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

Caleb Wilde: How to Speak the Language of Grief

HOW TO SPEAK THE LANGUAGE OF GRIEF

By Caleb Wilde

You walk into a house full of fresh grief.  It’s fresh because the death just occurred.  Your best friend’s husband went out to the bar last night, drowned his hard day in hard drink and he never made it back home.  Fresh.  Because both you and your friend have never experienced death this close.

You open the door like you have so many times before, but this time the familiarity of the house is unexpected different, dark and lonely.  What once housed parties, life and love now houses something you’ve never known before.  Like a river, everything is in the same place it was when you last saw it, but this home has changed.

You see your friend’s children sitting on the sofa, staring into space.

You ask them, “Where’s your mom?”

And as you reach to hug them, they snap back to reality and whisper, “Upstairs.”

Each step brings you closer to what you know is only an apparition of your friend.  The nerves build.  Fear begins to build.  You repress it as you ready yourself to meet your closest friend who has all of a sudden become someone you may no longer know.

“Can I come in?” you ask.  No response.

You push open the cracked bedroom door and see the body of your friend collapsed on her bed, with used tissues surrounding her like a moat.

You tip-toe into the room, slowly sit down on the bed, and not sure if she’s awake or asleep, you reach for your friends shoulder and begin rubbing her back.  Her blood shot eyes open, look at you and then, they slowly look through you.

You fill the weird silence with an “It’s going to be alright”.

“It’s not”, she whispers.  “I’m alone with two kids and no job.”  Her voice suddenly raises as anger courses through her body, “Why the f*** would he do this to me?”

The curse word chides you into recognizing that you’ve not only misspoken, but you’ve spoken too soon, so you decide to wait in silence.  She starts to cry.  You respond to her tears with your own.  Even though you want to respond with words, you know this isn’t the time for words.  There’s no perfection words here.  There’s no perfect anything here.  And so you wait.

You stay.  Listen.  Silence.  You take her pain into your soul.  Hours pass.  She rises out of bed and makes the children dinner.

You’ve spoken, not with words or advice; not by trying to solve the problem; nor by placing a limit on your time.  You’ve taken the uncomfortable silence, allow the grace for tears, for brokenness; you’ve allowed yourself to sit in the unrest without trying to fix it.

With your presence.  With your love.  In your honest acknowledgement of real loss, you’ve spoken the language of grief.

Although the language of grief is usually spoken in love, presence and time, sometimes it’s spoken in words.  And when it is, here are five practical “do”s and “don’ts”

The “DON’T”S:

1.       At least she lived a long life, many people die young

2.       He is in a better place

3.       She brought this on herself

4.       There is a reason for everything

5.       Aren’t you over him yet, he has been dead for awhile now

The “DO”S:

1.       I am so sorry for your loss.

2.       I wish I had the right words, just know I care.

3.       I don’t know how you feel, but I am here to help in anyway I can.

4.       You and your loved one will be in my thoughts and prayers.

5.       My favorite memory of your loved one is…

Caleb Wilde has many well written and insightful articles about death and dying... go to his website "Confessions of a Funeral Director" for more http://www.calebwilde.com/

Taken from 
http://www.leannepenny.com/2012/03/12/how-to-speak-the-language-of-grief/

Ritual: The Muscle Memory of Grief by Caleb Wilde

Ritual: The Muscle Memory of Grief

by Caleb Wilde

Caleb Wilde

Over the past couple months, I’ve been contemplating why the West (America, Europe, etc.) has so much aversion to death, while other — less “developed — cultures see death as less alien.  I’ve come up with two major reasons:

One.  Modernity.

Our modern world takes death care away from families and puts it in the hands of “professionals”, thus industrializing death.  Instead of the dying dwelling at our homes, we give them to nursing homes.  For more of my thoughts on this, here’s an article I wrote.

The modern world also likes providing answers to life’s questions.  So when death comes with its silence and mystery, we are rendered uncomfortable.

Two.  We lack ritual. There’s three reasons why there’s a lack of ritual:

1.)  We tend to be individualistic, which isn’t necessarily bad, but it produces a lack of community.

2).  We tend to dislike tradition.

3.)  We are becoming post-religious.

The following is my (rather poor) attempt to explain why the lack of ritual increases our aversion to death.

Muscle memory is what separates the professionals from the amateurs.

Muscle memory is what enables musicians to thoughtlessly play complicated music with near perfection.

Muscle memory is the product of laborious habit that makes incredibly difficult tasks seem like minutia.

I just came back from indoor rock climbing.

I’ve seen athletic and strong newbies come to the gym and they look like fools trying to climb routes.  Falling down on their bums, scraping their arms up and getting all nervous when they get to the top of the route.

Climbing is both strength and technique muscle memory.  And while newbies may be strong and athletic, if they don’t know how to move their bodies on the wall, they’re destined to fall and fail.

*****

Grief is similar. The walls of bereavement are very intimidating to even the spiritually and psychologically strong.  It doesn’t matter how whole you are, you will fall and you will fail.

Unless you enter through the trodden paths of ritual.

The muscle memory of grief is ritual. Ritual allows us to take the incredibly difficult task of mourning and find a way to persevere, even when it seems we shouldn’t.

Muscle memory is usually something you or I create through practice.  I climb routes at the climbing gym, my muscles get used to moving a certain way.

You practice the guitar day in and day out and your fingers move like jazz.

This is where the whole muscle memory analogy starts to fall apart when we relate it to grief.

While a professional’s muscle memory is something he or she created, death ritual muscle memory is something our community has created and it can only be “learned” within community.

You didn’t create it.  It’s something we inherit … or something we can join.

*****

This from Alla Bozarth in “Life Is Goodbye, Life is Hello: Grieving Well Through All Kinds of Loss”:

Funerals are the rituals we create to help us face the reality of death, to give us a way of expressing our response to that reality with other persons, and to protect us from the full impact of the meaning of death for ourselves.

The problem is this: so many of us have disconnected ourselves from community, tradition and a religion that we’ve never received the graces of grief ritual.

If we have community in place,

if we embrace tradition in times of death

and we’re willing to involve the motion and movement of religion,

we may find life and meaning in a task that many onlookers see as insurmountable.

Ritual doesn’t allow you to overcome grief (grief may never be overcome).  It doesn’t allow you to work through your grief faster.  Nor does make death more tolerable.  And it certainly won’t make you a “professional.”

Ritual allows you to confront a seemingly impossible task in the context of community.

Why is the West so adverse to death? Because devoid of ritual, confronting death is like asking me to play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 23.

Taken from http://www.calebwilde.com/category/death/fear-of-death/

Mr. Wilde has many insightful articles that you may find helpful.

Check his website out Confessions of a Funeral Director

http://www.calebwilde.com