Death owes me a steak dinner…

Written by Shari Hadley, LCSW 

Today’s guest post comes from Shari Hadley, LCSW (Licensed Masters Social Worker).  Shari was raised in rural Missouri by both parents until her mother’s untimely death in a farming accident. While in college, she became Wiccan, married and had a son, but then tragedy struck again leaving her a widowed single mother at age 30. Read more about her incredible journey in her book “From the Cauldron to the Cross”.

Contact Shari via her website www.cauldrontothecross.com or “Like” on the book’s Facebook page.

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I had always thought of Death as a person, at least, until recently. Only while participating in a Bible study of Revelations did it occur to me to even question the idea. “I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.” Revelation 6:8 (NIV). It was this personification of Death in scripture that brought my original beliefs about death to the forefront. You see, I normally think in very literal terms. Thankfully I’ve had a very patient Bible study teacher who enjoys my inquisitive mind (God Bless you Dr. Truelove!) and was able to help me understand that this passage is not to be taken literally, but figuratively.

So I have a better understanding of the existence of death, but I still personify him. It’s hard not to. After all, my hospice buried 211 people last year. That’s a lot of people, and I am the only grief counselor for all of their families. So it’s hard not to think of death as a fellow coworker. “Here let me introduce you to everyone. This is our chaplain, there is our volunteer coordinator, here are a couple social workers, our medical director and our nurses. Oh yeah, and over there by the coffee pot? That’s the Grim Spector of Death. That’s why the darn pot never works. Say hello to our visitors Death. (he waves a friendly hello).” You see Death and I are friends. And like a good friend, I don’t always agree with his methods or who he chooses to have a relationship with, because after all, none of his relationships end well.

I remember the first time I met Death. I was a child. We had a black Labrador retriever named Hambone. Hambone was just like every other black lab you ever met. Sweet, good tempered, patient, docile and dedicated fully to his family. Always ready with a wag of the tail, and a hug, hoping maybe, just maybe you’ll drop some of what you are eating, because kids are, by nature, messy creatures and it was his job to clean up after the household. But Hambone was getting old. He had been a puppy when I was a baby, and I wasn’t a baby anymore. He was moving slower from arthritis and had white on his muzzle. And one day Hambone didn’t show up for dinner. We looked everywhere, calling his name, but to no avail. He just seemed to disappear.

Several weeks went by and I was taking a walk in the woods near our house. As I wandered down a dry creek bed, something to the side caught my eye. It was black fur on skin, pulled tight over a loose pile of bones. It was Hambone. I ran home crying, looking for my father. Rather than move Hambone, we simply covered his body with soil and placed a marker. Dad explained to me that sometimes when animals get old and know their time is coming, that they wander off to die. And that’s what Hambone did. I know he wandered off for my benefit, but it still frightened me.

I was frightened of everything at that age, and it didn’t help that I could see Hambones grave from my bedroom window. I used to have nightmares of his bones coming to life and chasing me, or pacing outside my window. Yeah, Death and I weren’t friends back then. Soon after this incident Hambone’s best friend, our other dog Fluffy died. We buried her next to Hambone. And it became apparent that Death was on a roll. In the same woods, just a few yards away from Hambone and Fluffy’s grave, Death took my mother’s life with a chainsaw. 27 years later he would stand with me in the bedroom next to my own childhood room. With my arms around my dying father, I would look out his bedroom window and see Hambone’s grave.

But how does someone become friends with Death? It seems like such an appalling idea. As appalling as say…working at hospice? Boy, how many times have those of us in hospice been asked “So, where do you work?” and once we respond, the individual reacts with some form of shock or horror followed by the reply “Well, that must be depressing!” or if it’s a doctor the reply is “I hope I never have to use your services!” I think it’s these responses that helped me begin to feel empathy for Death. After all, no one likes him and nobody is ever glad to see him. But after so many years in hospice, with nearly 800 deaths under my belt, hundreds of funerals, sympathy cards, and condolence calls, I’ve come to respect Death. How can I not, after seeing the glassy eyes of my patients who gasp for breath, feverish, slipping into unconsciousness, usually after losing so much weight that they are nearly unrecognizable to even their loved ones. Death is a welcome reprieve. That’s not to say I don’t grieve. I do, and I do hard.

We bury my father-in-law Don Conner this Saturday at 11am in the Appleton City Cemetery. I’ve known Don nearly 20 years, and Death has truly broken my heart once again. I cry so hard, that I slip to the floor, crumpled, face in my hands, weeping bitterness, begging God for a break. Just a little break…from my friend Death. Even though Don was badly injured from his fall March 9th, all of us truly thought he could be rehabilitated enough to one day come home. Maybe for Christmas. But I guess that won’t be the case.

I recently saw a phrase on a church billboard that said “Every day spent above ground is a good day.” Every time I see it, I think how a phrase could not be more untrue. Especially for a church. But I guess that’s how you feel when you’re not friends with Death. And by my way of thinking, Death owes me a steak dinner right about now….

Article taken from 

http://www.calebwilde.com/2013/07/death-owes-me-a-steak-dinner/

The Unstoppable Force

written by Jessica Fowler

The funeral home was filled with young people. While I waited in the viewing line on a ramp that lead into the chapel, I looked around at the men and women, mostly in their 20s, dressed to impress. If you cropped out our bodies with a Photoshop tool and pasted it on to a picture of the outside of a nightclub it would make a perfect billboard. Instead, we were on our way to say goodbye to another person we knew who died because of substance abuse.

Most of us had been in that line before or would be again soon. If you put all of the people between the ages of 18 and 30 from my county in a room together, you could spend days trying to find a single person whose life hasn’t been fractured by substance abuse. There is a different feeling in the air when you attend a funeral for someone who overdosed, a chilly undertone that no one wants to directly address. The unspoken fact that nearly everyone around you has grieved for this person already before, in their own way, because losing someone to addiction is like losing them twice.

When my father overdosed in 2006, there was no trace of the man who brought me roses when I was sick. There was nothing left of the person who built pinewood derby cars with my brother for the church youth group. There was no sign of the husband who gave my mother a gift every day for the 12 Days of Christmas. He was gone long before that needle stuck into his veins, before he left his house, his job and his church. He was gone the second a distracted doctor wrote him a prescription for Adderall, scribbling away a decade of sobriety without a second thought.

I mourned the man my father was long before he took his last breath. I grieved for his convictions, the principals that he traded for a poison. It doesn’t happen fast—years go by where you feel as though every time you answer the phone, it’s going to be the news you have been dreading. When you find yourself on the bottom of another person’s downward spiral, it suddenly becomes so clear how you arrived there. That unstoppable force consumed the person you loved long ago.

It’s not hard to find a scapegoat to blame. If it’s not the doctors, it’s the dealers. The shadowy figures who lace heroin with Fentanyl. The coroner’s exact words were, “John died from a bad batch of heroin”…as if there were any good kind of heroin. A dozen others died that same weekend from the same “bad batch.” More than 16,000 people a year die from opioids, but somewhere in some shadowy corner of this world, someone who wanted to make some extra money decided that that was not deadly enough. The drug baggies the police found were stamped with smiley faces.

I remember a brief “before” time when my father was still alive when I didn’t think a drug as monstrous as heroin could affect my life. Then, a few months after my high school graduation I heard that a girl I went to school with had overdosed. She was, in my memory, one of the most gorgeous girls I had ever known and the type of girl a person would say had “everything going for her.” Less than a year later, the same drug took my father.

Now, when I look around at the tear-streaked faces, my mind instinctively wonders, who’s next?’ That may sound like a cynical thought, so I should mention that we were waiting in line to view the body of a man who stood in this same funeral parlor, flesh and blood, only four months ago when his brother died from a heroin overdose. To even try to imagine the grief of his parents who lost both of their sons to this demon substance is impossible. Your mind just shuts down because even the thought is too much to bear.

While we’re waiting, I watch as a young guy ahead of us, dressed in a long white T-shirt and shorts, trips and stumbles while moving up the ramp. His voice travels down the long passageway, angry words I can’t make sense of. I don’t have to know what he is saying to know that he is on something. Even from far away, I can see a wild, unsteady look in his eyes. There are others here too who have that same spaced-out look. I want to shake them and force them to wake up to the reality around us.

We walk through a room with photo display boards and a memorial video. I can hear a familiar piano melody and I know the song immediately. “How to Save a Life” by the Fray, the unofficial anthem for those left behind because of substance abuse. My throat catches when I see a video of the two brothers standing together in their Baseball uniforms. Children in a world that hasn’t started to sink beneath them yet. When I kneel at the casket and see someone so young, it’s hard to believe my own eyes.

I hug his dazed parents and express my condolences. In truth, it is hard to look into their faces for longer then a few seconds. To see the exhaustion that I have seen in my own face and in the face of my family reflected back feels like opening an old wound. Reliving that pain is something I can bear, but my fear of standing where they stood again was something I could not.

I remember when my mother first told me that my father was an addict and that an addictive gene ran through our blood. She told me I was old enough to know why my dad didn’t drink and had to go to therapy, and why we were sent to live with my grandmother when he went to rehab. It was during the blissful clean years, when I only knew a loving father and the word addiction was like a bee buzzing by my ear, keeping me from the outside world where I could play. I couldn’t know that the words she was telling me would echo back later. That I would be fighting with her in a struggle to save my brother from his dependency on alcohol. That the cycle of addiction would continue to repeat throughout my life.

When my brother and I were watching my dad unravel, we swore we’d never end up like him. We swore our lives would be different. I imagine those parents said the same thing after they lost their son—that they would do anything to save the other. But words and vows are worthless against the power of addiction. Before it claims your life, it claims your personality, your beliefs, even parts of your soul.

I don’t deny the culpability of the addict. I know it’s a disease of choice. I’ve known others who have crashed on the rockiest of rock bottoms and are now living wonderful lives, fully in control of their own destiny. But no matter how hard you try to stop making excuses for the addict, it’s the only way you can justify loving someone who is already gone in every way that matters. It’s like loving someone who is possessed.

It’s one thing to lose someone. It’s another to lose someone again and again and again, to that same unstoppable force. I feel like I am losing my brother against something that I can’t fight. I’ve tried before and lost, and I’m terrified of losing again.

Jessica Fowler is a fiction writer and poet from the suburbs of Philadelphia. Her short story, “Anchored” was recently published in The Philly Anthology (Vol. 1). Jessica studied journalism at Temple University and when she is not working on fiction and poetry, she is busy writing articles and blogs for funeral directors as the Public Relations Specialist at ASD – Answering Service for Directors. Jessica is also an avid outdoor enthusiast who loves hiking, camping, biking and swimming. To read more of Jessica’s writing, visit her blog at  characterisfate.wordpress.com

 Article borrowed from   http://www.calebwilde.com/2013/07/the-unstoppable-force/

How to Help a Hurting Friend

How to Help a Hurting Friend

BY LEANNE PENNY

JULY 23, 2013

Leanne Penny is a mother, writer, wife and overall creative soul who is passionate about partnering with God on the business of redemption. She lives with her husband and two preschool-age children in West Michigan where she reads, plays, cooks and squeezes the rest into the cracks somehow. Find more on her Twitter, Facebook or website.

It's time to abandon the idea that we need experience in order to offer comfort.

It was eight years ago, but I can still flash back to that room in my mind: All of us crammed in my parent’s living room, motionless bodies on couches, chairs and floors. The air was heavy with grief and shock. My Father’s body had recently been taken out of the basement where he had died the night before. And it was for that reason that we gathered in heartbroken love.

I could write a million words about the people who sat with me that day, how their simple, genuine love saved my life. Yet the one person that springs to mind in these memories is my sweet friend and college roommate, Becky.

 SHE HAD NO CREDENTIALS THAT GAVE HER PERMISSION TO SPEAK INTO MY LIFE OTHER THAN THE SIMPLE FACT THAT SHE WAS MY BEST FRIEND AND BELONGED BY MY SIDE IN THE STORM.

We met at a pizza place and our lives were totally the same yet completely different. I was casual and went to class in hoodies, Doc Martens and funky hair. Becky was (and still is) the modern day Audrey Hepburn—always dressed in flared jeans and heels with carefully coiffed hair and makeup.

So it said something when she skipped her makeup and shower that day to rush to my side. We were so young, just 22, with no experience in losing a parent. I know she was completely unsure of what to do or say, yet I remember with tender thankfulness how firmly she stayed by my side. She even offered to come with me to the bathroom, in case I was afraid to be alone.

As the years passed, she was my maid of honor and threw a thoughtful shower and crazy-fun bachelorette party. She grabbed my hand before my uncle walked me down the aisle, understanding how deeply I longed for my Dad.

She bought a last-minute plane ticket when our firstborn, Noelle, arrived, because she couldn’t bear to miss out on those fresh new baby days—she had to hold her new niece.

At my Mother’s funeral a few years later, she and her husband, Adam, stayed with my husband, Kel, and I for the entire visitation. She was by my side through all the confused, dark details. She didn’t flinch or waiver. She didn’t let things get awkward. She had no credentials that gave her permission to speak into my life other than the simple fact that she was my best friend and belonged by my side in the storm.

So often when we don’t know what to say we make one of two mistakes:

• We either say something trite and painful as we attempt to put an easy bow on our friend’s grief, or we say nothing at all and keep our distance, feeling ill equipped to speak from our lack of knowledge and understanding.

• Surprisingly, saying nothing is far worse than saying the wrong thing. The last thing a wounded friend needs is to wonder if their pain is too awkward for your friendship. Saying nothing may cause them to question if your friendship was shallow and only available when life was easy.

Don’t buy into the lie that you need some sort of credentials to “go there” with the heartbroken and grieving people in your life. God knows and understands all pain, He has been there—He has been everywhere, and His papa heart is burdened when His children’s hearts break. Have faith that His spirit will equip you for every room He sends you into.

DON’T BUY INTO THE LIE THAT YOU NEED CREDENTIALS TO “GO THERE” WITH THE HEARTBROKEN AND GRIEVING PEOPLE IN YOUR LIFE.

“A friend loves at all times” isn’t just a verse for grandmas to sweetly needlepoint on a pillows—it’s a real call to be lived out through late night phone calls, tear-stained napkins, hand delivered warm meals, thoughtful cards or however you feel called to love.

Hands and feet love will speak louder than your fear or lack of knowledge, here are a few tips:

Don’t stay silent. Offer your support and don’t be afraid to use the phrase “I don’t understand, but I’m so sorry and I’m here.”

Be specific with your support: Don’t just say “Can I do anything?” but offer a specific meal on a specific night, offer childcare, housework or lawn mowing. Think about what your practical needs would be if you found yourself in your friend’s shoes. We’re often too prideful to ask for help, but we can be persuaded with tempting and specific offers.

Don’t make the mistake of thinking things will be OK in a week. Be the one who is still checking in a month, six months and a year later. Realize that some hurts take years to heal and leave permanent scars. Your friendship will likely change as your friends heal, although I would wager that if you just “go there,” you will both come out of this stronger, more gracious and closer to God as well as to each other.

Article taken from 

http://www.relevantmagazine.com/god/how-help-hurting-friend

Confessions of a Funeral Director -- Writing the Dark Chapters

CONFESSIONS OF A FUNERAL DIRECTOR

Writing the Dark Chapters

By Caleb Wilde

I walk into a room at 6 a.m. and all eyes fix on me and my next move.  I am, after all, the odd one out in the room, the one whose face isn’t stained with tears; the one wearing dress clothes, who’s there in body, but whose soul isn’t in the depths.

I’m the colonialist, walking into another culture, ready to impose society’s desire for a clean picture of death.

Those who are sitting around the bed of the deceased aren’t thinking about what you and I are thinking about at 6 in the morning.  They aren’t wondering how they will get their kids dressed in time for school; or how they’re going to pitch their project to coworkers at work.

Everything is on hold.

Time has slowed at a pedestrian pace and they sit in grief … resisting the reality that what was their husband, their wife, their son, daughter, grandfather, friend is no longer present to hug, laugh and live with.

Death creates its own culture … its own world.

A world where time seems to altogether stop, where language is often spoken with less words and more tears, hugs and contemplation, where the regular dress code doesn’t exist and where the norms and mores of society are put on hold.  Here, in this sacred space at 6 a.m. in the morning, God seems nearer; family and friends surround you; you can let your emotional inhibitions go.  This is the world that was never meant to be and yet is everything you wish it could be.  It seems we have to go back through death to get to Eden.

With tie draped down my dress shirt, if I can’t imagine a world unlike mine … if I can’t picture a context outside of me … if I can’t remove myself from the all too obvious facts that it’s 6 a.m., I’m tired, didn’t get my Dunkin Donuts medium coffee with cream and sugar, and that I’ll be even more tired tonight when I’m supposed to go to Chili’s with my wife; if I can’t imagine the family’s story; the story of the deceased and his life and the loss this represents, I can’t be a good funeral director.

Funeral directing is a lot like writing.  It involves alterity, imagination and the ability to make a lot of the detail and little of the obvious.  I write the story as I walk into the sacred space of grief.

I notice the one closest to the decease’s body.  ”That’s probably the NOK”, I think to myself.  Granted, the story is easier to imagine if I already know the family, but this morning I don’t.  The closest one to the bed is oft the main character in this play; and I can write a story of comfort, by entering the narrative with a warm hug, maybe even a kiss, a kind smile and eyes that speak of the compassion my heart is feeling; or, I could write a story as a narrator, standing back, observing and not entering.  What does this specific family need?

I wait as the drama unfolds, as my very presence evokes the supporting characters who will inevitably point me to the protagonist.

Asking questions; feeling out the room.  I enter in and I – at this very moment – have the privilege and responsibility of helping to write this chapter.

Taken from 

http://www.calebwilde.com/category/death/funeral-directing/

 Filming My Own Eulogy

 by Caleb Wilde of Confessions of a Funeral Director

Caleb Wilde

Jerry Seinfeld is quoted as saying that the two greatest fears for humans are public speaking and death.  Being the machismo embodiment of masculinity that I am, I’ve always wanted to conquer both fears at the same time.   And there’s only one way to do it: speak at your own funeral.

This ultimate act of bravery is now made possible through the advancements of 21st Century technology.  We can actually film our last words.  And we can do more than film our last words.  With internet sites like “My Own Eulogy”, you can not only film your eulogy, but build a 21st Century “memorial site” … a library of videos to be shared with loved ones when you pass.

I saw a part of the movie “Get Low” last night which tells the tale of a man who knew he was going to die so he wanted to have his funeral service before he breathed his last.  It’s a great idea that few of us could accomplish even if we wanted to because we simply don’t know know our death date (would you want to know it?).

I’ve planned that each year I’d record a brief video of myself, where I briefly state what happened this past year, what major events occurred, etc.  If I starting doing it now, and create a new one each year, I could then have somebody cut up each video and make it into a brief bio video timeline that could be played at my funeral … as my eulogy. There could be like a 20 second clip from each year and you could see the progression of my aging as the years role by.

“If I Die” just developed a Facebook app that allows you to send out posthumous Facebook messages/videos/updates to friends and family.

And I’m sure as all these ghost Facebook pages accumulate, Facebook will eventually find a way to create a memorial section … a Facebook grave site or sorts.

For the most part, the funeral industry is about 10 to 20 years behind the rest of the world simply because we service the oldest generation.  But within the next 10 to 20 years, I image we will see more and more innovative sites like “My Own Eulogy” (MOE is ahead of the curve) that allow us to speak from the grave.

Here’s my first attempt to “record my own eulogy” that I made for “My Own Eulogy”‘s website.  It was all extemporaneous and I went over the recommended time limit of three minutes.  But, it was a decent first try.

It was definitely hard … it was hard trying to think of words that you’d want to live forever.  My forever words for my family and friends.   And, it was mainly hard because I’ve yet to meet my children, so I’m not really sure what “forever words” I should say to them.

And, I might add, this is kind of a vulnerable video, so if you’re feeling snarky today or you’re just trolling, please resist the temptation to point out my receding hair line or my knack for fumbling for words … or the fact that my nostrils flare when I’m trying to be serious.

View his video here:

http://vimeo.com/34765325

So now that you’ve seen the video that I posted (or as much of mine as you could handle, or your lunch time would allow), head on over to “My Own Eulogy” and record your own.  And be sure to check out Alba’s eulogy … it’s pretty cool!

What would you want to say in your eulogy?  What would be your “forever words”?

Thanks Caleb for sharing!

Article borrowed from

http://www.calebwilde.com/2012/01/filming-my-own-eulogy/

Dying Well

5 Tips for Creating a Personal Sendoff

Today’s guest post is from Elizabeth Meyer.  Elizabeth is an expert in planning personalized funeral services, and hopes to make funeral planning a less taboo, more approachable subject. After planning a unique funeral for her own father in 2006, she joined Frank E. Campbell funeral home in New York City as Family Services Liaison, where she served Campbell’s and Riverside Memorial Chapel helping families create exceptional services. She earned an MBA from Cass Business School in London and a BA from New York University. She is currently the Funeral Guru at Everplans.com.

When I tell people that I work in the funeral industry, most become speechless. Looking at me questioningly, they’ll mange to ask, “But…why?” I tell them about the funeral I planned for my father six years ago. It was the most emotionally challenging thing I’ve ever done, but it was also the most rewarding. I understand the power that a meaningful funeral or memorial service has in the emotional processing, grieving, and healing after a death. And so I use what I learned from my own experience to guide and empower others to create meaningful sendoffs for their loved ones. I deeply understand the power that a meaningful funeral or memorial service has in the emotional processing, grieving, and healing after a death.  I hope that by helping people create personalized services I am alleviating some pain for these families.

Obviously, I can’t tell you what specifically will be meaningful to you or loved ones. I can, however, share the lessons I learned from planning my dad’s funeral and the dozens of special funeral and memorial services I’ve helped other families plan. So without further ado, here are my top 5 things to consider when creating a personalized sendoff:

1. Religion

Religion is an important factor in funeral plans, and religious rites and traditions can dictate everything from whether the body should be buried or cremated, to where and when the service should be held, to what foods should be eaten afterward. If you’ll be following any religious rituals, get a sense of the traditions before you make any solid plans; the specific rituals you’ll follow may override any other desires you might have.

For example, you might want an ornate casket for your loved one and a lot of flowers at the service. But if you’ll be following Jewish customs, you’ll want to purchase a plain pine casket and forgo flowers, which are not traditional. Or, if you’ll be following Catholic customs, you’ll want to have people deliver eulogies and other speeches at a wake before the funeral service, since the service will be a Mass.

My father was raised Jewish, but was much more frequently found in church with my Catholic mother than in synagogue. While this meant that we were not constrained byto any religious norms at his funeral, it also meant that we were left custom-less, working with a blank canvas. If you’re like us, then the next four issues can be really important, since you’ll basically be traveling without a map.

2. Venue

When my father died, hundreds of friends wanted to support us; we needed a venue that could accommodate everyone. It was most practical to hold the funeral in the large non-denominational chapel at the funeral home. But we had other options, too: we could have held the funeral in a large church or synagogue, at an event space, or even a restaurant if we’d wanted.

Some funerals are quite large and others are very intimate; finding a venue that can cater to the number of guests is what matters most. (Remember: a funeral isn’t a popularity contest.) If you have a large number of guests, you’ll want to be able to fit everyone in the space. On the other hand, if there will be only a handful of guests, you’ll want to choose a smaller venue and create an intimate environment where everyone is comfortable.

So whether you choose a funeral home chapel, a church, mosque, or even your own living room, consider the number of people who will be in attendance, and think about where you’d be most comfortable remembering your loved one.

3. Music

When my father died in the prime of his life, my family and I were beyond distraught. But I didn’t want my dad’s funeral to be overwhelmingly morbid. Rather than concentrate on my family’s loss, I focused on making the event a celebration of my father’s incredible life. And one of the ways I made sure the funeral was a celebration was through music.

We had jazz playing as the guests entered. I chose songs that dad always played at home, and I was comforted listening to Miles Davis and feeling like he was there. At the end of the service, guests were caught off guard when Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” come blasting out of the speakers. By the time the Rolling Stones came on, everyone was dancing in the aisles as they wiped the tears from their eyes. Dad would have loved this!

Having a pianist or organ would not have been appropriate for my dad; he just wasn’t that kind of guy. But that doesn’t mean that it wouldn’t be perfect for your loved one. To figure out the right music for your situation, ask yourself: What were his or her favorite songs? What songs do you associate with him or her? What songs do you think he or she would like people to hear as they say goodbye? By choosing meaningful music you’ll feel like you are giving them a fitting sendoff—and it’s likely that the songs will elicit warm memories, too.

4. Speeches, Eulogies, and Readings

At my dad’s funeral, I selected speakers who knew my dad from different walks of life. My brother and I were the first speakers, and we shared our heartfelt and entertaining memories of our father. Dad’s cousin spoke about growing up with my dad; his, business partner spoke about what an amazing attorney and colleague my dad was; and a couple of friends also spoke about who he was as a man and a friend. By having all the speakers from different times and areas of his life, they were able to jointly create the most beautiful and complete image of my dad.

If possible, I would try to replicate have people deliver that same variety of speeches on a variety of topics.  In addition, No matter how entertaining the deceased was, repetitive stories are never fun! Also, it can be nice to consider incorporating readings into the service.  These can range from religious passages, hymns, and to poems from either the reader or the deceased favorite poets.

5. Flowers

I knew when I planned my dad’s funeral that flower choice was crucial. My dad was not particularly passionate about flowers—but flowers are so important to my mother, and I knew that she would be consoled by seeing flowers ones flowers that reminded her of dad.  So I opted for peonies, the flowers he always brought home to my mom.

Moreover, I opted to cover dad’s casket in a blanket of flowers. I knew it would be too difficult for my mom to walk in and see a casket at the front of the room; this way she was distracted and only saw her favorite flowers.

Flowers can remind us of the person we loved or distract us from our pain. Flowers can be in the colors of the person’s favorite sports team or in the shape of a heart, a cross, or even a golf club. They help set the mood, and they help make a funeral feel like a celebration.

These are my broad guidelines for creating a meaningful funeral. But please, get creative! Have a memorial service on a golf course or in a restaurant. Send ashes into outter space or out to sea. The only solid advice I can give is to honor the person who died with a fitting sendoff. I know it made me feel good about the final gift I gave my dad.

Article taken from:

http://www.calebwilde.com/category/death/dying-well/

Tear Drops are Falling on My Arm: An Unexpected Moment of Healing

Tear Drops are Falling on My Arm: An Unexpected Moment of Healing

- by Dr Craig

For me, tears are usually healing. I do understand that there is such a thing as depressive crying in which someone cries continually in a way that keeps them stuck in replaying the same emotional movie over and over. In this essay, I am not talking about depressive crying; rather, I am talking about some instances in which tears the tears of others have felt healing, and in which I was the stimulus for the tears.

There have been a good number of occasions during which I have said something to touch someone’s heart while they were standing over me in my wheelchair or leaning over me when I am lying down, and their tears dropped on my skin. Within the past few months or so, I was deeply touched when this happened with a person who had only worked with me for a few times began to shed tears on my arm.

This woman was holding the urinal while I was using it and while this was happening I found myself beginning to share something heavy that had been weighing on my heart. I kind of surprised myself when my words flowed out so beautifully about something that until that moment had chiefly existed in the realms of my heart and mind.

I told her that my life was currently seeming particularly challenging and difficult, and that I found myself having the thought that I was not sure how many more years I wanted to live like this. Then I told her the truth that resulted in a few of her tears sprinkling down on my bare forearm. I told her that I know that I am here to serve Allah through having a loving influence on the planet, as long as I am here. I am not able to accurately recall what I said, because it felt like such a spontaneous experience of heartfelt expression. I believe that I may have also said something about surrendering to using my life for good, regardless of whether my personality likes it or not–that I must endure and serve with gratitude.

I felt so honored, as her watery eyes revealed a greater depth of her soul. For me, having my presence be instrumental in some way to open up a greater soul expression for someone feels quite meaningful. I also feel grateful that there must be something about this person’s presence that helped create the field in which I found myself openly expressing my existential quandary. This person told me that what I had said was exactly what they needed to hear.

Prior to the teardrops landing on my forearm, I noticed that I was experiencing some relief as I seemed to feel the truth behind the words that were flowing through me with confidence. There are so many gifts to be found in such seemingly small experiences. I love the feeling of having my journey inspire or touch hearts. The moment I realized how deeply they were touched, I had a transformative experience regarding how I viewed my handling of my challenges. In that moment, I realized that the way I was approaching my grappling with the issue pressing upon my mind was…inspiring. I sometimes do see the gifts that I have in my life, and some of them I only see with the help of others.

Most of the time, people are laughing with me rather than crying, and these joyful times are what fill many shelves of the “movie” memory library of my mind; yet, there are many beautiful memories of healing tears as well. Sometimes the tears are mine and sometimes they pour forth from another; regardless of the eyes from which they pour forth, the tears are accompanied by a depth of the heart opening, and that is what matters.

With love and gratitude,

Dr Craig

Craig Oster, PhD








Borrowed from 
http://healingwithdrcraig.com/blog/tear-drops-are-falling-on-my-arm-an-unexpected-moment-of-healing/

Grief Myths and Denial of Pain

Grief Myths

The myth of grief that one can handle everything on his/her own is a form of denial of the problem Grief myths are self defense systems within our own mental and cognitive functioning where we utilize denial as a way to ward off pain or disturbing thoughts.  Thoughts of death, or the reality of death can sometimes become overbearing and naturally denial seeps in.  Denial is a natural reaction within the process of grief, but if we hold onto these myths of denial for too long a period, they can become pathological.

 

The myth of grief that one can handle everything on
his/her own is a form of denial of the problem

The first four myths listed here are personal and reflect how people attempt to dismiss pain when in grief.

1.  I can handle this on my own

2. I do not need to talk about this to anyone

3. They cannot tell how upset I am

4. My pain, anger or fear will eventually go away on its own

As one can see, the person wishes to avoid the subject that causes the pain and over internalizes his/her problems thinking that eventually the grief will go away without having to face it.  In this cases, counselors need to eventually and gently prod the person into talking about the loss in order for healing to begin.

The final two myths involve one’s own perception of death and is a universal human defense system that hopes to alienate one from the death and reality that thousands face everyday.

1. Bad things happen to other people, not me

2. If I do not think about it, nothing like that will ever happen to me

These myths obviously involve extreme denial and potential fear of death itself.  They also lead to laxity when it comes to prevention of other possible future hardships.  The man who experiences occasional heart pains will refuse to get checked out because he does not wish to acknowledge the potential problems that could cause death.  In other areas natural disasters become distant stories with no true meaning.  The one who watches the news and sees a person tragically loses his/her home to a tornado feels his/her home is protected from such disaster.  These potential realities are merely too much for this person to accept and they ignore these things almost as if they are fairy tales.  The truth is, they share the same temporal reality and a traumatic event can occur at any moment.

If you are interested in bereavement education, please review the program.

(Information for this article was found in “Helping Grieving People-When Tears Are Not Enough by J. Shep Jeffreys)

 Mark Moran, MA, GC-C, SCC-C

Borrowed from AIHCP Health Care Blog

How soon is TOO soon for a widow to fall in love?

How soon is TOO soon for a widow 

to fall in love?

Tragic: Jayne with Neil on their wedding day in 2004, six years before his death

Just six months after the death of her beloved husband, 

Jayne was already seeing a new man...

Jayne and Neil were happily married with two children

But in 2010, Neil, aged 30, 

died from Sudden Adult Death Syndrome

Six months later Jayne met Adam who helped her 

with her grief. They have since had a child together 

and are engaged to be married

By JAYNE HUSTWIT

Were I to tell you that I started my current relationship just six months after my husband died, would you judge me?

You wouldn't be alone. The matter of how soon is too soon to move on after being widowed is a highly controversial one.

But I don't feel guilty because I know my late husband would be glad for me.

In fact, when I met my current partner, Adam, the last thing in the world I wanted or expected was a new relationship.

But we are proof that you simply cannot plan life - or choose who you fall in love with, or when.

When happiness came my way, I chose to grasp it with both hands. I have no regrets in doing so, even though I know people may criticise me for it.

Of course, I could never have imagined my life would pan out like this.

I was 18 and at sixth-form college when I met Neil, the man who would become my husband. He was also 18, and I'd always thought we would grow old and grey together.

I'd had boyfriends before, but Neil was different: he was that rare mix of gentle, funny, clever and kind.

Our relationship flourished, despite the fact that over the next three years we attended universities miles apart. Neil studied criminology in Lincoln and I did nursing in Harrogate.

We married in July 2004, after graduating, and moved into a new two-bedroom terrace house near  Colne, Lancashire.

Our two children soon followed: Alexander, now seven, then Amy, five.

Neil was now a police officer, and I worked part-time as a  nurse, so I had time at home with the children.

Neil was caring, protective and, best of all, a real family man. If life wasn't perfect, it was as happy as I could possibly have imagined it.

That's until one Friday night in April 2010, when Neil went to a friend's stag party in Newcastle.

I was going out too that night and my parents were babysitting, so I dropped the children off with them and drove home to get ready.

I'd only just arrived home when my father turned up and said Amy wouldn't settle. 'Will you come back with me and give her a cuddle?' he asked.

'My fit, healthy, gorgeous husband, who was only 30, had walked into a pub and collapsed before he had even had a drink.'

I thought it was strange that Dad hadn't just phoned me.

It was only later that I realized he had something terrible to tell me, and wanted me to be safe with him and Mum and the children when he did so.

As we pulled into my parents' drive, Dad turned to me and said: 'It's Neil.' I saw two police officers through the window in my parents' front room and my stomach lurched.

Dad and I rushed into the house and I sat, flanked by my parents, as the police confirmed Neil was dead.

My fit, healthy, gorgeous husband, who was only 30, had walked into a pub and collapsed before he had even had a drink.

His friends - many of them fellow police officers - had desperately tried to revive him and called an ambulance, but he had died within minutes of collapsing.

Neil's heart had simply and inexplicably stopped beating.

A post-mortem examination later classed the cause of death as Sudden Adult Death Syndrome - a fatal disturbance in the heart's rhythm, which can strike at any age, and which can affect even fit and healthy people.

My first fear was that Neil might have suffered. Then I just felt numb. We all sat there crying, in disbelief and shock.

It took two days to summon the courage to tell the children Daddy wasn't coming home. They had thought he was away for the weekend, so that bought me the extra time.

I sat them down in the living room, but as I tried to utter the words, I broke down. My mum had to take over.

Jayne and Neil with their son Alexander and
daughter Amy a year before Neil passed away

Amy was too young to understand. Alexander - who idolised his dad - fell silent. I don't think he properly comprehended either - how could he? - because he kept asking when Dad was coming back.

For three weeks, we stayed with my parents. Consumed by grief, I found my only solace in sleeping pills prescribed by the doctor. Even the funeral two weeks later was a blur.

When I finally mustered the courage to take the children back to our home, it felt cold and empty without Neil.

His police uniform was still hanging in the wardrobe and his favourite football DVDs were next to the television.

At every turn, I was reminded of how happy we had been, and of how much we'd been looking forward to our future together.

A fortnight later, Neil's sergeant came to tell me Neil had passed his sergeant's exams with flying colours. It broke my heart to think my hard-working husband would never know of his success.

Thankfully, my parents came over every day. They helped me care for the children and establish new routines, and that forced me to carry on when I thought I couldn't.

Alexander was starting school that September in 2010 - a school Neil and I had carefully chosen together.

This was the first milestone we would have to reach without my husband and even buying our son's uniform, knowing Neil would never see it, was incredibly upsetting.

'Adam and I had met a few times before, so I arranged for him to come round and advise on the work that needed doing.'

The most difficult times, though, were at bedtime because Alexander would get upset that Daddy wasn't there to tuck him in. It was truly heartbreaking.

Our house had been on the market since before Neil's death. In late September, an offer was made on it, which I felt I should accept because a fresh start would help.

I managed to find a house down the road - two minutes from my parents - where I thought we could, eventually, be happy.

It needed lots of work doing to it, but I thought this might provide a distraction from my grief and give me something to focus on other than my loss.

My brother Christopher said his friend Adam, a 30-year-old builder, might be able to help me lick the new house into shape.

Adam and I had met a few times before, so I arranged for him to come round and advise on the work that needed doing.

New love: Jayne and her fiance Adam

Adam knew of my loss and was considerate and professional, and his advice was very helpful.

I moved in towards the end of September. A month later, I held a Halloween party for the sake of the children, and I invited Adam along with our friends.

He was easy to talk to, and we seemed to have lots in common as we chatted in the kitchen that late afternoon.

Not only had his mother worked with Neil's mum, but he'd known my brother for years through mutual friends. Again, I wouldn't say there was any chemistry as such - we just got on well.

Two weeks later, Adam phoned and invited me out for dinner. I was surprised and hesitant.

Was it too soon after losing Neil to go on a date? It was a dilemma, but in the end I decided to say yes, if only for a couple of hours away from being sad, in the company of someone who made me laugh.

It did feel strange getting dressed up for a date after so many years. I pulled on a checked skirt with a purple top and felt very nervous.

We went to an Italian restaurant and I was surprised that my awkwardness evaporated. And as we chatted, I noticed that I was warming to him; I found him attractive.

There was no guilt, nor did I feel like I was betraying Neil. Adam is completely different and being with him felt completely different.

We really hit it off that evening, and I felt I could trust Adam despite being vulnerable. We talked about friends we had in common and I spoke openly about my grief.

When Adam dropped me home, he leant in to give me a gentle kiss goodbye and it felt completely natural.

It was only when I thought about it the following morning that I found I was torn.

Neil had only been gone seven months. I couldn't imagine how a man would fit into my life, which was all about my children, and of course I worried about getting hurt.

But I saw Adam several times over the next few weeks while he worked on the house. I could grieve and cry in front of him. He didn't mind.

I handled my twinges of guilt that it was too soon by reminding myself that Neil would not have wanted me to be alone. Somehow, I felt his presence, and sensed he was happy I had a supportive man like Adam in my life.

I never stopped thinking about Neil, but I also felt someone like Adam might never come along again. I didn't want to lose him.

We worried what other people would think, so we kept our relationship secret for the first month.

Adam visited me in the evenings after the children had gone to bed. It seemed too soon to introduce a new man into their lives.

I also didn't know how I would break the news to Neil's parents, who had been so supportive. Nobody could ever take Neil's place, but would they see it that way?

Adam started to stay for the odd night. Amazingly, being intimate didn't feel wrong. I realized it was time for a new life.

So I decided to introduce Adam to the children.

'When Adam kissed me for the first time it felt so natural - but in the morning I felt a pang of guilt'

He started coming over for tea and he was great with them, taking them to the park and the swimming pool and helping Alexander with his homework. They grew to think the world of him.

One evening, I asked them how they would feel about Adam moving in. I was relieved when they started jumping excitedly on the bed. Having Adam round was like an adventure to them. 

Mum said she had guessed we were together but I was still afraid of telling Neil's parents. Thankfully, they took it well and assured me I was still young and deserved to be happy.

Neil's mum has since confessed they worried they might lose touch with their grandchildren, but the children see them every week, and there is no awkwardness when Adam drops them off.

Adam moved in with us in March 2011. I still occasionally worried when I had to explain to Neil's old friends that I'd met someone else.

Happy family: Jayne with her partner Adam, son Alexander, and daughters Amy and Maisy

And there have been some awkward moments when people assume Alexander and Amy are Adam's children - and Alexander turns round and says: 'My daddy's in heaven.' But if people ever thought badly of us, they didn't say so.

Six months after Adam moved in, we started trying for a baby.

I know some people will say that was too soon as well - and again, I didn't find it easy telling Neil's parents or friends - but it felt right to us, and we thought a new baby would be a wonderful way to cement our relationship.

We were prepared for the fact that it might take a year or two for me to get pregnant, so we were surprised and delighted when I conceived as soon as we started trying.

Our daughter Maisy was born in July last year. She's created a special bond between all of us. Adam and I are getting married next May.

I still grieve for Neil, and I always will - particularly on the children's birthdays.

We have his framed photograph in our sitting room, and the children have their own albums of pictures of their father.

Adam will never replace him, and he wouldn't want to, but he is a wonderful father figure to them.

Some people might find it hard to understand how I could move on so quickly. But Neil's death proves that life is too short and I'm not ashamed of what has happened.

At 33, I'm just thankful to have met two such wonderful men in one lifetime. I count my blessings every day. 

Interview: Alison Smith-Squire

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2334837/How-soon-TOO-soon-widow-fall-love-Just-months-death-beloved-husband-Jayne-seeing-new-man-.html