarry whenever he wished, even within the six month period, at which point his mourning period would be over.

Slighting the Mourning

In some places, at this stage, the crepe trim could be removed from dresses, capes, and bonnets. But the dark dress beneath the crepe remained. Any accessories were still black. In the American South, after a year’s seclusion, the widow would shorten the crepe apron and alter the veil from waist-length to shoulder-length.

Half Mourning

After the crepe was removed, secondary mourning colors like grey and lavender, or mauve, and even white, could be introduced as trim on the black garments. Gold, silver, and other precious gemstones can be added to jet jewelry, but could not replace it. Exact time varies by region, but the move from full mourning to half mourning was gradual and happened in stages.

In the American South, after eighteen months, the crepe was removed entirely and secondary colors were added. The widow was now allowed to go without a veil or she would move from a shoulder length veil to a chin-length one. She could begin receiving visitors in her home and she herself could be seen outside of her home. For six months she would gradually include more of the secondary mourning colors in place of the black.

After two years and a day, the widow could come out of mourning entirely. She would send out cards to her friends and relatives, inviting them to come see her. She would invite them to fill her home up with life again.

Commercialism

Jay’s London General Mourning Warehouse of Regent Street in London, started in 1841, built itself up around accommodating grieving families with new, ready-made wardrobes designed for each stage of mourning. A superstition even popped up alluding that it was bad luck to keep mourning clothes in the home after the mourning period was over, insuring repeat customers. This may have well been the precursor to today’s department store.

Mourning for Other Relations

According to the mourning guides, parents would wear mourning for two years after the loss of a child, or as long as they wished to after the two years were over. Children would mourn the death of a parent for a year. At the death of a grandparent, mourning colors were worn for six months. After two months in black silk with crepe, they would spend the next two months in black with no crepe. The final two months were spent in secondary mourning colors. They would mourn the death of a sibling for six months as well. The first three months were spent in crepe, then two months in regular black, and the last month in secondary mourning colors.

Aunts and uncles were mourned for two or three months in just black garb, no crepe. The first month is observed with jet jewelry only. Six weeks for great uncles and aunts. Four weeks for cousins. And then it gets complicated… the in-laws. A woman would mourn her aunt-by-marriage for two months, same as her own, but only if her Uncle was still alive. If he wasn’t, she may only mourn the deceased for a month. And so on. I think I understand why there was a standard manual.

 Reflections

            Taking the Victorian mores out of the custom, and forgoing the hypocrisy and sexism of the restrictions placed upon the widows (still property of their husbands), I get the ritual aspect. Grief is difficult. We think we know how to navigate it but it always surprises us. Even if we’ve done it before, every time the grief is different.

Often we have moments of feeling like we don’t know how to be in the world and the world doesn’t seem to know how to react to our grief. In the Victorian world, the surrounding community would allow for the family to shut themselves away while they transitioned into a changed household. And those in mourning could attend to the everyday things that needed attending to, certain that no one would interrupt their attempts to see mundane tasks through.

Gradually, it would allow the griever to ease out of the river of sorrow, and gently re-integrate with society. It seems a more human response than what we get in the modern world. When my grandfather died and I told my boss I needed to go home for a week to be with my family, he didn’t have to let me go- although I was going whether it meant my job or not. There are many jobs and he was my only grandfather. As it was, my boss left messages for me every morning while we were grieving and arranging funerals and entertaining others in sorrow, pressuring me to come back to work. I would have much preferred a heavy veil and forced seclusion away from spreadsheets and sales calls.