Photo: Erin McInnis

Grief…what is it?

Did you know grief has five spokes on a wheel?

Many people think there are only two aspects to grief. 

Emotional and mental. 

The bereaved feel so overwhelmed that at times they feel like they’re going crazy. We don’t feel like ourselves and feel that the grief process would be over in a matter of weeks or months. 

Wrong. So wrong.

We feel disconnected and our feelings come up in waves. We are overwhelmed and off balance. What we don’t realize is there are three other components to our grief. There are physical, social, and spiritual aspects to grief as well as our emotional and mental. With these five spokes on a wheel, there is much more to grief than we initially thought. So, when our grief happens, we feel a gut punch, a loss of normal. We are raw and vulnerable. Our sense of purpose is gone and what we knew to be true is no longer. It’s because of those five aspects of grief, all which come up in our grief work. And let me remind you that grief is WORK. 

Many people will tell us or insist that with time we will heal. Although they are not all wrong, time does help with our healing, it does take work to go through our grief. You can’t just skip to the end, nor is your grief linear. There are so many bumps and turns, then moments of pause and reflection.

Grief encompasses our whole person, not just our mind and emotions. 

Now that you are aware that grief is composed of five aspects, give yourself some grace. Think about how your grief affects ALL of your life. Write things down, journal, talk to friends or even reach out to your mental health professionals. 

It does take a village to support you in your grief. 

Continue to breathe…

Erin McInnis RSW. 

http://www.em-consulting.org

519-835-2294

Stay close to people who feel like sunshine. 

Erin McInnis, RSW

Blog 2 - Kaitlyn's Story

As a child death is typically sugar coated to feel less scary, it’s explained in a way like “grandma went to sleep for a little while” or “they’re in a better place” generic, non-specific and impermanent statements. Little explanation is given about the process that is dying or what ‘sleeping for a little while’ truly means. Death is talked about, in a way as to not upset or scare a child, but is this a disservice we are doing to children? Do children comprehend the permanence that death brings?

My first experience with death was when I was about 10 years old, my great grandmother died. We weren’t terribly close as she lived further away but I remember this feeling of sadness. I went to the funeral with my family and when we walked in, I was taken aback and in shock. I was not warned that there would be an open casket and I remember feeling completely stuck in that moment, unsure of how to feel and blindsided that she was right there in front of me. We were supposed to sit close to the front, but I couldn’t. In that moment, seeing her lifeless body, the permanence of it washed over me like a tidal wave I couldn’t swim out of. I remember being provided with comfort, but I still felt this unease like I didn’t realize she was really ‘gone’ until that moment.

Only a couple years later I had a friend from school die, this was a boy I liked, a friend and someone I was supposed to go to a dance with. I can still bring myself back to exactly where I was when I heard the news that he died. My parents and I were staying in this rental home while our new house was being built, it was small and there wasn’t a lot of privacy. I remember my mom going into the kitchen as the phone was ringing and hearing the sadness in her voice as she hung up. She told me the news that he had died, he was in a car accident with his family. This came the day before the dance and I felt sad but at the same time it felt surreal because I didn’t get to say goodbye, and I didn’t attend any of the services, there was no real closure. I remember being at school and they brought in grief counselors, we were given time away from class if needed to just be or talk to someone. I didn’t take time away from class, I talked to friends about it and felt ok with things, I think again not truly understanding the permanence of his death. As a teenager I visited the stone outside of the front door of the school we attended, made in his memory. I remember feeling that tidal wave wash over me again, but this time I was able to swim and navigate the waters, allow the emotions to flow and reflect while accepting the permanence and gaining closure about his death.

The next death that I experienced hit me hard. My nana died, I was in high school, and she had been present in my life since the day I was born. My nana was someone special to me, someone I was close with, and I felt that tidal wave harder than any other. My nana was 94 years old; she lived a long, beautiful life and I felt some peace around that. When we went to her funeral, we were given an opportunity to go upstairs to see her and say our goodbye’s; however, I declined this invitation. I did not want to see my nana like that, I think from my experience years before I was scared and did not feel that I could process seeing her lifeless body. To this day, I do hold some regret in my heart that I did not go up and see her to say goodbye, I was left without that closure.

The thing is with death, it hits us hard and fast like a tidal wave we can’t swim out of, but then there are moments of relief where we feel ourselves swimming and flowing through the emotions.

While I was in nursing school, I had the opportunity to shadow a palliative nurse, he was gentle and kind and spent time being truly present with his patients. I remember feeling overwhelmed a lot in nursing school, focused on the tasks at hand and trying to complete them all within my shift. When I shadowed him and stepped into a palliative nursing role that task mentality became less of a focus, the focus shifted to being present, engaged and holding space for those we were caring for. There was of course still a need to complete tasks and care, but the pace at which it was done felt much more fluid. I had the opportunity because I was a student to spend 1:1 time with a patient and she truly changed my life and inspired me to become a palliative nurse. This patient was a young woman with young children, she was vibrant and full of life, all while dying. I spent many days holding space for her, braiding her hair, and holding her hand through tough moments. We engaged in conversation about her life, her fears and all that she was feeling as she was dying. I remember thinking what an incredibly strong woman she was, the vulnerabilities I witnessed and moments we shared are something truly sacred. With her I realized what an incredible privilege and honour it is to walk alongside someone and hold space for them at the end of their life. That experienced solidified what kind of nurse I wanted to be, what area of nursing my heart belonged in.

 There is a beginning and an end to every life. The end signifies a life lived, memories made, moments had, experiences shared and holds so much meaning. It is truly incredible to bear witness to moments at the end of someone’s life, to be there as they take their final breath on this side of the earth and hold space for them. Death is a beautiful journey that each one of us will experience, it is not something to fear, it is something to embrace, talk about and explore.

Please embrace these moments, laugh while experiencing complete sorrow, hold each other closely and ride the waves.

Kaitlyn Baker

Blog 1 - My Story

Death. It’s a heavy word, I know. Scary for some. But like most things, talking about it makes it easier to face, makes it not as scary. It feels like I have always been around death, been around the grief it brings, the finality of it all.

I first encountered the experience when I was 10 years old. My great uncle had been killed in a preventable accident while driving a big rig in New York. The family was devastated. The grief heavy in the air. It was hard for my younger brother and I to accept that we would never hear him snore loudly in his recliner as we played our game of “sneak around Tio without waking him” on our visits to New Jersey. I can only imagine how it must have felt for his three children.

The deaths of loved ones continued as I got older. Great-grandparents, grandparents, family friends, my favourite cousin who passed at 28 from breast cancer almost 30 years ago. It was her father who died when I was 10. That loss cut deep. I still cry for her.

And that’s just it, isn’t it. The Loss. It can be so profound, so permanent that it can still take your breath away years later. They say grief comes in waves, and it does. But I’m not going to speak about dealing with grief in this post. That will come another time. I will just acknowledge that yes, most of us carry the burden of grief throughout our daily lives.

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I believe in Divine Purpose. That we all have a reason, a special talent for being. Mine is palliative care. I believe that all the experiences I had with death and grief while growing up helped reveal and sharpen this purpose.

When I first started nursing, I was hired on to the GI/Palliative floor at the old Oakville Trafalgar Memorial Hospital, 4 East. We were palliative because we had some private rooms, not because we had any special training. We had a palliative nurse who would visit all the palliative patients in the hospital. She was great and taught us what she could in what little time she had – but it wasn’t enough.

I remember going to work one day and stopping at the doors to the hospital and thinking “What’s the point? All my patients are going to die anyway.” I went in to nursing to help people, save them even. I still hadn’t realized that helping people die well – I know that must sound strange – was helping them. I fought continuing to work in palliative care, but the Universe has a way of pushing you where you should be.

A few years later, I was working in the community and a physician had just asked me over the phone to make sure my patient’s wife understood he was dying.  During that conversation, it suddenly occurred to me that I was good at this. That I was comfortable in this space of grief, sitting with someone, saying the words, and allowing them the space to process their feelings. Just being present.

When I looked back I realized that I had always been comfortable having these conversations. I remember my first year of nursing , back on 4E, sitting on the bed with a patient as she told me she had about three weeks to live. We spoke about what that meant to her, what she thought “the other side” would be like, what she would do when she died. The conversation was inherently a sad one, but we laughed.

Laughter.

That’s the thing with grief. Even in dark moments, little things can happen that make you laugh.

When I was 16 years old my grandfather died unexpectedly when we were visiting him and other family in Portugal. It was supposed to have been a happy occasion, as my uncle was getting married at the end of the month. We were grief stricken.

My brother, cousin and I were sitting at the table as my aunt was getting us something to eat. She had passed us buns and as we tried to cut into them, we realized they were rock hard. We all started laughing uncontrollably as we joked you could knock someone out with them. I admit there was some guilt that I found the situation so funny, but I also realized it’s ok to laugh in the midst of sadness. It’s human. It’s real.

The human experience is a mix of emotions, all jumbled into a beautiful mess. It’s seeing the beauty in death – when a family can come together and surround their dying loved one with love. It’s laughing despite experiencing profound sadness. It’s taking a step forward when you don’t think you could possibly move one more inch. It’s having those tough conversations, the ones that can bring real healing.

So let’s start a conversation.

Until next time, take care of yourself.

Celia Lima