Today was hard

 I worked from home today like I do most every Monday. I have my office in an upstairs bedroom. There is a family picture on the wall. Normally I don't pay a lot of attention to it, but today it kept drawing my attention like a moth to a light source. I see a different time when I look at that picture. A time before Jim's stroke and before my heart shattered into what must be at least a million pieces. I long for that time - an easier time. I am jealous of the smiles on those faces - faces that were not yet marred by deep sorrow. 

Tonight I went with my husband to a bereavement support group that was focused on managing grief as we navigate the holiday season. I didn't want to be there. I do not want to have a reason to be invited to a group like that. It makes me angry that I do have a reason. The facilitator of the group is a lady chaplain. She has a soothing voice and a gentle spirit. She had an excellent presentation with some very common sense type suggestions to help those of us who find ourselves adrift as Thanksgiving and Christmas quickly approach. She shared a quote from Winnie the Pooh, "How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard." I think that's when I started to cry and then continued to cry the rest of the evening. I found myself recognizing the irony in the fact that Brendan took his own life to put an end to the pain and that very act initiated the most intense pain I have ever known and that pain will stay with me for the rest of my life.

The chaplain shared a picture. It had three jars of the same size and each jar contained a circle that was there to represent grief. In the first jar, the grief almost completely filled the jar. In the second jar, the circle of grief was smaller, and in the third jar, the circle of grief was even smaller. She said that a lot of people think that grief diminishes over time as represented by the jar illustration. Wouldn't that be great if it were only true? she said. The next picture showed three jars as well. The first jar had the circle of grief that almost completely filled it, the second jar had grown but the ball of grief was exactly the same size as it had been in the first jar. The third jar was even bigger than the second jar and the ball of grief was exactly the same size as it was in the previous two jars. The point she made is that our grief does not diminish; instead, we learn to grow around our grief. I find that really interesting. And, of course, my mind immediately wants to know how long it takes to start growing around ones grief as I absolutely despise feeling this way. The chaplain went on to answer that unasked question as well. She said that every person's grief journey is unique. It is theirs alone. I am seeing that truth in the lives of my husband and myself. We process things very differently and grief is no exception. I cry. A lot. I am not ready to watch the funeral service yet. I am not ready to watch old home videos and sift through hundreds more photos of Brendan as a child. I am not ready to look through his tote with his name on it - the one we gave him when he moved out on his own that contained all the treasures from his growing up years. Jim finds comfort and healing in doing those things already. Just thinking of doing any of that right now nearly sends me into a panic.

At the end of the presentation, there was a craft we could do if we wanted to. They had those clear ornaments that you can open up and fill up with things that remind you of your loved one. Jim and I each made one. I chose to fill mine with pics of sunflowers, iridescent beads, and shiny little do-dads. The reason is because the last time Brendan was home I showed him my new wall hanging. It is titled Sunflower Wisdom. It says, Be Bright, Sunny and Positive. Stay Strong and Resilient. Remember your Roots. Face the Sun and Shine. Hold Your Head High With Each New Day. Be Outstanding In Your Field. Spread Seeds of Happiness. Keep On the Sunny Side. I remember telling him he reminded me of a beautiful sunflower. He will forever remind me of one. I am going to need to look at that wall hanging and attempt to live out the wisdom of the sunflower. I just wish we could do it together, son. I love you. I miss you.