Grief Changes Us—For the Better

Despite its many joys, caring for aging parents brings grief as well. You’re slowly losing a parent and your child-role as your parent adjusts to his or her losses of vitality and freedom. Add to that the probability that each generation empathizes with the other’s pain, and it’s a tough season for all. But we can choose to focus on the richness and meaning of the season as well.

Ashley Davis Bush, LCSW, writes in “Grief Intelligence: A Primer” that grief is lifelong and that it changes us. If we think grief comes to a close, we are mistaken. And grievers’ lives will be enriched by seeing the bigger picture. I encourage you to read her perspectives here:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-davis-bush/dealing-with-grief_b_3716013.html

Bush’s perspectives have brought me freedom from false expectations. In addition, thinking about how grief has changed me for the better gradually rotates my attitude toward loss into a new position. Whether this new position will be one of more readily accepting, welcoming, and/or transcending remains to be seen.

Bush’s article is worth pondering by anyone grieving any loss.

   

When Someone You Know Is Dying

Recently I had occasion to visit a person with end-stage cancer. I didn’t know his thoughts and feelings about his life or diagnosis. I’d sent a few cards since the original cancer diagnosis—before his doctors had predicted he had only a few weeks left. Now I felt I needed to go see him, but I wanted my visit to bless him, not hurt him, and I didn’t know what to say to accomplish that. The night before my scheduled visit, a friend who is a trained, experienced, wise and gracious hospice volunteer gave me a few tips. I’d like to share them with you.

I’m sure her hospice training is a more comprehensive toolkit than this, but here is what she said that gave me peace and some measure of confidence. She told me my goal was simply to communicate to him that he is here and he matters. One way to do that is to advance typical memorial service activities to include the living. In other words, say to his face now what I appreciate about him; mention his attributes and his legacy; and share memories and stories. Memorial services often display a photo montage, so take photos to reminisce over with him.

When I worried to my hospice friend that I’d accidentally say something that might depress him, she said her rule of thumb is to follow his lead. Also fairly simple and respectful. And even if your relationship prevents your saying, “I love you” to the person, it’s also meaningful to say “A lot of people care about you.”

So there you have it. That’s all I know about this. If you have additional suggestions, please leave them in a comment.

P.S. This man had invited Jesus to be his Savior decades ago; he knows he will be with Jesus in heaven for eternity. We didn’t need to have any preparatory discussion, although if he had brought up what he’s looking forward to in heaven, or similar thoughts, I would have followed his lead and engaged on that topic. If the dying person you care about is not sure about his or her eternity, you may wish to ask afterlife-related questions and help the person think through his or her questions. Remember the thief on the cross who made an end-of-life profession of faith and received a personal invitation from Jesus to be with Him forever.

 

Caregiving Lessons Learned in the Battle Against Cancer

Today I welcome Cameron Von St. James’ guest post. Although his caregiving role was with his young wife, he learned lessons we can apply when caring for our aging parents. His hope that his wife would recover is one we can sometimes share, if our loved one’s medical issues are curable. If not, hope is still important—we hope we are giving them the most loving end of life possible. And that means practicing the lessons Cameron shares here.

Caregiving Lessons

by Cameron Von St. James

My entire life changed on November 21, 2005. That was the day my wife, Heather, was diagnosed with malignant pleural mesothelioma, and I became her caregiver. Our only child, Lily, was born just three months earlier, and we were totally unprepared for the diagnosis and the changes it would make in our lives.

That day, our doctor recommended we see a specialist for treatment options. We had three choices, one of which was a specialist in Boston. I looked toward Heather to gauge her reaction, but she sat silent in disbelief and shock. I stepped in and told our doctor we would go to Boston, making one of the first of many decisions regarding Heather's health.

Our daily routines changed drastically that day. Heather had to stop working, and I worked less hours. After work, I spent my time caring for Lily, traveling to Boston and accompanying Heather to her doctor's appointments. I soon felt overwhelmed, worried that I would lose my wife and all our financial resources, ending up homeless and caring for Lily alone. I felt helpless, but I had to be strong for Heather.

Family, friends and even strangers lightened our financial and emotional burdens. They offered us so much help, and we learned to say, “yes” to every offer. I learned the hard way that there is no room for pride when a loved one’s life is on the line.  We will never be able to thank those who helped us enough.

Being a caregiver is hard, and the experience is filled with stress, chaos and uncertainty. Unlike many other challenges, you cannot just walk away from it when it gets tough. You cannot let anxiety or anger take over, and you have to keep hoping every day. Rely on all the resources you have to keep focused and stay on the right path through the challenges. If I could leave you with a few simple tips to take away, they would be to accept every offer of help, take care of yourself and your own health, take time for yourself so as not to get completely burnt out, and to never, ever give up hope.

Our lives did not become somewhat normal again for years. Heather beat the cancer, and she has been in remission from mesothelioma for seven years.

The experience taught me that time is precious, so I went back to school to study Information Technology and get my degree. The lessons I learned as a caregiver helped me succeed in school, and I spoke at my graduation ceremony. I talked about never giving up hope and realizing that if you believe in yourself, you can do anything.  Heather and Lily were in attendance, and that was the greatest reward of all.

Caregiver Support

Lots of practical tips at www.caregiversupport.org, but I found their list of common emotions especially helpful. Check it out here.

Father to the Fatherless

Dearest Dad,

Yesterday, Father’s Day 2013, I gave you a store-bought card expressing this prayer for my father: that God would bless everything you do. Nowadays that is blowing your drippy nose, shooting the wadded tissue into the wastebasket (two points!), rotating your wrists to the beat of whatever music is playing in the Alzheimer’s wing, smiling during wheelchair exercise class, pawing through the contents of your nightstand drawers, and dozing outside the nurses’ station with your chin resting on your chest—and kissing your wife of 65 years.

Since Father’s Day 2012, God has blessed your jigsaw puzzle and limited conversational abilities and your ability to see beauty in the hallways and courtyards of the nursing home. “This is very beautiful,” you’d say as I wheeled you around. You used to have words to tell Mom she’s beautiful, too, though now you say it with your tired eyes perking up to smile in her direction. A year ago you rarely took your love-blazing eyes off Mom; yesterday you dozed a bit during your Father’s Day party, didn’t say much, and didn’t light up when Mom read your cards to you. Last year you read all your cards aloud to us.

This past year, God has gradually gathered more of you to Himself. I feel deep loss as the father I knew slips away from me. I don’t know when our heavenly Father will enfold you in His arms forever. But I know He has blessed us with your kind, cheerful, gentlemanly presence, even as your faculties have diminished. As your fading fatherhood retreats from me, God’s fatherhood comes more clearly into focus. That is yet another blessing.

I no longer have you to practice eye-hand coordination with me in the yard and on the tennis court, to help me with my homework, especially those doggone math story problems. But I notice myself more often seeing God’s fingerprints on my education—like putting 2 and 2 together (Aha!) as I study the bible or French or storytelling techniques, and giving me more opportunities to forgive, for example, when He’s teaching me relational skills. God’s fathering has been there all along, but I appreciate it more now, I think.  

Dad, you won’t be there to hold my hand next time I’m scared. Remember when you came with me to sign my first mortgage? Sitting at that loan officer’s big mahogany desk, though I was nearly 30, I think I literally clung to your big hand. No, you can’t possibly remember that day—or your funny, perfect, housewarming gift. You bought me a whole set of apple-green plastic hangers to match my new condo’s unbelievably garish apple-green and mirror-silver wallpaper. Probably only God and I, and maybe Mom, remember those things. By now, I have signed more mortgages than you and Mom have, but other things still scare me: when I speak in public, or know I need to confront someone in love, or make a big decision. I take comfort in knowing my Father God has gone before me in everything; He has prepared my way, will hold my hand, and provide whatever courage and comfort I need. God surprises me with good gifts, too, just as you did.

One last word. My mind’s eye sees you running barefoot across the den to the tall wooden stand cradling your much explored unabridged dictionary. You loved words and wordplay. When I stood at the door, you’d invite me in, “Join us; we’ll come apart if you don’t.” After one of your explosive signature sneezes, you’d quip, “Long noses run in our family.” Though I’m not quick-witted enough to wear your punster shoes, I have inherited your word-loving legacy. That Alzheimer’s disease has stolen your words is a cruelty I can hardly bear. As I age and more often search in vain for words to complete sentences, I fear this same thief might have commandeered my brain. So as I thank God for you and pray His blessings on everything you do, my dear sweet father, I also pray that our Father of the fatherless will carry me into the future.  

Psalm 68:5 A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.