Nifty Fifty

Today marks my 100TH post! Numbers are significant in my life. There are lab numbers. Survivorversaries. Birthdays. I remember dates for all sorts of events in my life.

Two numbers of significance in my life are 50 and 50,000.

I will celebrate my 50th birthday in 2020.

Yes, there will be a party.

I am raising $50,000 for metastatic breast cancer research at UW Carbone to celebrate such an important milestone in my life.

Today, I take the opportunity for some self-promotion devoted to achieving my goal. I would call it selfish self-promotion, but that’s only partly true. It’s true I’d love to benefit. The funds raised will all go to research and that hopefully means many will benefit. Most of today’s blog highlights information on my fundraising page. If you haven’t seen it, today’s the day.

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My goal: Raise $50,000 For

Stage IV Breast Cancer Research

To Celebrate My 50th Birthday

 

My Diagnosis

I have been living with cancer ever since my diagnosis on March 14, 2012. Tests, scans, and biopsies were thrown at me one after the other in quick succession to determine what stage was to be attached to my diagnosis. On April 13, 2012, the day I started chemotherapy, I learned I was stage IV.

Facts and Research

Stage IV cancer means cancer has spread, or metastasized, to an area other than the primary site where it originated. Breast cancer that is contained to the breast and is stopped there doesn’t kill people.

Metastatic cancer kills people.

The facts are:

  • 10% of patients already are stage IV upon diagnosis like I was.
  • 30% of earlier stage breast cancer patients will become metastatic.
  • There is no way of knowing whether a patient’s cancer will metastasize.
  • The bulk of breast cancer donations go toward prevention and early-stage research. The percentage of donations going toward MBC research is typically in the single digits . . . unless you know precisely where the money is directed and for what purposes. That leaves too many breast cancer patients feeling isolated, forgotten, or that our lives aren’t worth as much as early-stage lives.

Putting more funds toward research, more treatments, and more options for stage IV lifers benefits ALL breast cancer patients. 100% of donations to Nifty 50 directly benefit metastatic breast cancer research at UW Carbone.

The UW Carbone Cancer Center

Thank goodness for the UW Carbone Cancer Center. The UW Carbone Cancer Center where I receive all my care is one of the top cancer centers in the country and the only comprehensive cancer center in Wisconsin. I know I will always receive quality care and the best treatments available.

Initially, I received 12 cycles of chemotherapy for six months. I took several different anti-cancer and oral chemo pills for several years afterward. For the past three and a half years (and counting) I’ve gone back to more formal chemotherapy treatments and infusions. There have been over one hundred of these. I will have more. I need more.

My Mission

Part of my purpose is to change perceptions on stage IV cancer. People are living longer and stronger with this awful disease thanks to continued advances in cancer research . . . research that must continue.

I have created a space for myself where I focus on living in unrelenting wellness. I do my best to disregard medical timelines and ignore medical statistics. I strive to think outside the medical box and I’ve developed a mindset dedicated toward surviving, thriving, and living well with cancer. I live and lead by example. I work hard to be active whether it’s summer or winter, rain or shine.

My mom passed away from metastatic breast cancer in 2013. She would be very pleased with how well I’m doing today.

I know I will always be in treatment.

When one treatment fails me, I need to move on to another one with the hope it will be more effective and effective for longer.

Research equals hope. Research, however, is extremely expensive.

I am hopeful cancer researchers are on the cusp of making the next great breakthrough in treating, and eventually curing, breast cancer.

I am always hopeful.

Go to my Nifty 50 page to make a secure donation.

DONATE HERE

Thanks so much for your support.

The Lesson of the Milkweed

Crunchy leaves cover a hard ground. A gray sky creates a contrast against the bare branches. The air is chilly. Autumn is a season that doesn’t scream softness. Softness is there. I have been surprised to discover it in unlikely places this fall. Sometimes it’s harder for me to find, but it’s still there, waiting for me to find it.

October needs softness because Breast Cancer Awareness Month bombards me with hard. Awareness is hard. Pink is hard. People who appear to celebrate the month make it hard. And then there’s me because I can make it hard on myself.

I go for a hike when I can to exercise and relax. It sounds like a contradiction, but exercise in nature achieves both for me. Pheasant Branch Conservancy is one of my favorite places to walk and a source of joy. I ventured there last week and stopped in several places to open up milkweed pods. They are remarkably soft. An older gentleman with a shock of white hair noticed what I was doing and wandered over. He joined me in releasing milkweed seeds into the breeze. There we stood, watching the wind carry them away. He laughed and that was one of the best parts. He told me about milkweed bugs. Then he drifted away, kind of like a milkweed seed himself. I did the same in another direction.

Opening milkweed pods is a beautiful example of finding softness this month. A rough outer exterior protects silky soft seeds that float away in the wind. Opening them as a child and watching them dance and fly was pure joy. It made me feel like I was encouraging their quest to find a new home and witnessing it happen. It still does.

This year, October 13th is Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness DAY. It’s a prime example of some hardness for me. Yes, a whole day is set aside in breast cancer awareness month for the only kind of cancer that kills. It’s also Yorkshire Pudding Day. Here are two facts on this special awareness day:

  • 116 women and men a year die every day from MBC.
  • There are around 155,000 people living with MBC in the U.S.

 

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Milkweed seeds at Pheasant Branch Conservancy

 

I need more milkweed seeds. Lots of them.

Sitting in front of my fireplace on the first few evenings when it’s cold enough is another time when softness settles around me. There is softness in the glow and I feel wrapped in warmth. Those first fires of fall are extra special because it sets a toasty tone for fall.

Here are a few other favorites:

Savoring hot tea, coffee, and hot chocolate again.

Hanging around my house in my plaid flannel pajamas.

Snuggling under warm blankets with a good book.

Immersing myself on a trail in the woods while surrounded by trees that have exploded in color.

These actions are a vital part of self-care and letting myself know I am important. They are all external examples even though I have a part of them.

Self-care is super soft. I need to look for soft places within myself, too. Softness must be internal. I can find soft places within when I slow down and enjoy the moment. Rushing isn’t worth much. Other ways I can practice self-care are by showing myself empathy and understanding, forgiving myself when I make mistakes, and allowing space for my feelings. Negative self-talk is hardness; compassionate self-talk is softness. Self-care is love.

Cancer causes hardness because no one comes out completely unscathed. It’s exhausting. Some hardness is on the outside, some on the inside. You carry outer and inner scars. Cancer visibly ages a person. A person develops a thicker skin and smiles when insensitive comments are made. Many experiences and conversations are difficult to endure and process. You emerge from treatments feeling battered, fatigued, and having experienced traumatic physical and/or emotional changes. If you’re metastatic, tolerating toxicity is ongoing. None of these are soft images.

There is so much talk about being strong and fighting or battling. Strength is a double-edged sword. I am strong. I work on physical and emotional strength. The hero Odysseus was a recurring reference in high school among my friends because he was rough, tough, hard to bluff, and used to hardships. I’ve channeled Odysseus’s strength regularly over the time I’ve been living with cancer to move through hardship after hardship. The strength you call upon each day to make it your best is empowering strength. Your strength is weakened when it’s exerted in battling and fighting cancer, or people and attitudes that go against you. I need to focus on the strength that empowers me and not waste it in battle mode. My strength goes toward empowerment and living.

Fall is a wonderful opportunity to let things go. Trees let go of their leaves with ease. Fall can be a time to let go of hard things. Letting go is hard because changes usually are difficult for me. Still, my life will be easier if I only let go of one hard thing. Letting go of many could bring more happiness to my life. What will it be?

Consider responding:

  • What can you let go of this fall?
  • Where do you find softness in nature?

Patients Have Names

I transferred from a smaller cancer clinic setting to a cancer center in a major hospital late last summer. I still believe I am getting excellent medical care.

There are some differences, differences I don’t like. They stem from the sheer newness of my experiences and the size of the cancer center. In time, the newness hopefully will feel more familiar. The gargantuan feel of the hospital maybe will feel smaller as I’ll only go where I need to be.

I’m not so sure about the size. There are two waiting rooms for labs. I’m given a pager that lights up and vibrates when it’s my turn like the ones used in restaurants when your table is ready. Sure, it’s a way to keep things moving quickly and it provides some privacy, but I have a perfectly usable first name. Then I go to another level for the breast center clinic where I wait in another waiting room. After the office visit, I trek upstairs again and get comfortable in a third waiting room where I wait for treatment. I check in at some type of reception area each time. So far, I have had moderate to long waits in each of my waiting rooms with no updates as to how much longer I’ll be waiting. I took my time between waiting rooms two and three last time and went to the germateria for lunch. I still had a good wait when I made it to the last waiting room.

I feel confident about the growing doctor-patient relationship I am developing with my new oncologist. It’s different from the one I had with my former oncologist, but it should be as she is a unique person. Oncologists are not one size fits all just as patients are not.

The treatment area is where I’m identifying more of a repetitive insensitivity issue.

It’s less personal. An identification bracelet is strapped on and it’s scanned to populate my personal information. It beeps. Every time. I hate that bracelet. It’s one of many factors that make me feel like I’m an illness. I will move past it.

I have a name and I’d like for my nurses to use it.

On my first visit there, the nurses noted it was my first treatment so I needed to be watched for a possible allergic reaction. No, it was only my first treatment at that facility. It was my 10th with this protocol and my 109th overall. For whatever reason, this important data wasn’t coming up. It’s a distinction I happen to think is worth knowing and should be correctly documented. Could just be me. Talking to me, bringing the patient’s voice into the discussion provides meaningful, not to mention accurate, information.

I know I have to give up comparing how my new place is different from my old place, but I never had to wear an ID bracelet in the old place. Everyone knew me. They took a genuine interest in me. We knew things about one another’s lives on personal levels. If an appointment needed to be changed, I was called. Here, I get a letter informing me appointments have already been changed without consulting me if the changes work for me.

Patients also have telephones by the way. It’s a good thing I’m not working and have a little more flexibility.

There’s more. Most of the nurses just swing in and out of my treatment cubicle and it’s all business. Some tell me who they are; some do not. Some are friendly; others not so much. I usually have more than just one per visit because they are running around caring for multiple patients at a time. I’ve asked for their names. My bracelet gets scanned and apparently that’s sufficient.

I have a name.

I am more than my ID bracelet. I am not a number. I am not an illness, and I am so much more than a patient. When multiple nurses shuffle in and out, it makes me feel like I’m not assigned to any nurse specifically. I feel like I’m an inanimate object on an assembly line. Truthfully, I feel a little bit that way when I have to visit three different areas on one visit. I feel that way when I’m not consulted about appointment changes. Asking if bigger is better in terms of patient care is a whole other topic.

I have had a couple of very friendly nurses. They visit with me and I do feel like I’m starting to get to know them and build connections. Personal connections and positive relationships make my health care better. I know their names. I recognize them. It helps me feel like I belong. Patients have names and it’s not unreasonable for nurses to use them. I empathize that they are spread thin and have a lot on their plate. I get that a lot is asked of them. I know from visits with my nurse friends at my old place how they are often left out of the loop with decisions that affect them. I know that more and more is being asked of them and that they have to do more with less. I know that some of these decisions don’t put the interests of the patients first. I know they referred to me as family. I felt the same and I miss them. I know all their names (Karen, Sue, the two Brookes, Kari, the two Ambers, Amanda, Sandy, Kay, Kelly, Justin, Nina, and Beth).

Is knowing a patient’s name too much to ask? I don’t think so.

As a teacher, calling a student by their name lets the student know you recognize them, that you care about them and their success, and it fosters a sense of trust. Students feel comfortable and, oh, I don’t know, it has a positive impact on learning. If I were a parent, I would not want my child to have a teacher who didn’t know their name. I would like my nurses to know who I am. I believe being recognized, feeling cared for, and trusting your healthcare providers will have a positive impact on care given and care received.

Going forward, I will be proactive and introduce myself, letting my nurses know that using my name makes me feel valued. I won’t be able to change the three different areas I visit when I’m there. I won’t be able to change how long I wait. I won’t be able to ditch the ID bracelet. I may not even be able to do much about whether nurses take my encouragement to use my name. All I can do is try.

Update: Most of this post was drafted about one month ago. My past two visits have been more positive in terms of my interactions with my treatment nurses. Situations change. I hope mine has changed for the better. I could have chosen not to publish this post, but I went ahead with it because it’s important to remember patients aren’t numbers, or statistics, or are treated like part of the equipment we are hooked up to when receiving treatment. We are people. We have feelings. We have names.

 

Reclaiming October

Breast Cancer Awareness Month is almost here. An inundation of pink will accompany promises that a cure is just around the corner and that change is imminent. Everywhere you go, there will likely be some campaign to raise awareness with the belief that a contribution to the cause will go to research that will find a cure. It all will be so happy and upbeat because pink is pretty. Some will reminisce and post photos of life going through treatment and compare before and after photos. The media will highlight survivor stories.

Fine.

Really.

I am not trying to take away from someone else’s survival. There is room for everyone. I am trying to shift the focus and include a greater focus on metastatic breast cancer.

I know I am beautiful but I don’t post before and after photos because I still wear my wig. There will never be after photos for me because I will always be in treatment. I do hope to ditch the wig. I don’t think there is a lot that’s pretty about what I go through month-to-month, or even week-to-week. October is a tough month. It’s hard like a brick wall.

But I’m a wrecking ball.

Here I come.

I am gearing up for one hell of an October.

I’m taking the month back and making it about metastatic breast cancer. It’s a golden opportunity to put MBC in the spotlight.

I am renaming it Metastatic Breast Cancer Action Month.

#ActionMBC

Throughout October (and beyond), I will be taking action directed toward change. I will tweet, post, blog, and talk about the facts of MBC in attempts to create visibility and push for more attention, funds, and research to be directed toward this group of the breast cancer population. I’ll write letters and talk to anyone who will listen.

It’s vital I reach people who know little about this world. Many do think awareness is the way to end cancer. I disagree. Giving people accurate information about metastatic breast cancer is part of recruiting support for needed change. Facts on MBC will become tweets and posts. A few unsolicited opinions may be inserted. I’ll also display them on public bulletin boards and maybe even plaster them on bathroom stall doors to provide some meaningful literature in all of the finest restrooms I frequent. Yes, I did just write that. A person might as well spend a couple of minutes learning while occupied with bathroom business.

It amazes me how people don’t know some of the things I thought they would. They may even work in the healthcare industry and still be somewhat uninformed about the effects of metastatic breast cancer. They may be survivors and completely oblivious about the chances of recurrence. I don’t understand everything there is to understand about cancer. It’s my opinion the general public doesn’t have accurate information on secondary cancer and I would like to reach this audience.

Preaching to the choir doesn’t do much. Providing information to people who don’t even sing has the potential for change.

I want to provide information this month that:

  • Metastatic breast cancer is with those of us who have it for the rest of our lives. We will still have it after October.
  • No one has done anything to get cancer. It affects people of all ages, races, sizes, education levels, languages, and incomes.
  • People who have gone five years being free from cancer after treatment ends can still have a recurrence and develop metastatic cancer.
  • Metastatic cancer kills people.
  • 10% of patients already are Stage IV upon diagnosis like I was.
  • 30% of earlier stage breast cancer patients will become metastatic.
  • There is no way of knowing whether a patient’s cancer will metastasize.
  • It’s projected that 116 people per day will die from metastatic breast cancer in the U.S. in 2019. Five of those who die each day will be men.
  • The bulk of breast cancer donations go toward prevention and early-stage research. The percentage of donations going toward MBC research is typically in the single digits.
  • People who have any type of cancer, or have had cancer, or are labeled as having a pre-existing condition, deserve health coverage from insurance companies. Affordable health insurance is a basic human right.
  • Awareness and prevention programs have done nothing to lower the number of deaths from MBC.
  • We need more research, more treatment options, and more effective treatments for metastatic breast cancer.

We need more attention from others outside of the metastatic breast cancer community. I often feel like we are shouting from the rooftops from only our own village. It takes more than a village. It’s going to take all the villages.

I regularly hear that we need more research devoted to metastatic breast cancer. It’s often my own voice I hear saying it. I’m not just talking the talk, but now I’m walking the walk. A few months back I created a fundraiser through the UW Carbone Cancer Center where I receive treatment.

Click here to access my fundraising page. My plan is to devote a separate post about my goals for this at the end of the month. I encourage you to make a small donation and feel nifty with me. You’ll see what I mean after viewing my page. Don’t delay. Don’t put it on your “To Do” list. Once it’s done, it is a proud part of your “Ta-Dah” list. I am grateful for your support.

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Click here to watch a video about UW Carbone.

I am committed to raising money for research.

I am committed to making my voice heard.

I am committed to doing more.

I have plans to speak at several places in the community. My story will be displayed in a couple of businesses in October. I’m busy networking to keep the momentum going after October and for the better part of 2020. All this takes me quite firmly out of my comfort zone. My health often causes me discomfort anyway, so I might as well find ways to show it I am still the boss of me. I can wrestle and rumble with it and make it uncomfortable with me.

 

Please consider responding:

  • Please chime in with other MBC needs that I haven’t mentioned.
  • How can you use your platform and advocate for change this month?

The New Abnormal

Those diagnosed with any form of cancer immediately are thrust into a world known as “the new normal.”

It is anything but normal.

“The new abnormal” would be a better name.

Normal will never happen again for me. My reality of attempting some form of normal for the last seven years doesn’t mean life is normal for me. It means I’ve learned how to exist in crazy. Maybe I should refer to present-day life as my old crazy because I’ve existed this way for so long. The new normal phrase has always rubbed me the wrong way because normal was ripped away and replaced with nothing of the sort.

Is calling what I do the new normal supposed to somehow make me feel normal? It doesn’t. Instead, it makes me feel like I can’t even do the new normal normally. Is it meant to make me or others feel better? It doesn’t make me feel better. I’m not sure if it makes others feel better. It potentially minimalizes what I do in the eyes of others. It invalidates my struggles in what really is abnormal because of the language that this is the norm.

The new abnormal is a topsy-turvy world of back and forth. It’s a world of opposites. I have felt wonderful and miserable.

I’ve gained and lost weight even though my level of exercise has remained about the same.

I’ve had my share of down days plagued with fatigue and others with more steroid induced energy than I know what to do with.

I’ve had no appetite and other times where I’ve eaten everything in sight.

Diarrhea. Constipation. One word sentences here are fine.

The medical world is a potpourri of repeating abnormalities. There are more one word or near one word sentences coming.

Labs. Office visits. Treatments. Side effects. Repeat.

Scans. Anxiety. Regrouping. Repeat.

I call insurance companies and billing departments far more often than is necessary. I rarely did when my life was supposedly normal.

I’ve gotten to feel at home with nausea. Ondansetron works well for me when it hits.

I’ve gotten to feel at home with many other drugs and supplements. I know what works for me and what doesn’t. I know my body well. I think I have finally broken through and convinced my team NOT to give me one particular drug used during MRIs that causes a worsening reaction. Every office visit begins with a review of my long list of medications.

How is any of that normal whether it’s the new routine or not?

In between all of this complete abnormalness are all the attempts to squeeze in any normal moments that are possible. ME time. I exercise and plan activities I enjoy that will keep me moving. Time with family and friends fill in normal moments. Football season has started. Go Badgers! Special occasions are sprinkled into my schedule when possible. There still is meaningful work that matters to me. Whereas my schedule had always been fairly rigid, I love the flexibility I now have. Being able to focus on purposeful work has been one part of my new abnormal that feels pretty close to my old normal.

The only constants are change and the need to live in the moment. Cancer has taught me lessons in change repeatedly. I am more present. It’s why I like #NotTodayCancer so well because I can be pretty definite about certain things as I go through my day.

The new normal is not the right term for how I live. Life is abnormal. Calling my life permanently abnormal is the best fit.

What even is normal?

Living in the Storm

The role of a teacher is important and valuable. A teacher’s influence is still seen years later. Students return to say hello, to thank you, to hug you, and to say they made it. It’s the best kind of recognition a teacher can receive. I enjoy seeing former students. The oldest students I taught must be around thirty-five or thirty-six years old by now. For the record, I’ve taught around 543 students. Admittedly, those numbers make me feel old, but it’s a good old because I loved teaching. Working with children brought me immense joy and sometimes it drove me crazy. There were good days and hard days as are inevitable when over twenty children were put together on a daily basis.

I remember one student of mine who had very troubling years getting through elementary school. He was violent and destructive. He scared children. He scared adults if I’m being honest. Staff eventually learned some of his trigger words and actions that foreshadowed he was close to losing whatever control he had of himself. One such signal was if he suddenly started clucking like a chicken. He was a teacher to us in that way. We all wondered if he would make it through middle and high school. He did. He returned with other graduating seniors several years ago to visit. We talked and he struck me as happy and excited about his future. He had plans to attend a community college and learn a trade. He told another teacher that he was better now. Elementary school held a positive place in his heart even though it was excruciating for him. He wouldn’t have returned if we hadn’t mattered.

Curriculum is significant, but HOW teachers teach it and the connections we make while doing so are even more important. I always thought my two largest roles as a teacher were to help my students become critical thinkers and to teach them to be kind to one another. Knowing how to think and be kind will positively impact the world more than knowing a lot about numbers, science, or words (all of which are amazingly awesome on their own).

I am finally getting to how all of this connects to storms. Life has storms. We need to know how to think and be kind when one of life’s storms comes our way. Storms are teachers.

Poems also are powerful teachers. Writers create images that stick with people for different reasons. Mark Nepo is a poet and spiritual advisor who has taught poetry and spirituality for over thirty years. He has written fourteen books and has a wide following. He also is a cancer survivor. His poem titled Behind the Thunder weaves together ideas of learning to be strong without losing yourself. I believe its point is that an event can change you but that you don’t give yourself over to it. At its core, the poem is about resilience.

 

Behind the Thunder

~ Written by Mark Nepo

 

I keep looking for one more teacher,

only to find that fish learn from water

and birds learn from the sky.

If you want to learn about the sea,

it helps to be at sea.

If you want to learn about compassion,

it helps to be in love.

If you want to learn about healing,

it helps to know of suffering.

 

The strong live in the storm

without worshipping the storm.

 

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Image credit: pexels.com

 

Cancer is one bleeping kind of a storm.

And no, I can’t use the word I’d like to use after a poem written by Mark Nepo.

It wouldn’t be right.

What a storm it is. It has drenched me. I have lived with this storm. Like a fish that has learned from water, and like birds that have learned from the sky, I have learned from the storm. I have suffered, but I feel I have also learned a little about healing. This is what the storm as a teacher has taught me:

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Image credit: pexels.com 
  • It’s better to exist in the storm from a place of healing rather than a place of suffering.
  • The storm has made me stronger than I knew I could be.
  • The storm hasn’t broken me. It won’t. It can’t destroy my soul.
  • Cancer has been a rather cruel and unrelenting teacher, but effective. Maybe it intended to turn me bitter and negative, but it failed. Through it, I have learned about joy, kindness, peace, and gratitude.
  • Just because I live in a storm doesn’t mean I’m a human lightning rod. I will protect myself seeking shelter and sanctuary in whatever way I can.
  • The storm has not made me ugly. I am more beautiful than ever. Living in this stupid storm has taught me how to finally embrace and recognize my beauty.
  • There are some who will never understand how I think or feel about this storm. It’s okay. I don’t understand myself a lot of the time anyway.
  • Others live in similar storms. We can support one another and learn together.
  • There will be more storms.
  • I am resilient.

Thunder can’t hurt me.

It’s the lightning that’s the problem.

I’m still learning.

 

Consider responding:

What lessons have you learned from living in a storm?

Revisiting Grief

I ran into a friend of a friend a little over a week ago that I haven’t seen in a long time at a local restaurant. One of the things Laurel and I have in common is that we have both lost people we’ve loved due to cancer (my mother and her husband). She was with a group of about six or seven others. There was nothing remarkable about anyone’s appearance. Everyone looked normal. I stopped by her table for a quick hello as I left the restaurant and learned she was eating with her grief group from hospice. Her husband died around three years ago and although they do not meet formally as a group anymore, she explained they still get together every so often to check in on how everyone is doing.

“So, how are you doing?” I asked her.

“I’m vertical,” she told me.

She looked great. I know. Even though I heard it in my head, it was my first reaction. Looking great has nothing to do with how a person is feeling. I even used the word “normal” above to describe her.

It’s cringe-worthy.

I was thankful I hadn’t said it out loud. I know so well that someone can look like they have it all together on the outside when the inside is a hot mess. This is true whether the inside is slammed with treatment side effects, pain from sickness, anxiety, depression, or grief. The inside often is in some state of constant churning. It may be such a present feeling that it is normal for you. Normal always fluctuates for me and has an overpowering element of uncertainty of the future. Normal has to be rooted in the NOW. I’m good at holding it together on the outside. Most of the time.

Grief is messy.

Being vertical shouldn’t be so hard. But it can be.

There is something comforting about being with others who have similar experiences. Support groups are great for this if it fits your comfort level. I went to one after my mom died. It was more of a workshop setting. It gave me a better understanding of my feelings and explained a few things that I wouldn’t otherwise have attributed to grief. Individual counseling is another option to support someone through grief.

Running into Laurel made me pause to revisit what I’ve learned about grief over the years. I reminded myself of many points worth remembering.

Grief Reminders

  • Grief is physically and emotionally exhausting. A grieving person needs more restorative sleep.
  • Grief is hard. It’s tougher to make decisions and trust others, including trusting your own abilities while grieving.
  • Many question truths in their personal belief systems such as religious beliefs, the meaning of life, and ideas of fairness.
  • There is a sense of having no control over anything.
  • Grief is distracting. Functioning in day-to-day activities or at work can be affected. There is a tendency to forget things.
  • Some people may bump into things, drop stuff, or be prone to accidents. They do not attribute these events to grief and wonder what in the world is wrong with them.
  • Some people find it easier to be at work and like having a focus away from grief, while others find it difficult to be in their work environment. Some who find an escape from grief at work find that it overwhelms them again as soon as they get home where the memories live.
  • Dates such as birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, and other important events will be bittersweet. The anniversary of a death will be dreaded and the day after will feel better again because there is a whole year before it happens again.
  • Grief is real and ongoing. A person doesn’t just get over it. The goal isn’t to get over a loss but to find a way to get through it.
  • People grieve losses other than death. Loss of jobs, a move, divorce, a friendship or relationship, failed plans, and changes in health are all sources of grief.
  • It doesn’t mean someone is over their grief if they are having a good day. They may just be getting through the day vertically.
  • Grief spurts come out of nowhere. They may not last long but can be intense.
  • There is no timeline. There are as many ways to grieve as there are people. What works for one person may not work for another.
  • Grief can teach us about life.

I find a lot of strength in affirmations. I’ve read and collected many, blended them together, and written my own when I have a specific need. I have close to one hundred in my affirmation file and I’m always coming up with more. Here is my group of affirmations on grief. Perhaps one or two will jump out as applicable to a situation in your life.

Affirmations That Acknowledge Grief

I allow myself to fully feel my feelings, both happy and sad.

I can still feel love in the world without my loved one.

I seek the help I need and accept help when it’s offered.

I hold on to love and will let go of the grief when I’m ready.

I am surrounded by seen and unseen love and support.

I am kind to myself while I grieve and heal.

I honor my lost loved one by living my own life in positive and beautiful ways.

I move away from memories that bring me pain and focus on memories that bring me happiness and peace.

Grieving is a part of life and I am doing okay.

There are many feelings involved with grief and loss and it’s okay to feel all of them.

I still feel my lost loved one’s presence and it comforts me.

I grieve loss in healthy ways that are right for me.

There is no timeline for when grieving is done.

Grieving ebbs and flows differently for everyone.

I recognize difficult moments and know they will pass.

I choose to grieve my loss and move forward at my own pace.

It is okay to feel happy again.

Moving on with my life does not mean I have forgotten someone I loved.

I am grateful for the time I shared with my loved one.

This experience has allowed me to discover new truths about myself.

I am done being sad for today and I move on to other emotions.

My life has changed and I will meet these changes day by day.

There are many people I can talk to who will listen to how I’m feeling.

I feel supported during this difficult time.

I am learning how life works for me with these new circumstances.

After I’ve given all this unsolicited advice, I think it’s also important to avoid offering easy answers or clichéd expressions to someone who is grieving. As an example, I often hear people say God needed another angel when someone has died. It’s meant to be comforting. I don’t believe this. Heaven has enough angels. Keeping people around longer on Earth that spread goodness seems like a better idea to me. We need those people to stick around. Someone who is grieving needs to feel listened to and feel comfortable enough to cry and express their feelings with the support of their friends. Telling someone how they should be feeling or dismissing their feelings with some tired or cute remark invalidates grief.

I have grieved my parents and other family members, friends, neighbors, and people I have never personally met who have died from cancer. I don’t think I’ll ever be done grieving some deaths, and that’s okay. It’s there. I can still be happy. I’ve grieved a child and an unfulfilled dream when cancer put a screeching halt on plans to become an adoptive parent. I’ve grieved relationships that have changed. I’ve grieved my teaching career when it became clear it was in my best interest to retire. I’ve grieved my past because I can’t reclaim my life and health to what it was before cancer. I’ve grieved my present because of disappointment and anger and changes that still don’t fit my plans. I continue to grieve my future because of fears. Although it isn’t what this post is about, I also have hope for my future and I will not let go of my hope.

There are many parts of myself that I grieve. I choose to keep many of those thoughts private for now. It’s my work to do, difficult to share, and very hard for me to put into words.

Grief is universal but everyone does it differently. There is no one right way to do it, but it needs to happen in its own time and in its own way. I don’t want to forget my loved ones who have died. I do want to quiet memories that haunt me. I do want to remember all the happy times I’ve shared with people who’ve died.

Laurel is incorporating grief into her life as she keeps living and moving forward. Looking fine on the outside doesn’t tell the whole story. It seldom does. I hope I can meet people with compassion and empathy to offer whatever support is needed.

Three affirmations from my list jump out at me as I write today:

I honor my lost loved one by living my own life in positive and beautiful ways.

Moving on with my life does not mean I have forgotten someone I loved.

My life has changed and I will meet these changes day by day.

 

What are your thoughts on grief?