Growing into old age and facing death has a way of holding up a mirror as we go through the process. If you don’t like what you see in the mirror, it’s never too late to start working on yourself. I have listened to many bereavement clients over the years tell me how the behavior of their dying loved one either softened their job as a caregiver or made it a nightmare. Caring for someone you love when they are dying is one of the hardest things you will ever do, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. To witness their diminishment as they move closer to death—knowing there is nothing you can do to stop it or change it—brings a feeling of helplessness unlike any other. It can also be one of the most meaningful, life-changing, and loving things you will ever be privileged to do.

What can we do as the dying person to minimize the caregiving burden on those we love and who love us? We can bring grace to our dying. We can start now to practice letting go of all the things we desperately cling to.

Would your family and friends call you “high maintenance?” Do you refuse help, even if you need it, when someone is offering you a hand…responding with a dismissive flick of your hand and a grumpy, “I can do it myself!?” Are you easily offended? Is it your way or the highway?” Are you a chronic complainer? Are you a know-it-all who needs to always be right? Do you find fault with everything? These are all good questions to ask yourself today while there’s still time (hopefully) to start practicing letting go of those qualities you no longer wish to be defined by. As best I can tell, dying is all about letting go. We can start by willingly letting go of what will eventually be taken from us, with or without our permission.

In the culture of growing old we struggle to hang on to our independence for as long as is remotely possible…often way past the point of good judgement or safety. It might be a refusal to relinquish your car keys to your adult children, who are no longer willing to drive with you or let your grandchildren ride in your car. The person you taught how to drive is now telling you that you’re a danger to yourself and others on the road. It’s painful to hear…and accept that they are right. It hurts. My mother cried when her doctor told her she could no longer drive because of the meds she was taking. “I wish I could just die today,” she told me. At the time I couldn’t fully understand, but I finally got it when I had to accept three years ago that I could no longer safely drive.

It’s natural that our reflexes slow down considerably at a certain point, that our necks become less flexible and things like turning our heads to merge into another lane, scan traffic, and safely maneuver the car become compromised and unsafe. How many times have you experienced the increasing awareness of this diminishment in yourself but chose to ignore it or not speak of it with anyone because you cannot imagine your life without the ability to drive—the symbol of freedom and independence you have enjoyed for six or seven decades? Perhaps you have had the experience of observing these diminishments in an elderly parent and you dread having the difficult conversation you know is necessary. Based on your past experience with this person, you already know it will not be well received or have a good outcome. No one wants to be told they can’t do something, whether they’re two or ninety-two, and the responses of both age groups are sometimes amazingly identical. I’ve seen it lead to extreme anger, verbal abuse, or estrangement. Even worse, this might be the last memory you are left with before your parent dies, and your grieving process will be negatively impacted and complicated because of it.

I don’t mean to imply that letting go is in any way easy. If it was, we would have done it a long time ago. There’s not a magic wand that can just make it happen. It starts with wishing to see myself more clearly as I am, acknowledging the good, the bad, and the ugly of what I see, and being willing to put in the hard work that can eventually lead me toward letting go and growth. Life is short. What do you want your death to look like for the people you love? Do you hope to bring grace to your dying time? Are you willing to learn how to bend? Start practicing today.

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I can instantly recall how love and joy feel in my body, and I like it. I want more of it. My peak experiences of love and joy were the birth of my children. It was the first time my heart felt full to overflowing. I truly felt it would burst. I didn’t know a heart could hold that much love and joy, even though I had known love many times and thought I knew what it was.

I have no trouble recalling the all-consuming emotional and physical pain of deep grief that comes as a result of the death of a central person in one’s life, it’s ability to turn my world upside down, to leave me questioning everything—most especially, “Who am I now?” Once on the other side of it, I know it was one of the greatest teachers I have ever had. I can’t think of any life experience that is more of a wake-up call, more challenging, or more humbling. It reveals me to myself and ultimately I am grateful.

I also have no trouble recalling the feeling of emotional vulnerability as a child, teenager, young adult, and beyond. That was the point when I learned how to wear a heavy suit of armor to protect myself. I thought it was invisible. Later in life I learned it’s easy to quickly spot a person’s suit of armor.

At 30, my spiritual teacher said five cryptic words to me, “You need to get soft.” That was it…no words leading up to it and none after. I had no idea what he was talking about. It was the best piece of advice I have ever received, and his words have stayed with me until this day. It wasn’t until thirty years later when I was in my sixties that I truly understood what he meant, starting with the grief and emotional vulnerability that came with having a heart attack. The experience cracked open my heart, both literally and metaphorically. I got soft. There was no strength or energy left for carrying around my suit of armor. I discovered how liberating it was to be free from dragging around its heaviness. From that point forward I was grateful for the gift of emotional vulnerability. I didn’t want it to ever go away. I felt truer to myself, and my life became lighter and richer because of it. I could see it made some people uncomfortable if I let the tears come with no apology or attempt to hide them. I also felt braver to be truer to myself, regardless of what people might think. I had had an enormous wake-up call, and it changed me for the better. I no longer worried if being true to myself meant someone else might feel uncomfortable. I knew they always had the option of looking away or leaving if my honesty made them nervous. I knew I was not responsible for their discomfort, nor could I take it away. It was not unlike the experience of grieving the death of a central person in your life. Many of my bereavement clients often report feeling alone and isolated. Some of their friends avoid them because they find it too painful to see their friend or colleague compromised, suffering, or diminished. More than that, it puts their own mortality up close and personal. They want to see their people looking and acting like they always did before the death, so they don’t have to feel sad when seeing the changes that have taken place. I call this the “This could happen to me, too,” part of being in close proximity to grief, or what serious health issues and diminishment look like in someone we care about.

It’s normal to think this way, but we have a choice as to how we respond. We can push away the feelings of fear and anxiety when they naturally arise. Or we can pause and use them as a call to go deeper and learn more about ourselves. We can seriously look at our mortality, including what we hope the end of our life might look like. We can start having more meaningful conversations with the people we love. We can remember that life is short. Every time we turn away from an opportunity to confront our mortality, because we are scared, is a missed opportunity to grow. Are you ready to drop your suit of armor and denial? What four emotions are you most grateful for? Are you ready to get soft?

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As much as you might not want to believe it, there are those things in life that are beyond our control. Death and Grief are at the top of the list. They’re so big, life-changing, and all-encompassing that I think they deserve to be capitalized. No amount of magical thinking, bargaining, wealth, or love will alter the inevitability of their arrival. The Buddha said it best in these

Five Remembrances:

I am of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape growing old.

I am of the nature to have ill-health. There is no way to escape having ill-health.

I am of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death.

All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them.

My actions are my only true belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. My actions are the ground on which I stand.

I have had these Five Remembrances taped on my bathroom mirror for the past decade or so as daily reminders of the truth of the situation. When I first placed them on my mirror I knew the words were true, but with a bit of a cavalier attitude I could only see in retrospect as I got older. “Oh, yeah…I know this is so, and yeah, eventually it will happen to me and everyone I love…but I’ve still got time.” Some days they landed deeply and were completely sobering, and some days I forgot to bring my attention to them. Over the past several years I pause each morning (and whenever I look in the mirror) to read them, sometimes to read them aloud, and to reflect on the depth of their meaning. At this stage of my life, especially after a close brush with death, I am no longer cavalier. Not even a little.

A couple of weeks ago, after I woke up but before I opened my eyes, I was filled with an overwhelming sadness, knowing my children and grandchildren will all know profound grief at some point in their lives, most likely on multiple occasions. It will be unavoidable. I knew they would suffer in ways they had never suffered as they face the unavoidable losses that eventually come to everyone, and that I will not be here to help comfort them. Part of being a mother is the organic wish to prevent our children from suffering, from knowing pain. Sooner or later we discover not only is this not possible, but it also robs them of their own life experiences that help them become themselves. I knew there would be a time when they will lose their parents, their grandparents, their mates, their siblings—every central person in their lives, unless they die first. Based on their type and nature, I envisioned each of them experiencing the type of loss and grief that stops you in your tracks, when you fear your grief will prevent you from ever again finding meaning, joy or peace. This realization was so visceral and deep that morning. It was not a bad dream. I was awake and sitting up on the side of my bed, and I could envision their grief. It was at a deep visceral level, and it felt unbearable. I cried on and off for three hours that morning, as if it was happening then and there, all at the same time. Eventually I could feel the grief just sort of fading away and disappearing as abruptly as it had arrived. It left me with that familiar taste of having experienced both grief and gratitude at the same time. I was grateful to have been able to have had this experience, to have a foretaste of the reality of this central part of life that we cannot escape. I was also reminded of how something so painful and all-consuming can be present one moment and the visceral component of it gone the next—the mystery of resiliency in action.

I attribute this experience in large part to the fact that I am currently involved in a year-long course based on the Stephen Levine book A Year to Live: How to Live This Year As If It Were Your Last. We are currently in the eleventh month of the year, knowing our “death” will come in June. I almost didn’t register for the course, naively thinking my experience as an end-of-life educator and grief counselor for over three decades would have given me everything I will need to face my own death and do it well. The problem with that way of thinking is that dying and grieving are not about how much knowledge or observational experience we might have…it’s about how willing and able we are to face our dying and death head-on when it lands, to let it be our last teacher, and to be blessed to do it with grace…for both ourselves and those who love us.

Life is short. When will you give serious thought to The Five Remembrances?

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Growing older I discovered I felt at peace and most full when surrounded by those things that facilitated these feelings and opened my heart. I learned early on that I am attracted to certain music, art, dance, writing, and movies—those things that take me to a deeper place, that open my heart and mind and fill me with feeling and the sense of being more fully alive. I love the movies that leave me sitting in the theater long after they end, taking in and processing the intensity of the message and images. They all share a particular kind of honesty, grief, and humanity that not everyone is attracted to or comfortable with. Some are even afraid of it. It’s the realization that real life includes both sadness and richness at the same time. Something in me has always understood this, although it becomes clearer and clearer the older I get. I realized late in life that I am an intensity junkie. I am attracted to anything that is meaningful and makes me feel deeply.

Some years ago Maine Public Radio had a daily spot called Music That Moves Me which encouraged listeners to think about songs that evoke strong memories, emotional responses, or comfort. I thought of all the times throughout my teenage years and beyond when I had listened to the same sad song over and over again to help me cry my way through a breakup or the loss of someone or something I loved. At the time this show was aired I was listening on repeat to the music of the Portuguese Fado singer, Mariza. I didn’t need to speak Portuguese to feel the mournful longing of the songs, to be instantly transported to my own place of melancholy that I have known since childhood. This is what Mariza and Fado awaken in me.

I remember a bereavement client I had in the early days of my practice who told me about the crying tape he made after his wife died. He said it was every love song he and his wife danced to or played on their special days. Returning to work out of necessity only a week after she died, he spoke of, “Keeping it together at the office because I have to,” but letting the tears flow as soon as he stepped into the parking lot to get in his car and drive home. “As soon as I get back to my empty house, I throw myself across our bed and play the crying tape and sob until I’m all cried out. It feels good, and I feel better, and then I do the same thing the next day. Is this OK?” Not the typical experience I was accustomed to hearing from a 40-year-old man, he became the gold standard of emotional intelligence for me. He organically knew what to do to help himself move towards healing. Someone not comfortable with grief would say he was wallowing and only making the situation worse.

I’m sure it’s not a mistake that this life-long attraction to and comfort with deep, often painful feelings—both my own and other people’s—led me to my work as a grief counselor, where I have the privilege of bearing witness to the capacity for courage, wisdom, resiliency, and healing that exists in every one of us. I cannot imagine more meaningful work that is a good fit with my nature.

What about you…what do you do with your grief?

The Wind Phone: An unconnected telephone booth in Japan where visitors can hold one-way conversations with loved ones who have died.

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Even though my thoughts, attitudes, and approach to life are not rigid or what some younger people might associate with an old person, my often aching body, my steps and energy that have slowed down considerably, my gray and thinning hair, or losing another tooth reminds me on a daily basis of where I am in my life cycle. These physical manifestations of ageing help keep me honest, keeping me in front of my mortality. They also bring gratitude for all that I still have.

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I accept that I am closer to the end of my life than the beginning and that in a very real sense my days are numbered, whether it might be another day, week, month, year, or even a decade. It is not a question of if I will die, but when I will die. No doubt some of you are shaking your heads and judging this way of thinking as defeatist, cynical, or void of hope. I say this because I have heard some version of these words for years from those who prefer toxic positivity as a response to anything they consider to be negative or hard to hear. It has nothing to do with hope or simply looking on the bright side of things. I am not talking about hoping the bid I made on a house will be accepted or hoping I get invited to someone’s birthday party. We’re talking about death here. To live in denial of death is to hope against hope that I and everyone I love will never die. It is to engage in magical thinking. Acknowledging my mortality and living accordingly with gratitude is not dwelling on death or engaging in negative thinking. There is a big difference.

If a friend or family member wants to talk with you about someone who is ill or dying, do you ever find yourself getting nervous and squirming, making a face, and saying, “Can’t we talk about something more pleasant?” Often this person thinks talking about it will make it come sooner. I promise you, it won’t. What would it take for you to actively observe what happens in your heart, body and mind just at the mere mention of the word death? Doing so could eventually lead to a healthier relationship and greater peace with what will be your final adventure in this lifetime.

The other day as I was walking down the sidewalk with my cane I saw a group of teenage boys running in my direction and heard one of them yell, “Hey, watch out for that old lady!”—something I would no doubt have said as a teenager in the same situation. Now in my old age I am filled with gratitude to be an elder, to have made it this far when so many others have not—grateful to have survived serious health challenges, life’s ups and downs, heartbreaks, disappointments, and to have grown from all of them. In reality, I am old, but this does not define me. Living a life of meaning and purpose defines me.

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Sometimes I find myself wanting to highlight their name and hit the Delete key, so I won’t have to be caught off-guard again…to have that unexpected visceral jolt of pain. Then I feel guilty to even think about deleting their name which feels violent, extreme, and void of feeling, as if I am making a conscious decision to remove them from my life. I tell myself it doesn’t mean I will ever forget them, or that I’m running away from my grief (which in that moment I kind of want to), but only that I would rather choose those places and times when I want to focus on remembering them and honoring their memory—at a more convenient time than when I’m getting ready to meet with a client and I need to be focused, or just getting ready to sit down with my dinner and an episode of The Great British Baking Show. The problem is, grief doesn’t work like that.

We don’t get to choose the moments when our grief will be triggered and rise to the surface, causing us to tear up, freeze, or momentarily turn away from the people we are with, depending on how comfortable we are with our grief. These moments will come without invitation. That’s a pretty hard pill to swallow for control freaks, for people who like to imagine they are in control of every aspect of their lives. Sooner or later you discover Grief and Death will not be controlled. They will always be bigger than I am, than you are. These triggers might be when you’re walking through a store and smell your person’s cologne. It might be when you drive past the sign for the hospice house where your person spent their last days and you quickly turn your head away, as if in doing so you won’t have to remember she died. It might be when someone walking on the side of the road has white hair and is wearing a turquoise jacket just like the one your mom wore…or a hat like the one your dad always wore. It might be when you are grocery shopping and you spot their favorite condiment on the shelf, or you hear their favorite song over the sound system. Your grief and the love you shared with your person is calling you in that moment, and they really don’t care if you’re ready for it or not. I hope you might eventually come to see these moments as gifts, as reminders of the love you shared, so deep that it has been forever imprinted on your heart.

Being in the last chapter of life, I know my electronic graveyard will only continue to grow. One day my name will pop up on someone’s screen, and they will have to decide what to do with it. Knowing this is natural does not soften the losses, but it is always a helpful reminder that life is short. What do you do with these reminders when they land on your screen?

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After a large gap of time, I reached out because I missed her, knowing she would never be able to reach out for fear of rejection. I am so grateful we were connected during the last several years of her life, that we were able to say goodbye to each other, and to say the four things that matter most: forgive me, I forgive you, thank you, and I love you. Looking back on our lives together I see these gaps in time as the opportunities I missed to grow patience, compassion, and tolerance. I am struggling with the, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone” phase of grief often experienced by the newly bereaved. At this stage in my own development, when life review is a part of every day, I am grateful for all the opportunities to see myself more clearly, to see the amount of time that was wasted due to indignation, pride, or ego. It helps me be more aware of current opportunities for growth that still exist if I can just stay out of my own way. We owe a debt of gratitude to those who “step on our corns,” who help us along the path. Is there anyone you want to thank while there’s still time?

May you know that grief is a natural part of being human.
May you understand that grief is unavoidable.
May you understand that not all griefs are created equal. Some grief
     will make you sad for a week or two,
     and some grief will gut you for a long time.
May you know that grief is not negative and it is not
     a sign of weakness, no matter what you might have 
     been raised to believe.
May you not be afraid to move toward your grief
     when it lands on your doorstep.
May you know that pushing your grief away will
     only make it more persistent.
May you know that to grow old is to know grief.
May you learn that grief naturally appears when you 
     face your own mortality, and life becomes richer when you do.
May you know that grief is ever-changing.
May you discover that grief shared is grief made smaller.
May you never apologize for your grief or tears.
May you not be afraid to share your grief with others
     so they might learn from you.
May you discover that grief does not prevent the
     return of joy at some future date, 
     and that grief and joy can coexist.
May you know that grief takes us on a journey to becoming ourselves.
May the grief you carry soften every day.

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Throughout the ten days of my mother’s dying time, Noah spent many hours a day just hanging out with her in her room, cuddling on her bed, climbing up and down and balancing on her commode like it was a jungle gym. For the first few days, while she still had enough life force to manage it, Noah would lie next to her as she read stories to him—a gift for both of them that created a permanent beautiful picture in my brain. There were other powerful moments I witnessed Noah experiencing in the days following my mother’s death, which he was able to share with me. All of these experiences spoke to the deep connection he shared with his grandmother. Over time I came to learn when a child has this experience, the child is typically 3-4 years old, when the veil is still thin.

By his late teens, Noah had no recollection of this time, but he was always interested in hearing the story I loved to share. It’s one I hope will return to him at some point in his life. Based on his nature I suspect it will... maybe jarred loose when he’s sitting with me during my own dying time.

In one of our recent conversations about aging, we talked about the ways our perspective changes as we get older and closer to the end of life…how thinking about death, and living as if it’s actually going to happen sooner rather than later represents a major shifting point in our aging process, in our maturing process. I think of it as the sign we have become full-blown grownups…when we let go of any starry-eyed idealistic fairytale view of life we might have had and cross over to the world of in-your-face reality, when death and dying become less theoretical and more practical. In my experience, this doesn’t happen when we’re in our 20’s, 30’s, 40’s, 50’s, although it might be more possible if we have experienced the sudden death or terminal diagnosis of a young friend or loved one. Even then, the impact tends to be relatively short-lived and we are lulled back to sleep, returning to our belief it won’t happen to us. We tell ourselves we still have all the time in the world before starting to consider the question, “What do you want the end of your life to look like?” For some people it still hasn’t happened in their 60’s, 70’s or 80’s. They say, “It’s just too scary and negative to think about that stuff.” This isn’t something that only happens to other people…it’s going to happen to all of us. I have to welcome it and make friends with it before it can really enter my house and help prepare me and enrich my life.

I’m currently in the fifth month of a year-long course entitled, “A Year to Live: Facing Our Mortality.” Based on the Stephen Levine book A Year to Live: How to Live this Year as if it Were Your Last, the thirty or so people in the group commit to engaging in a daily practice designed to come as close as we can to living this year as if it were our last and preparing for the experience of dying. Even though it’s still just theoretical (until it isn’t), it’s an intentional practice and a powerful experience. No matter how much knowledge, understanding, or experience you might have about end-of-life, or how much time you might have spent with people who are dying, this is a gift you might consider giving yourself to deepen spirit and enrich your life. If you are someone who thinks there’s still lots of time before dying will become your reality, you might want to consider that this is the same thought people had who were diagnosed this morning with a terminal illness. None of us have all the time in the world. If in reading this you find yourself thinking these are the words of a Debbie Downer, negative thinking, or a buzzkill, a good starting place might be to explore how you came to feel this way, and how shifting these beliefs might have the power to change your life and death. Where do you find yourself in your process?

I once had a client who had a considerable amount of anxiety about which one of her deceased husbands would be there for her when she died, saying she really hoped it would be the last one because the thought of seeing her first husband again frightened her, and she hoped never to see him again! This worry greatly added to her fear of dying. I have sometimes wondered how her story played out…and how my own will play out. Do you ever think about these things?

My mother died 31 years ago, and I have only dreamt of her once in all that time. It was a dream that occurred in the first week after she died in our home. It was a lucid dream, and I awoke from it smiling. It took place at a dusty, poorly-attended, country carnival on the outskirts of town. I was standing out of sight under a tree, watching my mother and her siblings gathered in a circle near another tree. They were teenagers. I had never seen my mother so young and beautiful and animated. I called out to her and waved excitedly, but she couldn’t see or hear me. I remembered one of my aunts telling me decades earlier (with a look of disdain on her face) how bossy my mother was in their childhood, and now, watching her with her siblings, gesturing emphatically as she spoke with a determined look on her face, she was looking very bossy! These were behaviors I had never observed in my timid, quiet mother, who often felt less-than, who never wanted to stand out, and preferred remaining invisible. In the dream she was the only one who was talking, and I remember thinking, “Oh look, she’s the leader of the pack!” I laughed to myself and smiled. There was nothing ominous about this dream. It was a dream of comfort, in bright sunshine and a message from my mother letting me know she was OK. Nothing about the dream made me think she was coming to lead me on my own journey.

The next time she would come to me was almost 30 years later, and it was in the form of a vision—a visitation in the middle of the night that was very clear. It felt both somewhat ominous and purposeful. I did not question the reality that this was happening. I was fully awake. The vision was unmistakable, so unlike anything I had ever experienced. I could feel my heart beating faster and at the same time I felt an element of peacefulness. She was standing off to the side in my bedroom, in my direct line of vision when I opened my eyes. Her image was shrouded in a light fog, she was dressed in a white robe and pajamas, and her expression was somber. Whenever I conjure up an image of my mother in my mind, she is always smiling at me with a look and feeling of love. This is who she was, the mother I have always felt lucky to have been given. I got up to go to the bathroom, wondering if she had come for me. Was this my time to die? She was still standing there when I went back to bed. I fell asleep wondering if I would die in the night and not wake up in the morning, and hoping my granddaughter would not be the one to discover my body and be left with that image in her head. I didn’t share this experience with anyone.

Two days later, on March 14, 2023, in the middle of my workday after finishing with a client, I experienced a sudden onset stiff neck and feeling of disorientation, followed by the worst headache of my life. I later learned there’s a reason why it is often described as a thunderclap headache that floods the brain with blood. I had suffered a ruptured cerebral aneurysm and subarachnoid hemorrhagic stroke—an emergency medical event that causes 25% of people to die immediately, and 50% to die within three months due to complications. Of those who survive, approximately 60% will experience some permanent brain damage. Some people will eventually recover with little or no disability. I was not one of them, but I know how much worse it could have been. I have always been grateful that I have essentially been left with my cognition more or less intact, allowing me to return three months later, on a limited basis, to my private practice as a grief counselor. I continue to struggle, some days more than others, with many of the common symptoms experienced by people who have suffered a ruptured cerebral aneurysm—some short-term memory issues, brain-fog, sensory overload, neuro fatigue. The rupture was in my cerebellum, leaving me with equilibrium, proprioception, and gait issues. My more limiting and noticeable symptoms are those that linger from the subarachnoid hemorrhagic stoke that occurred as a result of the rupture. These symptoms are ongoing dizziness, some mild left-sided weakness, compromised mobility, and lack of stability when moving that cause me to use a cane.

I am grateful to have been given more time, just as I was after a heart attack five years earlier. These medical events are humbling reminders that life is short, and I am not in charge. They are reminders that death can come at any moment. Many spiritual paths teach us some version of keeping death over your left shoulder as a way to live a more purposeful and meaningful life.

I remember almost nothing from my early days and weeks in the neuro ICU. My daughter helped me fill in some of the missing pieces. It was not until I was approaching the first anniversary of my rupture and reviewing the period of time leading up to it that I remembered the visitation from my mother. I find comfort in knowing my mom is with me, knows what is happening before I do, and will be back to greet me when my time is here.

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I wish I could just go to sleep a week before Thanksgiving and not wake up until January 2^nd.

As a grief counselor, I have often heard grieving clients speak these words as the holidays approach.

My work as an end-of-life educator and grief counselor did not in any way soften the grief I experienced when my mom died 31 years ago. I had moved from my lifelong home in California to Maine and had only been working in hospice for two years when my 82-year-old mother, still living in California, was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer that had metastasized to her liver. I flew out to California to spend time with her and get her set up with hospice. Knowing she was in the capable hands of my two brothers and their wives, I then returned home to my husband and two young children in Maine. Mom and I had made a pact some years earlier that she would let me take care of her at the end of her life, and that this now meant she would come to Maine to die in our home—a place she visited a couple of times a year and loved. Her hospice nurse assured me she would let me know when things started to change, and she felt the time was limited when she would still be able to travel. Spending her last Thanksgiving with my brothers and their families, Mom arrived at our home in Maine on November 30, accompanied by a dear friend, and died 10 days later on December 10^th —two weeks before Christmas.

Knowing Christmas was her favorite holiday (as well as my birthday) we had put up a tree, and the house was fully decorated. Her Christmas stocking was packed to the brim with all the small individually wrapped items she looked forward to each year. Mom had spent every Christmas with my husband and me for 20 years, including after we moved to Maine. Our children were 4 and 10, and they were once again excited to know Grandma Rose was coming for the holidays.

I had told them she was dying, that she probably would not be with us by Christmas Day, but we would start celebrating the holidays the minute she arrived. My 4-year-old son ran up to greet his grandma with a hug and said, “Mommy says you’re going to die!” to which she replied, “Yes, Noah, I am…we all will one day.”

As an interfaith family, we celebrated both Hannukah and Christmas. We were already a few days into Hannukah when Mom arrived, so we set up a beautiful space on the dresser in her room to light the candles, sing the blessings, and share a small gift each night, with the kids snuggled up next to her on her bed. Christmas cards, filled with love and good wishes sent by her many friends, hung from the beams in her bedroom. In the days that followed we sat on her bed as she opened the gifts in her Christmas stocking—the part of Christmas she loved the best.

Three days after Mom died, we held a small memorial service in her bedroom for the four of us and a handful of Maine friends who knew and loved her. Her ashes were placed on the dresser—in the ceramic urn my husband made and painted with an image of Mom riding a horse through a field. My daughter, Rosie, and I sang Bright Morning Stars, and a hospice colleague led the beautiful service.

Two weeks later was Christmas and my first birthday without my mother—it was a blur. I was numb. Nothing in me wanted to celebrate the day. All I wanted to do was stay in bed, but we had two young children, and this was not an option. We made Grandma’s favorite Christmas dinner—the one I grew up eating—and we shared our favorite Christmas memories of her. We said prayers for her before our meal, each of us thanked her out loud for the love she had given us, for what we had learned from her, and said what we would miss most about her. We laughed and cried. It was a Christmas unlike any I had known before or since—rich and meaningful and sad. We honored Mom and our grief, and we got through the day better because of it.

I knew how lucky I was to have had my mom in my life for 42 years, unlike so many I knew who had lost their mothers in childhood. Unfortunately, this awareness and gratitude does not diminish the depth of the grief that follows the loss.

When we are newly bereaved in that first year following the death of our person, it is hard to imagine we will ever again find joy, uncertain if we even want to. The last thing we feel like doing is attending a party or celebration of any kind. Many grievers feel offended that the holidays even exist. Then there are all the commercial messages that cannot be escaped, no matter where you are, when family, togetherness, and love are emphasized. All I know in that moment is that my person is no longer here to enjoy the holidays with me, and my world will never be the same. Whatever you are feeling is normal and does not need to be defended or justified. People who care about you and want to see you look like you did before the loss may give unsolicited advice about what you should be doing. I hope you will listen to your gut about what feels right for you, not to someone who doesn’t know you as well as you know yourself.

If you are looking for some guidelines for getting through the holidays without your loved one, here are some suggestions many people have found helpful, especially the first holiday following the death of your person:

· Have your holiday gathering at a different location from where you did when your person was alive…it might mean just gathering in a different room of the house, gathering at someone else’s house, rent an Airbnb, travel to another location. You can start a new holiday tradition if that feels best for you.

Put a beautiful ceramic bowl or glass vase in the center of your dining room/kitchen table for the month leading up to the holiday. Place a stack of cut out pieces of paper and a pen next to the container on which anyone can write a memory of the person who died, fold it up, and place it in the container. Some people might do this once, others might be moved to do it many times during the month. At the family holiday gathering, ask each person to reach in the container, pull out a memory, and read it aloud.

· Hang a stocking for your loved one and invite people to write the person a note or letter of whatever is in their heart.

· Make your person’s favorite holiday cookies or pies.

· Set a place at the table for your person with a beautiful candle, a flower, and their picture. Drink a toast to them during the meal.

· Come prepared to share a poem that makes you think of your loved one or expresses your grief.

· Give small gifts to the others that your person would have chosen for them…write a note in your loved one’s voice.

· Have a separate table-top tree or object where people can make and hang an ornament/message in memory of the one who died.

The grief that comes from the death of a central person in one’s life is messy and deeply disorienting. No matter how many loved ones I might have lost over the years, each new death brings a grief unlike any other. Grief is not one of those things where practice makes perfect. It’s always new, always the first time.

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For some families, grief is the gigantic elephant in the room—everyone is painfully aware of the absence of the one they love, but no one wants to breathe a word of it. The least helpful/healthy thing you can do is not mention your person, thinking that saying their name and talking about them will make everyone sad and spoil what is supposed to be a happy occasion. The opposite is actually true. Often people leave the gathering angry that no one mentioned their person. Acknowledging our grief, saying our person’s name, and sharing stories honors both the one who died and ourselves, lightens our grief, and helps us move one step closer to eventual healing. Be willing to acknowledge and embrace the moments of joy when they arise and to acknowledge sadness when it appears. It’s all good.

In the early weeks, months and beyond it is hard to believe the depth of our grief will ever soften. All we know in the moment is the overwhelming pain. This is understandable. I find it can be helpful in these moments, when I am able, to remind myself that we are each born with the gift of resiliency and the capacity to heal. Little by little, invisible healing is taking place within us as we learn how to carry this loss forward and fold it into our lives, our loved ones forever in our hearts.

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Another phrase to avoid is, “Would your wife want you to withdraw like this and not do all the things you enjoyed doing together?” It’s not unusual for this to be said to someone whose person died just a few weeks ago. This is a question that is unintentionally manipulative and tries to direct how a person should grieve. The underlying message is, “Think about it like this and you won’t have to hurt so much.” It’s sort of like whispering to the surviving spouse in line at the funeral, “Just keep yourself busy and it won’t be so bad.”

It’s very different if a griever uses these phrases when talking about their own experience of grief. They have the right to speak about it in whatever way they choose.

I just heard the words spoken in a bakery yesterday. They are a common response to everything from minor disappointment (“I didn’t get the apartment I wanted”), to major disappointment and grief (“My marriage of 10 years just ended”), to devastating, life-changing, profound grief (“My six-month old baby was just diagnosed with a Stage IV brain tumor”). Who would say “Everything happens for a reason” to these parents? What could that reason possibly be?

Think about a time when you were grieving and someone said these typically well-intended words to you, thinking they were saying something that would soften your pain—or even better, maybe take your grief away because it’s too painful for them to witness. Now remember how it made you feel. I don’t believe anyone wants to intentionally cause further pain by the words they say to someone who is already grieving, but not everyone knows what to say or not say. Sadly, it’s not a class that is offered in high school, or role-modeling that is provided in most homes. Education about death, dying, and grief is as important as sex ed and substance abuse education, and should be a part of the curriculum for every high school student.

Being in the presence of someone who is grieving in our culture generally makes people feel uncomfortable and awkward. In his short and wonderful book, A Grief Observed, the writer C. S. Lewis proposes creating something like a leper colony for grievers after the death of a loved one...a place where everyone could show their grief without feeling judged, avoided by others, or feel shame. Yes, some people feel ashamed, apologetic, and embarrassed by their grief.

People have shared a variety of reactions they felt when they heard the words, “Everything happens for a reason” based on the nature of the loss they had experienced. The range of reactions to hearing these words was wide. Many said it made them feel unheard, dismissed, and angry; some said it diminished their loss; some said it was not helpful to be offered a worn-out catchphrase or platitude; some felt patronized. No one said they found the words helpful. Some said, “I would rather they said nothing and had just given me a hug.” The next time you feel yourself wanting to say, “Everything happens for a reason,” stop and imagine yourself pausing, not looking away, and simply saying, “I’m sorry to know this happened to you.”

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These were the days before social media when there wasn’t a video available on every possible topic like there is today. Our equivalent form of social media then were bumper stickers and t-shirts with messages. A popular bumper sticker in those days was “Life is a bitch…and then you die.” A more positive person (who was also opposed to swearing) might have a bumper sticker that said, “Life is short…and then you die.”

As an end-of-life educator I am always trying to think of ways to normalize death and dying in our culture—to engage people in talking about their end-of-life wishes, to help them discover for themselves that talking about death doesn’t make it come any sooner and doesn’t have to be seen as morbid, or creepy, or negative. One of my unfulfilled ideas was to create a black T-shirt with a white stick figure in the middle, head tilted with a sad, quizzical expression, shoulders hunched up, and the words underneath saying, “Dyin’…huh?” I shared the idea with my office mate who was a kindred spirit in so many ways. Taking the stick figure posture and facial expression myself and saying the words, she laughed, and we simultaneously shared a disapproving look, knowing it would never happen. Personally, if someone gave me that T-shirt at the end of my life, I know I would laugh, feel understood, and loved.

I also suggested our hospice agency purchase advertising space on the entire side of a bus with only the words “What do you want the end of your life to look like?” I couldn’t think of a better way to get people talking and starting to shift the culture. Turned out I was the only one who thought this was a good idea, and since I had no power, this was never considered. I still think it’s a great idea.

There is a place for humor at the end of life if it comes from the one who is dying or when it is a natural part of the family’s dynamics. Many families have shared stories of the funny things their loved one said during their dying time. I loved recently reading that when Queen Elizabeth, who was known to have a quick wit and dry sense of humor, was told by her doctor that she was dying, her response was, “Well, that’s a shame.” I hope my wit does not abandon me when I am dying.

I used to remind hospice volunteers that even if they were blessed with a great sense of humor, that not everyone is. As hospice workers, our job is to always follow the patient’s lead; not to go in and try a stand-up comedy routine, hoping to lighten the moment and thinking it will be well-received. Some people find nothing funny—certainly not anything around death—and would find it upsetting, inappropriate, and offensive. Even if someone has a sense of humor, not everyone wants hard moments to be lightened. Some prefer to take them in fully and savor them.

Nothing clears out a room faster at a party than when someone asks me what I do for a living and I tell them, “I’m an end-of-life educator and grief counselor.” Awkward silence and darting eyes while looking for the nearest escape route are typical responses. My observation after years of paying attention to this, is that many/most people can’t even say the word death, using one of the endless euphemisms that are common in our culture…passed, disappeared, popped their clogs, shit the bed, expired, went away, bought the farm, kicked the bucket, took a face plant, bit the dust, departed, gone home, the big sleep, or is no longer with us.

How about you? Do you find it hard to say, “She died.” Are you someone who looks for a fast exit at a social gathering whenever the D word is mentioned? If so, you might consider using truthful, straightforward words like, death, died, and dying as an experiment…just to see what happens in you and to those who are hearing the words. Before you know it, you might be on your way to becoming an end-of-life educator.

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While I strongly support a patient’s right to self-determination in all aspects of their end-of-life process—even if they make treatment or personal decisions different from those I might make—I also feel an obligation to educate and present options based on decades of witnessing the negative impact of some of the decisions made. The goal is not to coerce someone into changing their mind, but to plant seeds without bias that might help a patient consider all options so they can then make an informed decision. Medically, there are benefits and burdens of any treatment, and the same can be said of decisions made in the personal/behavioral realm.

I’m going to share two situations I encountered while working with hospice in Maine that illustrate this issue very well. The first was a woman who called me in distress, saying her husband had end-stage liver cancer. He had sworn her to secrecy that all of their friends and their three adult children were not to be told anything about his diagnosis and prognosis. Caught in the middle between wanting to honor her husband’s wishes and what she believed in her heart to be misguided and wrong, she reluctantly agreed and in so doing became complicit in the ruse. She asked if I would come to her home and “tell me what to do.” I told her I would not be telling her what to do, but that I would listen and help her process the painful and impossible situation she found herself in. She said her husband was no longer able to get out of bed and would not be present at our meeting. The one time she had suggested the possibility of hospice coming into the home to help them (after a friend suggested hospice to her), he became extremely agitated and angry, accused her of wanting him to die, and told her he didn’t need hospice, “because I’m not going anywhere,” and would never allow anyone from hospice to be in the house. Having been married to her husband for forty years, she was well-practiced in these types of situations, so she lied to him about who I was. We met on three separate occasions over the next six weeks. She described her husband as “a very stubborn, private person.” As her story unfolded, it was clearly another validation of the hospice truism, we die the way we have lived. He had been estranged on and off over the years with each of his children. None of his behaviors came as a surprise to her. In the end, he died in the hospital with just his wife present, their children never offered the opportunity to say goodbye to their father had they wanted to. She was left with the task of telling them he died, and the saga of the last year of his life. They were understandably shocked, furious, saddened, struggling with feelings of guilt, and left with an extremely complicated bereavement process.

The second situation involved a distraught and angry woman who called in desperation, requesting support and help with an extreme situation I had never encountered before or since. The couple were both in their 30’s. She had noticed over a period of several months that he was losing weight, and she was concerned. She asked him to schedule an appointment with their PCP. He also had a cough that had been going on for many months and was getting worse. When she expressed concern, he told her, “It’s nothing, just left over from that cold I had.” He was annoyed by her questioning and told her to, “back off and leave me alone.” Continuing to express concern over the coming weeks, she asked again that he see the doctor. During this entire period of time her husband continued going to work every day. She had returned home from work one day to find her husband dead…and sitting on the couch in an upright position.

In shock and disbelief, his wife called their family doctor the next day to see if she could get any information that might help her piece the puzzle together and understand what had happened. The doctor told her he had seen her husband on a few occasions over the previous 6 months, diagnosed him with advanced lung cancer, and referred him to an oncologist (to whom he had never gone). Her husband signed HIPAA paperwork at the PCP’s office indicating no medical information was to be given to anyone, including his wife. The PCP was legally obliged to honor his patient’s request.

Both of these stories reflect the depth of denial and fear felt by the patients involved, as well as the depth of anger, frustration and betrayal felt by their spouses. When given a terminal diagnosis, some people’s first reaction (after shock) is to feel a sense of shame, embarrassment, and worry that people will judge them based on the illness. It might be the smoker who has lung cancer (or the person who never smoked diagnosed with the same illness); or the person who struggled with alcohol abuse (or the person who never abused alcohol), both diagnosed with end-stage liver cancer and afraid they will be judged.

Describing someone as extremely private is often a euphemism for someone who is unwilling or unable to communicate their feelings. Some people feel it is nobody’s business to know anything beyond surface information about them. “They didn’t care enough about me to visit when I was alive, so I sure don’t want them coming now and gawking at me looking weak and diminished.” Some people fear sharing this information with others will cause the people they love to experience emotional pain and suffering—especially their children if they have spent a lifetime trying to protect them from anything painful. Some fear sharing the news will cause someone to feel pity for them and treat them differently. Some people have never felt safe enough to allow themselves to be vulnerable and able to trust enough to let people in. While these are not character flaws, they are aspects that will definitely negatively impact the dying process for both the patient and the ones who love them. These beliefs are generally a result of the patient’s life experiences that have led them to feel and behave the way they do. In a perfect world, through the support and guidance of a skillful hospice team, the patient might have enough time remaining to open to the transformative experience that is possible at the end of life. Choosing to share your experience with others is a gift you can offer them, allowing them to give whatever support you might be willing to accept, to express their love and appreciation for your presence in their life, and the opportunity to provide emotional or practical support to your family after you are gone. You will be the recipient of love, kindness, and caring. Dying does not have to be a miserable, lonely process. Although it is always sad when there was deep love and connection, it can also be a time of richness and growth unlike any other for the one dying and those left behind. How do you envision the end of life for yourself and the people who love you? You will be in the driver’s seat.

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In my early thirties, in a sudden moment of clarity while meditating in a group with others, I realized all of life is about preparing for dying, for death. This was not a depressing or morbid realization…it simply felt unquestionably true. This epiphany seemed to land in my lap as a gift at that moment, as a teaching I knew I needed to listen to. I felt excited, peaceful, and very alive. It’s only now that I realize this experience, along with a few others, was a piece of what eventually led me to end of life and grief work a decade later, where I remain today.

Now I realize the words life is short just kind of rolled off my tongue in an almost cavalier manner for the longest time. The idea was theoretical and applied to others, but maybe not so much to me. Something in me didn’t take them seriously when I still thought I had a lot of time before my life would come to an end. Now I know better, now I know I am living on borrowed time, that every day is a gift that could be taken away at any moment. The words carry gravitas…I understand the truth in them, and I think about them daily.

About 80% of us will die from a final illness rather than a sudden death. This means, in all likelihood, we will receive a final diagnosis and prognosis before we die—for some, both at the same time with only days or weeks left to live. For others the diagnosis will come first, perhaps with weeks, months or even years leading up to death, eventually followed by a prognosis, and then death.

Anyone who works in hospice will tell you we die the way we have lived. These are not empty words. Families verify this for us; we see it over and over again. My bereavement clients verify this. I fully believe that every lesson we have learned in life will be called upon to help sustain and guide us through our dying time…from the moment of diagnosis to our last breath. The lessons of humility, finding grace in the midst of suffering, intentionally opening to vulnerability whenever you can, refusing to be a victim, learning how to reach out and allowing people to help you, learning how to let go of the things your ego wants to hold on to. These are the things that will make for a better death, the things to practice and to incorporate into your life now while you still can. Instead of seeing challenging or bad news as something negative and unfair, practice seeing it as something that is growing your resiliency, compassion, and wisdom. Something that will make for a gentler death for you and the people you love.

Learning how to soften; to drop your suit of armor while having the courage to let it be replaced by vulnerability; to forgive and let go of anger and resentment while there is still time will be one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself and the people who love you.

How do we get to a good death? We use our daily lives as an opportunity to practice, practice, practice.

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Chapter 2: Adolescence

Chapter 3: Young Adulthood

Chapter 4: Middle Age

Chapter 5: Old Age

If we are lucky enough to make it to Chapter 5, the naturally occurring phenomenon of Life Review starts to take place in our brain, uninvited. Its purpose is to remind us that our time here is limited, to prompt us to take stock of our life, and to make good use of whatever time remains. We can either listen to the call, or we can put our fingers in our ears and say we still have lots of time, and why spoil it with negative thoughts like that. We need to listen to the call. Those thoughts arrive for a reason. They are not negative. They are not a mistake. They are as natural as birth and death.

We don’t have to make ourselves try to remember things. The vignettes and recollections just appear. Maybe it’s the first time we have relived long forgotten memories from our childhood or adolescence. Reviewing our life, not all the recollections bring joy or assure us we have always made good choices or made a difference in someone’s life. Some of it might be painful, with images and memories I might prefer to forget. Things that I can’t change. Some bring sadness, some bring remorse, some bring guilt. What am I going to do with all this newly discovered/rediscovered information about the life I’ve lived? Are there changes I still hope to accomplish in the life I am living today?

Prompted by these thoughts, it might be the first time we actually complete our Advance Directive, rather than leaving the blank form in the desk drawer for another 5 years while continuing to say, “Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to do that.” Or maybe it paves the way for the first time we have a truly meaningful conversation about our end-of-life wishes with a family member or friend. Talking about it will not make it come any sooner.

Part of life review might bring me face to face with my blind spots and shortcomings. Even if the pain I might have unintentionally caused someone to feel was not egregious, it was enough to cause them to end a relationship. To whom do I need to ask for forgiveness? To whom do I need to give forgiveness?

I am reminded of the Mark Twain quote: Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured. The healing power of both giving and receiving forgiveness cannot be underestimated. This is a key element to a peaceful death. I remind myself not everyone is willing or able to do this. Some people would rather hold on to anger and the feeling of having been wronged. It is their right to do so. The healing for both parties comes in the forgiveness.

In his book, The Four Things That Matter Most, hospice physician Ira Byock, MD speaks about the importance of an exchange between a dying patient and loved ones that includes these four things:

Forgive me (for anything I might have said or done that caused you pain)

I forgive you (for anything you might have said or done that caused me pain)

Thank you

I love you

When these words are spoken, we witness patients better able to let go when they are ready and have a more peaceful death. Those left behind have a healthier bereavement because they aren’t left to struggle as much with things left unsaid or undone. I have witnessed years or decades of anger, indignation, or a grudge dissolve in a matter of minutes because of the heartfelt expression of these words.

Reviewing our life can bring clarity, new understanding, and growth. No wonder the end of life and death is sometimes referred to as the final stage of growth. Like fingerprints, no one else will have a life review just like yours. What are you learning about yourself from your own unique life review? What do you want to do with the knowledge you have gained?

I’m including a piece I put together for social workers and chaplains to share with hospice patients and their families, hoping to spark some of life’s most difficult and challenging conversations between people who love each other.

“People who are facing death begin to naturally take inventory of their lives, discovering that it is a time of many conflicting emotions. It is natural to have questions—many of which can never be answered. It is also natural to hope for the best while at the same time preparing for something less than that. It is a time for reviewing the past and finding meaning in the present while facing the unknown.

You might find that you don’t want to talk about your illness and what you are experiencing—this is your right. Or you may find that you want to share your experience with some people, but not with others. It’s important not to let others tell you what you should be feeling, but rather to find people who encourage you to teach them how you feel. The more you are able to share this experience with those closest to you, the more likely you are to receive the kind of care and companionship that will support and sustain you in the days ahead.

The goal of hospice is to provide compassion, care, and comfort through end of life. In this regard, I invite you to think about the following questions and, if comfortable, to let them serve as the basis for your visits with friends and family. Whether you choose to put your thoughts in writing or to let these questions act as food for thought and exploration, I believe they can lead to a more fully lived and meaningful dying time for you and those who love you.

· What has given your life meaning?

· What do you need to live well at this point in your life?

· Is there someone you need/want to forgive?

· Is there someone you need/want to seek forgiveness from?

· Are there projects or tasks you want to complete in whatever time remains?

· What are your hopes for your family and those who love you?

· What do you want the end of your life to look like?

· What do you need help with in order to achieve these goals?”

The courage to sit with these questions and share them with the people we love can lead to a more meaningful and peaceful death for the one dying…and a bereavement less encumbered by regret for things left unsaid and undone for those left behind.

I’m guessing some of you here today share his feelings. Sitting with clients in their grief for the past 25 years has taught me he is not alone in his denial of death. Therein lies the problem. If I don’t believe that everything that has a beginning will one day have an ending, then there is also a good likelihood I will try to deny my grief when someone I love dies. What would it mean to start now to create space for grief in my life—not with an attitude that to do so would be negative and depressing, but rather with an understanding that it could be healthy, even liberating? The death of someone I love is always profoundly sad, but not necessarily depressing. Perhaps the single most important thing to remember about grief is this: Sad isn’t bad. Grief is not negative, it’s not wrong, and it’s not a mistake. It is the most natural response to losing someone you love.

My world is turned upside down overnight when a central person in my life dies. I come face to face with my own mortality—I become painfully aware that I, and everyone I love, will one day die. Little by little, rather than all at once, a profound sorrow will set in that is unlike anything I have ever experienced—the deeper the love and the connection to the one who died, the deeper and longer-lasting the pain. I am reminded of the words of Kahlil Gibran who speaks of Joy and Sorrow. “When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”

It will take me a long time to begin to fully digest the fact that my loved one has died…that I will never again in this life be able to hug him or kiss her or share my life with him or her. Little by little, I become aware of the secondary losses that begin to pile up, including the loss of my identity—am I still a husband or wife? A mother or father? A brother or sister? A son or a daughter? Married or single? Many parents who have lost a child tell me the question they most fear being asked by a stranger is, “How many children do you have?” Do I say, ‘I have four children,’ and leave it at that,’ or do I say, ‘I had four children, but one of them died.’” For some people, just saying the word “died” is often not possible for a very long time, if ever.

Looking in the mirror after my loved one has died I wonder who that person is looking back at me. Her eyes are dull and filled with pain, and she seems to have aged dramatically overnight. I don’t recognize her and the person she is becoming inside as the grief begins to settle in a little more each day. I wonder if I will ever again recognize the person in the mirror.

Newly bereaved, I worry I will always feel the way I do now, unable to find joy or meaning in anything, with a longing and an aching for my loved one that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my heart, mind, and gut—leaving me sick to my stomach and frightened. I don’t know how long I can endure this pain, and some days I don’t even know if I want to. I wonder if I will ever be the person I used to be before my loved one died.

I’m not the only one wondering about this. Those who love me are wondering the same thing—worried about me and feeling helpless when they are unable to give me back my lost joy and motivation. All I can do now is survive and get through my day. They are saddened by my sadness, and would give anything to see me laughing and engaging in life as I once did. Though they wish the best for me, they sometimes push me in directions I’m not yet ready to move toward. Maybe I’m not ready yet to go through her belongings or to attend a dinner party without him. They think I need a cheerleader to lift my spirits, when what I really need is someone who will just quietly sit with me, and if I want to talk about my grief they will just listen and not tell me what I should do, think, or feel as I move through these uncharted waters trying to find myself. I am fearful I will never be the person I used to be before my loved one died. I am fearful life will always be as flat and gray as it is now.

Grief demands our attention. When our feelings are not allowed expression, healing becomes delayed, and ultimately even more painful and debilitating. It is important who we choose to share our grief with—those who will listen without judgment or unsolicited advice make up the best support system when we are grieving the death of a loved one. The last thing we need is someone who tells us, “You should be over it and moving on with your life by now.”

Many years ago, in a bereavement support group setting, Mary shared a story that spoke to everyone in the group. A friend—a good friend—had come to visit her at her home two months after her husband died. After a couple of minutes, the friend asked Mary, “Is something wrong? You seem so sad!” This was not the first time Mary had heard this and similar comments from both friends and family, and she was growing less patient and more angry with peoples’ insensitivity. Mary, in disbelief, looked at her friend and said, “Of course I’m sad, my husband died, and I’m lost,” to which her friend replied, “Oh…are you still having a hard time with that?” Prepared for what she would say the next time someone said something so ignorant and hurtful, Mary stated, in a calm and neutral voice, “Well, you know, he’s still dead.” At first stunned and left speechless for some moments by Mary’s reply, the friend acknowledged her insensitivity. Much to her credit, Mary’s friend didn’t get defensive in her embarrassment. “Of course you’re sad. I’m just living my life as I always have, and I sometimes forget you are no longer able to do that. I guess I just want you to look happy again, and I don’t really know what to say or do…so I sometimes say or do something stupid. I hope you can forgive me.” This is what a truly good friend is able to say in the midst of the awkwardness of grief. Mary had the courage to gently share the depth of her sadness, and in the process helped educate her friend about the realities of grief.

Moving toward grief and embracing it is not something we naturally want to do. It hurts too much to allow ourselves to fully feel the weight of what we are experiencing—to actually embrace it rather than push it away—but this is a critical part of the path toward healing. Grief leaves us feeling vulnerable and uncertain, and it takes an extraordinary amount of courage to let it lead us where we need to go.

You will encounter people who disagree with this, who might say things like, “Don’t dwell on it,” or “Just keep yourself busy and you won’t have to hurt so much.” While this advice is well-intended, it is never helpful. This unsolicited advice is the projection of someone whose recipe for coping with profound loss is to act as if it never happened—to simply put on a happy face, pull yourself up by your bootstraps, and carry on. Business as usual. The recipe does not include acknowledging and feeling the depth of your pain. Allowing ourselves to be with our grief does not mean we are dwelling on it. Crying does not mean we are wallowing in it, or having a pity party. If ever there was a time to have sorrow for oneself, it is now—this terrible thing did happen, it cannot be changed, it is not a mistake. To have sorrow for oneself is a necessary part of the healing process. It may seem that embracing our grief will only push us into a deeper state of sadness, but doing so actually creates the space we need to begin the healing process.

People who have not known profound grief do not understand the overwhelming power and immensity of grief. Some still imagine they are in control of their lives, that mind over matter can solve everything. They have not yet learned that Grief is bigger than they are, and that it will not be dismissed without a very big price to pay—the price of living half a life. Grief deserves and demands my attention and expression. Doing so, I will eventually find healing, growth, and transformation.

The fact is that the grief we feel following the death of a central person in our life has a naturally occurring point of despair. The writer Miriam Greenspan—the daughter of Holocaust survivors and a psychotherapist for more than 40 years—speaks of despair in a 2008 interview for The Sun entitled Through A Glass Darkly: On Moving from Grief to Gratitude. Reminded by the interviewer of the alchemists’ saying about “finding gold in the dung heap,” Greenspan was asked if she was mining the dung heaps of our lives for spiritual and psychological gold, to which she replied:

“Despair is an existential emotion. It occurs when our meaning system gets shattered and we have to construct a new one. But our culture does not value this process. We don’t see any value in the dung. We want to flush it away. It takes courage to allow our faith and meaning to be dismantled. Despair can be a powerful path to the sacred and to a kind of illumination that doesn’t come when we bypass the darkness. As the poet Theodore Roethke put it, ‘The darkness has its own light.’”

Grief can be our most profound spiritual teacher, deepening our connection to life, and leaving us transformed in the process. When I am deep in grief, I look to those who have travelled the grief journey before me and come out on the other side. They tell me it will get a little softer and easier over time, and the huge boulder of grief I now carry on my back will little by little get smaller and become more manageable until eventually it is reduced to a small polished stone I can carry in my pocket. Their ability to rejoin life tells me I will one day do the same, not so much as the person I once was, but rather a wiser and more humane version of myself, capable of once again living a life full of meaning and joy—proof of the mysterious resiliency and capacity for healing present in every one of us.

I leave you with these words of Irish philosopher and poet John O’Donohue from his book of blessings called Benedictus:

“When you lose someone you love, your life becomes strange, the ground beneath you becomes fragile, your thoughts make your eyes unsure. And some dead echo drags your voice down where words have no confidence, your heart has grown heavy with loss. And though this loss has wounded others, no one knows what has been taken from you when the silence of absence deepens. Flickers of guilt kindle regret for all that was left unsaid or undone.

There are days when you wake up happy again inside the fullness of life, until the moment breaks and you are thrown back onto the black tide of loss.

Days when you have your heart back, you are able to function well until in the middle of work or encounter, suddenly with no warning, you are ambushed by grief. It becomes hard to trust yourself.

All you can depend on now is that sorrow will remain faithful to itself. More than you, it knows its way and will find the right time to pull and pull the rope of grief until that coiled hill of tears has reduced to its last drop.

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance with the invisible form of your departed, and when the work of grief is done, the wound of loss will heal, and you will have learned to wean your eyes from that gap in the air and be able to enter the hearth in your soul where your loved one has awaited your return all the time.”

The same thing happened with seeing babies everywhere I went. As soon as I started pushing a stroller, it felt like a memo had gone out telling everyone to join the stroller parade the next day.  I felt lucky to have all these new parents and babies out there at the same time sharing the experience with me.

Wanting to buy a heavier car to keep my new baby safe, I began doing some research to find out what this car might be. I discovered the Volvo station wagon had great stats for safety and survival rates in accidents. Suddenly I started seeing Volvo station wagons all over the streets and parking lots of San Francisco, carrying children and car seats. Decision made.

Fast-forward 40 years. Now I see old people everywhere I look. Many of them have canes just like mine. This didn’t happen when I was younger (even just five years younger), other than whenever I went to a theater, symphony or opera matinee performance and wondered where all the white-haired people came from. Now I can’t walk outside my building without seeing them, struggling with their mobility and balance, just like me. Strangely, I somehow find comfort in this, knowing these are my people. I see them as beautiful, kindred spirits, knowing they have been humbled and made courageous and wiser by their process of aging.

This phenomenon was given a name in 1994, although it has no doubt been experienced since the beginning of time.  A cognitive bias when someone notices something new or recently learned more frequently than they did before, it’s called the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, also known as the Frequency Illusion. This phenomenon is referred to as a type of selective attention. Once we become aware of something new, our brains become more attuned to it, making us more likely to notice it again and leading to the illusion it is happening more often. Our brains prioritize and process information, leading us to perceive certain patterns and frequencies that may not accurately reflect reality. Hmmm…remind you of anything happening in our country today?

I have had many friends and bereavement clients over the years who have told me with a look of shock and fear, “Everyone is dying all around me!” or “There’s so much more cancer than ever before…everyone has cancer!” And these are not only people who lean towards hyperbole. They are people who are aging and naturally experiencing more of their friends and family members getting sick and dying. They are people who are experiencing Frequency Illusion. They are often people who have spent their lives thinking death only happens to other people, not to anyone they love or to themselves.

The fact is, we are all getting older on a daily basis. There are approximately 9,000 deaths per day in the US, with an average life expectancy of 75.8 years for males and 81.1 years for females. This is not fake news, no matter how much you may not want to think about it, talk about it, or believe it.

Yes, there are exceptions to everything, and you might be one of those exceptions who gets an extra year or two, or even a decade or two. Or you might not be. No matter what your age, this is a good time to sit with yourself and think about what you want to do with whatever time remains…however long or short it might be.

carolschoneberg.com

June 19, 2025

Evanston, IL

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Carol Schoneberg

End-of-Life Educator & Grief Counselor

griefsupport@carolschoneberg.com

www.carolschoneberg.com

(207) 535-9131

I encourage each of you reading this to think about the things you can control and write them down.

Now look at your list, take a deep breath, and cross out any of the things you wrote that are assumptions, imaginary, or just plain wishful thinking. In reality, they are not things you have any control over. None.

Perhaps the easier and more useful list to make would be Those Things I Have No Control Over. If you’re interested in growing your self-awareness, this is my recommended starting place. If you decide to make this list instead, the top two items are already spoken for—they belong to #1 Grief, and #2 Death. They absolutely will not be controlled.

I don’t get to have control over what my final illness will be or what my last days of life will look like. I do, however, have some important input in advance of many aspects of my dying based on my willingness to initiate difficult conversations with my family and friends and my healthcare team about the kind of care I do and don’t want at the end of my life. I can complete my Advance Directive and make sure my wishes are heard and understood. I can be in control of whether or not I choose to utilize VSED (Voluntarily Stopping Eating and Drinking). Depending on what state I live in, I can make decisions about whether or not I want to utilize MAID (Medical Aid In Dying) when a doctor determines I have a prognosis of 6 months or less. The rest of my dying process will unfold as it goes with new developments every day…not a very comfortable place for a control freak.

Let’s talk about #1 on my list—grief. I don’t get to control what my grief will look like, its intensity, or how long it will last. I give grief this ranking because there are no aspects of it that are up for negotiation. I have to acknowledge it and give it is due if I ever hope to once again live a full and meaningful life after my person dies. Because the death of someone I dearly love is initially so surreal and hard to wrap my head around, I can treat the loss as if it didn’t really happen.

I had a bereavement client who literally travelled around the world in the first year of grief following the death of his mate, hoping this would prevent him from feeling the unbearable depth of his pain.

Another client made sure to leave her house for at least 8 hours every day, even if it meant sitting in her car at the grocery store parking lot.

For both of these clients, the pain of being in the home and surroundings they shared with their loved one was unbearable. It was not something they were willing to ever allow to become bearable, believing to do so would cause them and others to question how much they really loved their person. It was an attempt to control their grief. They were willing to use whatever rapidly disappearing energy they had to attempt to run away from grief, whether literally or figuratively, to keep as much distance as possible between the death and their daily living.  It’s not a big deal, we used to fight a lot anyway. The reasons can be endless. Or I’ll just put my grief in this little huge box over here where I’ve put everything else in my life that has been painful and I don’t want to ever think about again. It makes me too sad to think about these things! People who want to dwell on their grief are just so negative! All they need to do is just stop talking about it!

It takes an enormous amount of courage and a willingness to let go when we are confronted with death and grief…to be willing to acknowledge we are not in control. To be able to look squarely in the face at these two central pieces of being human, and let them teach us, speaks of strength, not weakness. I know this is possible because I have witnessed it in those who have been my teachers. We can be students until our last breath.

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Carol Schoneberg

End-of-Life Educator & Grief Counselor

griefsupport@carolschoneberg.com

www.carolschoneberg.com

(207) 535-9131