Walking with my Grief

On this day, 4 years ago, my daughter passed away.  Erin was born with a life-limiting illness that was diagnosed when she was 2 ½ months old. She was not expected to live much longer than 3 years. Through her perseverance and warrior spirit, she lived to the age of 19.

Christmastime has not been the same since.

My body remembers the day she died, and many other secret anniversaries in December:  the day she went into the hospital with what we thought was just another illness, never to return home again; the day I realized that this illness was different; our first consult with the hospice and palliative care team; the first day I left her side to sleep in my own bed, my husband holding down the fort in her room, only to turn around again based on a report of her vitals; the day we made the heart-breaking decision that it was time for hospice. Christmas came and went that year without notice of anything besides Erin in that room. Then two days later, the moment she decided to slip out of the room, oh so quietly, on her own terms.

In truth, I can feel emotions rising starting around Thanksgiving in late November, in anticipation of what was to come.

I have learned to make a purposeful decision to pull back on my client load in December, plan lots of space to wander through the days so I can meet whatever I need at the moment, to give back to others through my hospice work, and to spend lots of time alone.

I have always needed quiet, alone time; it’s the depth, duration and amount of alone time I need that has increased significantly. It took me a bit to realize this; after all, losses such as this change us. I was attune to this and (I thought) was adjusting accordingly. Apparently not enough.

Around this time last year at the 3-year anniversary of Erin's death, I started to notice that my normal healthy habits were going by the wayside. I was partaking of way more wine than I would have liked. Wine led to potato chips and cookies. This led to sleep disruption and sluggishness which led to skipping my regular exercise routine.

As a Certified Grief Coach, I was acutely aware of the signs. My body, my early warning system, was quite clear in its signals. I also knew that setting an intention to do different, to be different, was the first step, and that this could not be rushed. I gave myself grace in knowing that when I was ready to make a change, I would.

That day came on July 1. What made this day “the day?” It’s simply the day I woke up and decided I was ready to explore even deeper the additional grief work that would be needed.

I decided to pull a Forrest Gump walk-about as a tool to support my grief process. I was not in a position to walk cross-country in Forrest Gump fashion, so I chose hiking as my mode.

Hiking has always been one of my favorite activities, but I was afraid to hike alone in the mountains and woodlands near my home.  So, I channeled Erin’s courage, equipped myself with some hubby-supplied PPDs (personal protection devices), and I was all set to embark on my adventure. I had done plenty of hiking with my buddies. What was missing was the alone time.

The early days of my hiking walk-about were revealing. I would literally get out of my car, embark on a path, and the tears would flow.  I usually went early in the morning so it was rare to see anyone else on the paths at that time of day. Permission to grieve.

As the days and weeks ticked by, I started to notice the sluggishness waning. It became easier and easier to rediscover my healthy eating habits. I realized one day after about 4 weeks that I had not had one glass of wine. Delivering to myself what I needed allowed me to deliver back to myself and my body what they needed.

I have Erin to thank for giving me the courage to embark on my solo-hiking-odyssey. It’s what I needed to get unstuck. And this does not help only me. In this way, Erin’s legacy as a humble teacher, a purveyor of peace, a courageous fighter and inspiration for hope over despair continues with each and every client I work with.

Will Christmastime always be like this? Who knows. What I do know is that this is what I need right now.

The beauty and mystery of walking with one’s grief instead of walking away from it is that it makes one open to the journey that unfolds one step at a time.