The world through my eyes: Atlantic City

My parents live in Atlantic City, NJ. It's a place better known for casinos and corruption, but the beaches are truly lovely. I visited recently and took some pictures.

summertime love

self portrait

I spent a while chatting with her. Nice lady.

mating rituals

Who skates on the beach?!

I liked the shadows, the lines, the green, the red

I love all the lines in this one.

On the airplane, over Lake Erie. I love how I couldn't really distinguish between water and sky.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

The smallest words

How many fairy tales begin with a line something like this:

Once upon a time there were a king and queen and they loved each other very much. They had a beautiful baby daughter whom they both adored. But one day the queen stayed in her bed and soon enough, she died.

The king was sad, but after a time he decided to marry again.
The king grieved and eventually decided to marry again.
The king wanted the kingdom to have a queen, so he decided to marry again.

There is a world in those small words. But. And. So.

Grief, I'm discovering, is a long, slow process that I don't know how to describe.

In those words - but, and, so - are a hundred sleepless night. There are gallons of tears. There is an encyclopedia's worth of questions and fears and regrets.

Grief is too big to be captured. It is too variable. It is too complex and contradictory.

So we use the smallest words in our oldest stories to hold a world.

I find myself saying things like:

I miss Kevin with all my heart, but today wasn't too bad.
I would do anything to have him back again and yet I am still here.
This is the most non-negotiable, miserable thing I have ever encountered, so I am trying to figure out how to keep breathing.

But.
And.
So.

I am bereft. But I am still here.
I grieve. And I still breath, though sometimes it feels like I shouldn't.
I love him still. So I figure out how to live. Even if that living means howling, crying and yearning for that which I can no longer have.

But.
And.
So.

(21 weeks. I wish you could come back. I love you. I am still in love with you. I always will be.)

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Each grief is unique

We live in a culture that encourages comparison.

My car is better than yours.
Your house is bigger than mine.
Her grades are better than his.

I think this is a basic part of what it is to be human that has been vastly exploited by the machines of commerce and power. We have become so accustomed to these machines and pressures that we compare everything, down to the smallest actions and most intimate details.

My neighbor's lawn is greener and more even than mine.
Your mother's scrambled eggs are better than your own.
My little toe is prettier than yours.

And so on. It gets ridiculous.

The comparison I am encountering most frequently these days is this: What I'm going through doesn't compare to what you are, but...

This makes me nuts for several reasons.

1. One grief is never comparable to another. The loss of my husband is my experience. The loss of your dog or job or marriage or parent is yours. Each experience is utterly and terribly unique. We each process, understand and grow at different rates. There is no map, no manual for this. Yes, there are some similar emotions and maybe similar timelines, but our individual griefs are tied into our whole being and each whole being brings their own history, their own strengths and weaknesses and their own ability to process into the equation. 
2. Telling me your grief means you understand mine doesn't often help. Because each situation is different, each grief is different. What's more, if you use an example like the loss of your goldfish I have to work to remind myself to be compassionate because at least you are trying. That effort distracts me from the moment and means I chastise myself to remember that I don't know the context of your grief. In so doing I pay less attention to you and to my feelings and instead am busy justifying why you thought the loss of a goldfish and a husband are comparable. They aren't comparable because each grief is different.
3. Comparing in general is isolating when I most need connection.
   I feel as though I have to reassure you that your grief is legitimate and take care of you when I am already weakened and in need. Because each grief is different it would be much easier to just know you have grieved and been through your own version of this process. Maybe that's what you meant, but by comparing, I suddenly am comparing too and don't want to be. 
4. There are no winners in grief.
   We don't need to compete or compare. When your goldfish died when you were five it broke your heart because it belonged to your best friend who had moved away. That could have shaped your whole life. I don't know. All I need to know is that you care. That you want to connect with me. If you want to tell me about your grief that's usually fine, but we don't need to throw down to see who is hurting more.

We all have grieved something. If we stop comparing maybe we can just be present with one another, we can comfort each other, we can remember that grief is an integral part of human experience and that is enough. 

(20 weeks. I miss you.)

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Non-negotiable

All my life I have been able to find a way through most problems. I have been able to change the situation, change myself or just wait, knowing the issue was time-limited and would resolve itself. Some of the solutions have seemed incredibly disruptive (leaving a job, ending a relationship) but they've all been possible. There has always been some point I could negotiate until I found myself in a more tenable situation.

Death isn't like that. It's non-negotiable. Nothing I can say, do, avoid, embrace, bargain or buy will change the fact that the love of my life got cancer and died. Nothing will change the fact that I am still here without Kevin. Nothing will change the fact that his kids lost their dad way too soon.

Nothing.

Living in a non-negotiable state is incredibly uncomfortable and I think that's part of what makes grief so hard. Losing someone you love is a slap in the face reminding us that we have very little control over our lives. I can problem-solve all I want and I will not be able to negotiate my way out of this one. It sucks. I think most of us have a bit of control-freak in us and death is probably why. If we can control our environment then maybe we can control death.

We can't.
I can't.
I couldn't.

I hate it. I hate that controlling myself can't change this, that no amount of self-control will help. I hate that I cannot negotiate with death, a hostage release or exchange, anything to undo this. It's non-negotiable and that is incredibly frustrating for someone who defines herself as a problem-solver. Kevin defined himself the same way and believed we could find a way to problem-solve his illness, right until the end. And then he solved the problem by facing his death with incredible grace and generosity. He solved the problem by loving himself and us enough to be able to let go.

That, of course, is the only way to negotiate with death. Love each other. Love ourselves enough to remain in this world so the light of those we have lost lingers, reflected off of and carried by of our own light. Love is the only detente we can reach with death as we live in this untenable land of grief, of loss, of sorrow, of without. The love remains. And that, too, is non-negotiable.

(19 weeks. I miss you. I love you.)

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

A walk in the park

We all know that grief and sorrow are not a walk in the park. But sometimes you just have to walk anyway.

I took these pictures this morning in the Kauffman Memorial Garden, a real gem in the heart of Kansas City. I am finding the camera's eye is helping me see things I might otherwise overlook. That helps. Movement and beauty can help us heal. The walk and the flowers brought me some comfort. I hope they do for you, too.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Compassion, grief and education

Webster's defines compassion as "a feeling of wanting to help someone who is sick, hungry, in trouble, etc. Sympathetic consciousness of others' distress together with a desire to alleviate it."

I believe in compassion. I believe in compassion in both the Western sense and the Buddhist sense, of wanting sentient beings to be free from suffering and, most relevant here, of compassion being love without attachment. It has helped me build bridges to those I thought were unreachable, it has helped me be patient when I really just want to bite, it has helped me be kind to myself in the midst of the darkest pain, it has helped me to remember to be kind to those whom I find frustrating. I believe in compassion.

I have been showered with compassion, in both the Webster's and the Buddhist senses, since Kevin became ill. I am deeply grateful for it. When those who care have been able to love me, care for me, ride the grief roller coaster with me without telling me how to grieve (in other words, loving me without attachment) it helps beyond measure. Compassion is quite literally saving my life as I mourn the life lost.

What's more, I have opportunities to exercise compassion on a daily basis. I have always tried to be compassionate but now I turn to compassion to help me be kind to those who are not on this grief journey with me. Which would be just about everyone.

For example:

• I have been compassionate with caregivers who didn't understand Kevin. I reminded myself that they see dying people everyday and are doing the best they can. I did everything I could to help them to be as human as they could be, by asking them about their lives, about their cares, so they would see us as people, not just patient and family. And when they did something I didn't like, I didn't blame the individual but the methodology and, as kindly as I could, protected Kevin with everything I had. There was no sense in denying compassion to the caregivers; I used every tool I could to make sure he got the best care possible and caring for the caregivers was one of them.
• When someone says to me, "I can't imagine what you're going through," I remind myself that they are afraid. I remind myself that they are so scared of losing loved ones that they can't let themselves imagine it. That I represent something they are too scared to feel. I strive for compassion for their fear, for the part of them that knows someday they, too, will be in my position.
• Likewise, when someone says, "You're so strong, if it happened to me I would still be in bed," I remind myself that they, too, are afraid. I remind myself that they don't realize that what they're saying could sound like a condemnation of my being out in the world, that somehow they might be suggesting that my grief is less than theirs would be. I remind myself that they are trying to be kind. I remind myself that I am out in the world because I am still alive. To stay in bed for months would be to give up and I'm not ready to do that yet (though I certainly have days where I don't go far from bed). I remind myself to treat their blissful inexperience with compassion. Sooner or later they will learn that it's not strength, it's momentum.
• And lastly, when someone suggests that it's time to move on, time to stop grieving, or asks if I'm ready to date yet, I remember that it is their discomfort with my loss that drives them. They are distressed that I'm sad and made uncomfortable by both their distress and my public feelings. I choose compassion for myself, by grieving in my own time and own season. I choose compassion for them by gently reminding them that this grief is mine and their discomfort is not my concern.

I don't live in a culture with good models for grief. We don't have the Victorian or Jewish year of mourning, there is no veil or ritual or public way of marking loss other than Facebook status. We are removed from the bodies of our dead - in fact, death has become something alien and hidden, so we never have a chance to learn just how much a part of life it is. Those of us who are lucky enough to have not yet had a big loss have no guidebook to help those of us who have. 

I find myself becoming a teacher of grief. All of us who are grieving must teach those around us what helps, what doesn't, and must remember that we are frightening premonitions of what everyone will become. We must be willing to love and be loved without attachment, without expectation, only with acceptance that we all are doing the best we can in any given moment.

I must remember to be compassionate every day, with those who don't know how to help me grieve, with those who are frightened by it, with those who have suffered their own loss. I must let compassion guide me, so perhaps the next time grief is encountered, there will be more compassion, more patience, more love. With or without attachment.

(18 weeks)

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Retreat and re-emergence

For the past decade or so Kevin and I co-taught a storytelling workshop in the Adirondack mountains with our friend Marni Gillard. It was wonderful, a chance to connect with nature, story and each other. This year I co-taught only with Marni, missing Kevin intensely the entire time. I could see him in each corner and yearned for him ferociously. It was very hard. It was also very good to return to work. To remember that I am a good teacher. That story has meaning to me and creates meaning for all of us.

I stayed on for Women's Writing Week, a retreat full of brilliant women, good classes and thoughtful language. I've written about this retreat before, but this year was different. I spent a lot of time writing, dreaming, crying and being held in community. It helped at the same time that it hurt, reminding me that I am coming home to an empty house.

On the next to the last day we found a luna moth, clinging to a lamp post. My friend Phillip sent this to me, on the symbolism of the luna moth. "They are born, they transform, they love, they die, and then are again reborn. Their cycles are short, as are our years while we are here. We are reminded to make the most of our moments and to live and love to the fullest." A new story, a new piece of meaning to add to this time in my life. Emergence, even for just a day or so.

So it is.

I am going home from the mountains to an empty house. I am heartbroken. And in that loss I am reminded over and over of the love. Always the love. The love between me and Kevin that will never cease. The love I felt from all my friends at the retreat. The love I feel for the world, in spite of my brokenness. I am reminded that we are born, live, die and continue, in love.

And in the end
the love you make
is equal to the love
you take.

 (17 weeks. I miss you with all my heart. I will continue to look for you in moths, in the light reflected  on water, in my dreams, in every breeze. I love you.)

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

How to go to sleep. A primer.

It’s hard to sleep when the one you love isn’t there. You already know that, from business trips and the occasional separate vacation. Now imagine they will never sleep by your side again. You will never hear them breathing. You will never nudge them to make the stop snoring. You will never again be able to wake them when you had a bad dream and know you don’t even have to ask for them to hold you. None of these will even be faint options, the poor choice to be regretted later. They are beyond your reach.

Imagine that.

So the question naturally arises, how do you go to sleep without them? Here, in the first of a series of  occasional instructional farcical posts, are directions. 

How to go to sleep when the one you love is dead.

1. At first you may find sleep is your only ally. Your fatigue from the long sick nights finally has a chance to be appeased. Sleep becomes the place where you can hide and pretend none of this is happening. Like a child, you burrow into your covers and put pillows all around you, a fort against the pain of the outside world. This won’t last so enjoy it while you can.
2. The laws of physics shift and, while you know it’s impossible, the nights become unbearably long and impossibly quiet. Perhaps the planet has tilted in some new way. You will wonder if you have gone deaf or if the voices in your head have become so loud you can hear nothing else. So you do everything you can to delay the moment when you turn out the light and you are alone in the dark.
3. Avoidance is an excellent tool. Do laundry. Do dishes. Watch shows on tv at which you previously scoffed. Go for a walk. Go out with a friend. Do everything you can to avoid that still, silent moment when the light clicks off and all you can see is nothing.
4. The time will come when you need to go to sleep. Some of you may choose to avoid your shared bed. That’s fine. Some will choose to remain there. That’s fine, too.
5. Surround yourself with the things you love, that which has given comfort in the past. Your books, your journal, your tv remote. Now may be the time to find your old teddy bear and hold her as close as you can. While none of these will help, they are at least cardboard arms against the dark.
6. Build your fort. Pillows at your side to remind you of the warmth of your love when they lay beside you. Blankets around you, swaddling as if you are being held. Whatever you need to know you are safe. Or as safe as you can be without them there.
7. Avoid the dark until your eyes are so sandy they hurt. Then.
8. Be brave. Turn out the light. This is your second bravest moment of the day, exceeded only by getting out of bed in the morning. Notice the shifting shadows and the soft sounds. Cry if you need to, your eyes shut tightly against the night. Talk to your beloved and beg them to be there, even if you can’t hear them answer. You don’t know for sure that they can’t hear you.
9. Finally, after many gasping breaths, starts and stops, the light turned on and then off again, lie back. Breath. Look into the night because the night has no terrors in it now. You have already survived the worst.
10. And wait. Eventually sleep may come. Or not.
11. In the morning avoid the mirror. You know the smudges under your eyes already, they have become your flags of honor. Go through the day. And then finally, when it is late enough, try again.

(16 weeks. I would stop time if I could. I don’t know how. I would do anything to have you here and whole again.)

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Cognitive dissonance; healing and betrayal

I've written before about the complexity of grief. About its twistiness, its odd intersections, its self-contradictory nature. I am living in a state of cognitive dissonance. Because grief is what it is and I am who I am, I find the nature of the dissonance changes almost daily. Some days I'm torn up because I didn't do something while he was still here, other days it's because I forgot something - do I remember the shape of his hand? It changes.

These days, most of the dissonance comes from the inescapable fact that parts of me are starting to heal. This isn't to say I won't always miss Kevin, won't always grieve him - I will - but parts of me are beginning to scab over. I am no longer always an open wound. Much of the time I feel raw and exposed, but I am aware that I've laughed. I've thought about the future in some limited way. I have had days where I didn't cry.

I can hear some of you cheering, telling me this is great. And it is. It is also beyond comprehension, cruel, an act of betrayal. Just writing it down feels like betrayal. Part of me knows without any hesitation that healing is betraying him. betraying my love for him. That part of me wants to remain suspended in this pain, in this grief, because it's a connection to him. That part of me states, quite loudly, that if I move forward, if I let the wounds crust over, I am choosing to forget him and betraying the love we have for each other (ignore the tense issues. I prefer present tense for this stuff). That part is loud, powerful and angry.

Other parts of me know differently. They tell me that I can remain connected to him, even if I heal. That the love between us is so strong that nothing can end it, not even death. That, frankly, I will never stop missing him, but it is okay to move forward (not on, never on) and it is, after all, what he would want. Wants.

These parts battle it out every day. In some ways it's interesting, stepping back and watching them fight, but mostly it's just tiring.

I know healing takes time. I know I will eventually not be this sad all the time and that this is a good thing. I know that living my life fully is the best way I can honor Kevin and it is what he wants. I know these things. Equally, I know that I have been through something traumatic and any change is frightening now. Suspension is easier, in some ways, than movement. And lastly, I know that I will change. That my feelings will ease, that I will eventually scar over and become someone new. Similar but not the same.

I just hope that new Laura never forgets this one, that she understands that healing is not betrayal, that she can be tender with us both.

(15 weeks. I love you.)

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Time is a liar

Happy fourth of July. Last year Kevin and I spent this holiday with friends at their cookout. As we were walking home we held hands and talked about how coming to Kansas City was the right move. I still think it was the right move, though everything is different now.

Today marks 14 weeks since Kevin died. 14 weeks is both a long time and nothing.

A 14 week old fetus is about the size of a nectarine.

At 14 weeks I am beginning to really understand that he is gone. The pain is a deep, grinding thing. It's no longer constant razor blades, but it's more endemic, more inescapable. The illusions are thinner now. In some ways, I am sadder now than I was 6 or 10 weeks ago. I have begun to drift towards the middle of our bed. I wake up and move back over, wanting to leave room for him.

14 weeks into a college term, everyone is panicked about finals. 14 weeks into elementary school the kids are dreaming of their December break. It's cold enough they need to wear coats outside at recess.

At 14 weeks I find I am more able to function, though I am still utterly exhausted. I am cooking occasionally. I spend time with friends. I'm thinking about work again. I still get tired easily and have very little tolerance for crowds or even long conversations. I am still deeply internal. I am still in some amount of stasis, though I know holding still won't bring him back.

14 weeks into a new job you are starting to get your bearings, but you still worry that you'll offend your new work friends or forget some vital piece of HR knowledge.

14 weeks into grief, I still cry almost every day. I might skip a day here or there, but no longer than that. I still feel the lack of him every night and in every decision. I rarely laugh. I don't want to be forced into it, I'm not ready yet. Funny how crying and laughing use most of the same muscles.

14 weeks is just over a quarter of year. It's a fraction of a lifetime. It seems like such a long time. It seems like such a short time. 

I'm beginning to get hints from a few friends that I should decide to feel better. Decide to have a good time. Decide to move on. Grief doesn't work like that. Time is a liar when you're mourning the  love of your life. It's hard to understand both how little time and how long it has been if you haven't gone through something like this. It may even be hard to remember what it was life, if it was long enough ago.

Time has always been an elastic and confusing thing; when we're happy it moves so quickly and when we're sad or bored it becomes interminable. Our perception of time turns us into liars and the lost.

I can't believe it's been 14 weeks since I last kissed him, it doesn't feel that long. I can't believe it's been only 14 weeks since I kissed him.

I think the Victorians had it right, that it takes a good long year to be ready to be in the world again. Or maybe it doesn't. I won't know until I know. And until then, please remember that your measure of time and mine are very different right now. I am living without. Are you? If not, then please be patient and wait for me to measure my life in minutes again, instead of breaths, absence and growing distance from the one I love.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer