grief Archives - Page 2 of 11

I met with a counsellor last month, and one of the resonate-y pieces of wisdom she offered was for me to ask myself: “What am I not willing to feel?”

She meant this as a question for all of us to consider, at all times in our lives — it’s not just special wisdom for us widows.

I love this question. It echoed in my head throughout our session.

Epiphany: the five-year-old has feelings

We starting talking about my son at the end of our appointment, because I wanted him to meet with someone to help him with his hitting habit.

Oh, and also with any dad-grief thoughts he might be having at five years old.

My counsellor asked me how Isaac felt about his dad’s death.

My immediate response was: “He didn’t feel anything, He was too young.”

But of course that can’t be right. Even babies are affected by whether or not a caregiver answers their cries. We’re never too young to be scarred.

My brain knows Isaac must have experienced emotions while his dad had cancer, from ages one to four, and must have feelings now about the loss and lack of his dad. But I’ve never seen him cry or get upset when we talk about Brock, so I assumed Brock’s sickness and death were just more events in Isaac’s life. Like moving houses.

Yet … there’s the hitting, specifically of family members he loves and trusts. Those random explosions of bottled up fury, or sometimes even joy.

I realized I’ve never asked Isaac how he FEELS about his dad. In fact, I never ask Isaac how he feels about anything. We have a shelf stocked with books about feelings, and yet I’ve somehow failed in my role as emotional educator.

I assumed Isaac would be nervous about this ride, and told him we would go as slowly as he wanted. He kept saying: “faster, mom!” and finally just grabbed the control stick himself.

“What am I not willing to feel?”

I’m scared to discover that Isaac DOES have feelings about his dad’s cancer and death. I don’t want those three years to have damaged my kid. I don’t want to think that Brock and I made a wrong choice during those years, or that I did something wrong after Brock’s death.

I don’t want to have regrets.

And I’m nervous to discuss Isaac’s feelings about his dad, because I don’t want to poke at my own feelings.

Being a friend: “What Would Brock Do?”

One day, in 2016, I was feeling sad or frustrated about something, and Brock let me vent it all out. He was always a fantastic listener (after he died, many people commented on this Super Power of his in their cards and Facebook posts), and this particular time I felt incredible gratitude and catharsis after he let me talk.

He didn’t interrupt, he didn’t try to help, he didn’t try to broaden my perspective. He just listened.

Because I was free to talk out my thoughts, I was able to see my own limitations (eventually). I was able to broaden my own perspective. Just by listening, Brock helped me feel better.

It was a memorable experience. It felt like he’d given me a gift, just by listening and being present with me, and I thanked him. I wanted to be able to do that for my friends and family — to be that kind of listener.

And yet, the other night a friend called, with drama happening in his life and, instead of listening, I tried to help. Specifically, I pointed out the silver lining, I offered different perspectives, and I tried to come up with an action plan to “fix” things.

Ugh.

While this response might be helpful in some ways, I am NOT being the good friend and listener I want to be. I am not continuing Brock’s legacy. I am not growing as a person, and becoming a better friend.

I want to be a friend who can be present and listen. I want my friends to feel validated and heard.

“What am I not willing to feel?”

When a friend is sad, my first instinct is to make them happy again. I want to point out all the good things in their life, and help them “fix” their problem. Being present with negative feelings (sadness, anger) sounds stagnant to me — let’s move on.

This is how I got through three years of watching cancer kill my husband.

When I tried to distract my friend from his feelings, I was projecting my own need onto him: I assumed he didn’t want to FEEL his feelings, just as I try to avoid my own.

A fear of intimacy

I’ve written about this before — I have a hard time talking about my feelings, aside from on this website. My counsellor’s question, “What am I not willing to feel?,” helped me realize that I don’t like FEELING. I’m uncomfortable feeling anything other than happy or content.

And: I tend to assume my friends and family are like me, that they don’t want to FEEL things.

Regardless, I’m uncomfortable hearing about and feeling their feelings. Which is why I never ask my son how he’s feeling, and why I try to distract my loved ones from their emotions.

Somewhere along the way I put up an emotional wall: so that I could survive motherhood, so that I could survive watching Brock die over three years … or maybe before all of that. This wall stays up out of habit, and also to protect myself and this new life we’re creating.

Once again, I’m astonished and excited to realize I still have things to learn at age 39. I’m re-inspired to strive to listen like Brock could, to give my loved ones that gift of being heard. And I’m grateful to my counsellor for giving me this tool of self-reflection: “What am I not willing to feel?” is something to ask myself in every situation.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Are you a good listener? Are there feelings you prefer to avoid? Please post a comment, share this post online or read more posts on this website.

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On a camping trip to Nakusp, we swing by the Save On to restock our groceries. The list includes cheese smokies. I find the cooler, see the options, and stand paralyzed by indecision:

Brock’s favourite cheese smokies are not available.

It shouldn’t matter. Brock died 23 months ago. I’m here in this grocery store with my son, my boyfriend and his pre-teen. They don’t care what kind of cheese smokies I put in the basket.

But I can’t make myself pick up the ones Brock deemed inferior. It’s ridiculous, and I make fun of myself, sharing the moment with my boyfriend. He gets the smokies so I don’t have to.

Farm wife vs. widowed mom

Not so long ago, a “good meal” meant one featuring ingredients produced by people we knew and our own farm. Brock and I ate mostly organic food, always fresh, seasonal vegetables, and celebrated the sourcing of new “local” ingredients like salt and walnuts. For holiday meals, we happily paid $100 for a fresh-killed, free-range, certified-organic fed turkey from farmer friends.

One of our meals in 2014: veggie skewers from our farm, roasted organic chicken.

These days, I budget-shop at No Frills and strive for meals my five-year-old will eat: homemade macaroni and cheese, tacos, carrots on the side. I buy $10 rotisserie chickens.

Old vs. new priorities

ORGANIC

In 2015, we had the largest certified-organic vegetable farm on the south end of Vancouver Island. But these days I rarely buy organic vegetables.

No, my values haven’t changed. I still think organic produce is healthier, want to support organic farms, and prefer to keep chemicals out of our water and soil. I just don’t want to walk the five feet over to the special organic section. My time and energy are limited these days, and organic food is no longer a priority for me.

GOALS

At one time, our goal with food was to shop and eat politically: to support the food producers and farming practices we thought best.

My current food goal is to make proper meals for my son and have sit-down time together while we eat, which is harder than it sounds in our one kid, one adult household.

TIME

When we “retired” from farming and stopped selling at six farmers’ markets a week, Brock and I still made a point of buying most of our weekly groceries at the Duncan Farmers’ Market.

I haven’t shopped at the local (excellent) farmers’ market once in the two years we’ve lived in Invermere. Instead, my son and I spend our Saturday mornings playing Lego and planning our day’s adventures.

SOCIAL

Our friends in the Cowichan were farmers, chefs and foodies. In this new, Plan B life, I’ve collected friends who want to hike, camp, have road trips and say YES to adventures.

The past + the present

I read somewhere (Saturday Night Widows?) that losing your spouse isn’t the end of a chapter: it’s the end of a book. You have to start a whole new book.

The changes I’ve noticed in my relationship with food are just a metaphor for the changes in the rest of my life. My priorities have changed, I’m directing my energy elsewhere, and we’ve physically moved from that agricultural, food-centric world to an adventure-lifestyle-focused community. Instead of riding the tractor or eating sugar snap peas in the field, my son and I hike, camp and kayak.

Yes, it’s silly to maintain brand loyalties that are no longer relevant, to drive around to three different grocery stores to find the Pace medium-heat salsa that Brock liked best, but I like these random tributes to our old life together.

I like hearing his voice when I reach for the Doritos: “Do they have Old Dutch Arriba Nachos here, instead?”

Even though I was surprised by that whole-body paralysis when standing in the cooler section of Save On, it made me happy to remember our family holiday on Chesterman Beach, when Brock’s parents drove the 8 minutes and back to Tofino just to get his preferred kind of cheese smokies, because that was something they could do for their terminally ill son.

And I suppose it makes sense, for a family like ours where food was so very important for almost a decade, that food is part of my grieving experience.

One food constant: Jiffy Pop. Isaac takes pride in making it over the campfire, like his dad did.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. If you’ve lost someone you love, do you maintain habits or have specific triggers that remind you of them? How do they make you feel? Please comment, share this post online or read more posts on this website.

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Heather McLeod

Tag Archives: grief

“What Am I Not Willing to Feel?”