My writing on grief has moved. I now publish regularly at the Creative Grief Studio Substack, where the focus is on grief support practitioners and the work of showing up well for people in hard seasons. If that’s you, or if you’re curious about that work, I’d love for you to follow along there.

Read and subscribe at the CGS Substack

The posts here aren’t going anywhere. I’ll still add to this space when something needs to be said here.

Image courtesy of my late husband, Ken Gehle. His fine art photography is available in the Art Shop.

“You have two kids?” I asked, suddenly thinking about fathers.

“Two boys, 19 months and 5 weeks.” The second son had been injured during childbirth. Nothing too serious but painful for the little guy. We talked about nursing; it’s the only thing that soothes him. His wife has struggled more with the demands after this birth. I told him about my own nursing experience as a new mom and the time the young man fishing downstream seemed to have turned me into his own personal pacifier. How hard it was and how important at the same time.

“Sometimes you feel like you just need five minutes of the old you,” I said.

“I can understand that,” he replied.

His wife had agreed that he needed some time to go fishing when she was safely harbored in the hospital. He took an hour and caught 30 fish in that same spot. He was fully himself in that moment.

My son created his own tangle so the guide left me holding my partially repaired line and went to help him. Our conversation had given me a glimpse back to that early life when the kids were babies and Ken and I were just starting out. Five minutes of the old me.

Taking up this activity of fly fishing that was only Ken’s made me nostalgic. He has been on my mind quite a bit as I prepare myself to have his doppelgänger move off to the land of fly-fishing far from home. I studied the tiny fly the guide had asked me to hold and noticed, just beyond it, a heart-shaped rock on the bank of the Big Thompson River. He’s here, even when he’s not here.

“You always seem to find heart-shaped rocks,” my son marveled when I showed it to him later. “It’s as if they are pointed out to me,” I smiled.

My son and I have been fishing several times this summer. It’s something I did as a child with my grandfather and has given me that five minutes of the old me with Papa by my side too. I miss that time with him and I’m grateful for whatever synapses connected to bring those images back to me so vividly.

One day I’ll reflect on these moments I’m living right now. I don’t know what it is that will remind me as I sit here but something will lead me to the five minutes we have just created. The parent I am right now and the young adult about to strike out on his own will be the central characters in that memory. I imagine I will be grateful and a little wistful, living both feelings together, and happy for the glimpse.

As we entered into Page, AZ I got a little choked up. The last time we were all there her father was in remission. Pulling out of town, a hawk flew close between our vehicles. If I didn’t know better I would swear he could see me when he looked right down toward me through the windshield.

The next day in Idaho I had to open the windows and keep sipping water to fight off a wave of panic. There was no present reason to be that stressed out except that, again, he should be here. As we dropped out of a mountain range into a valley, The Valley by k.d. lang came up on my iPod. That song sustained me and in that place with the sunset casting a warm glow on the mountains, I heard it in a new way. I really felt like he was with us.

But sometimes I doubt theses signs, you know? Dismiss them. I didn’t find any dimes though, I thought. That’s one that happens pretty frequently when something significant is happening. Sometimes I feel like he’s telling me “pay attention to this moment” when they appear. Surely, this would be an event I should pay attention to, right? But no dimes.

At last, we unloaded her possessions into storage before setting off to hunt for apartments. As I was taking one last look around the empty truck to see if we needed to sweep it out, there it was on the floor, the dime. No other change, just one single dime.

Yes, I’m paying attention. Glad you’re here.

Escaping the news of the recent U.S. election is difficult even for those outside of the country. This campaign season was particularly divisive and many now find themselves moved in unanticipated ways. Political events and changes can have unexpected meaning and the resulting grief and anxiety can be very real.

No matter what outcome we may have thought to be “right” it’s important to let those who are struggling feel what they feel without shame. If you find yourself in a position to support others who may feel grief over these recent events here are a few tips to keep in mind:

• Remember that people are grieving. They are assessing a real situation and experiencing a real human process so they can find their agency, and figure out what steps to take next.
• Allow them to feel what they feel on their own timeline. Rushing someone through is not helpful, nor possible.
• Consider how the hierarchy of loss may be impacting their experience. Are others minimizing their experience because they perceive this as an insignificant loss or not a loss at all? Are they doing it to themselves?
• Avoid phrases that can shame people who are grieving. “Negative thoughts are bad” or “change your thoughts, change your life” clichés are oversimplifications of complex philosophical ideas, and when used in shorthand ways like this, they often come off as oppressive.
• Recognize that this grief may feel familiar because it has echoes of other griefs we’ve had; old grief may be triggered through the physical experiences of this new situation.
• Remember there is a diversity of meaning in each person’s grief. Those who are grieving aren’t necessarily grieving the same thing as their lives may be impacted differently by potential changes. One person’s concern may be anticipated loss of health insurance, while another’s is a fractured relationship with someone they love, and still another may be dealing with the anxiety of their children when they feel they do not have answers themselves. Do not assume you know what someone is feeling. Exercise curiosity.
• If you are feeling grief too, helping others can be a challenge. Don’t forget to tend yourself.
• When they are ready, guide your clients in finding their agency. What actions can they take to feel their grief and use the resulting meaning if they choose to do so? How can they take care of themselves now and going forward?

Here are some ways that others have begun to find their resilience and resourcefulness. They are dealing with grief and their emotions in ways that are meaningful for them that range from simple and local to more expansive. There is no, one, single, right way.

• Self-care, self-care, self-care
• Attend to practical matters as needed such as contacting financial advisor, healthcare broker, etc. as well as things like staying hydrated, taking naps, touching base with friends and loves.
• Share messages of love and support with others
• Engage in social media less or in a different way right now
• Learn more about how to show outward demonstrations of support
• Make donations, no matter how small, to organizations that align with your values
• Boycott companies that do not align with your values
• Participate in peaceful demonstrations as you are able
• Join letter writing campaigns or become otherwise politically active

These are just a few of the ways clients might find their resourcefulness, or maybe these are inspirations for entirely new ideas they create themselves. In the Articles We Loved section you will find more suggestions related to this topic.

There are many ways for us and our clients to engage with this kind of grief experience and take meaningful action to live forward. Shame has no place in it. “Get over it” is not a helpful response.

“I’m going to come sit with you tomorrow. I’m good at hospitals,” she said. It was September 28, 2008, the night before my husband had major surgery to remove his cancer and his esophagus along with it. I’m not sure what I was thinking by not planning to have someone sit with me that day. Clearly, I wasn’t thinking at all. Thankfully, Laurie and the rest of my book club came to the rescue.

Laurie arrived in the waiting room that morning and presented me with a cute book bag with giant polka dots of blue and green. It was filled with items I didn’t know I would need: tissues, water bottle, lip balm, lotion, hand sanitizer, a shawl for cold waiting rooms, a starter kit for knitting, a small spiral-bound notebook with pen and more.

Others wandered in before work or after kids were seen off to school bearing hot drinks and cheer. Team Ken was formed. These women I had known for a decade or more by then made me laugh and forget why we were sitting in those uncomfortable straight back chairs in tight rows across from cartoonish prints that had us inexplicably looking out castle windows to other castles beyond. The distraction was complete until it became too late in the day and the surgery was taking too long for the news to be good. Some had to go; it was time to get kids from school and think about dinner. Our pastor arrived.

I noticed the surgeon the second he walked through the door, his eyes on the ground, legs propelling him toward a conversation that I could already tell he didn’t want to have. One of “those” conversations. Laurie removed the notepad and pen from the charming polka dot bag and started making notes as he spoke. Stage 3, not stage one. Couldn’t get it all. Radiation and chemo to follow. My chest buzzed. I pulled my legs up into the chair. I was suddenly cold and shivering from my core. “May I ask questions,” Laurie looked at me. I nodded my brain had entered a fog-like state anyway. Laurie, a fact-finder, asked the doctor good question after good question and scribbled diligent notes in the little red notebook. So many things I wanted to know or didn’t know that I wanted to know were recorded there.

When he left all attention turned toward me. The buzzing in my chest was now rising up through my throat in searing heat. Cold seconds before, I now felt aflame. I don’t recall saying I was nauseous but a plastic lined trash can appeared at my side. “You’re not having a heart attack. This is a panic attack,” Laurie said. “It won’t kill you, it just feels like it will.” I laughed.

So much of what happened the rest of that day is a blur. Everyone around me was so supportive, each doing what they could to help me as the doctors and nurses watched over Ken through the end of the surgery and recovery. They each made sure I wasn’t alone in turn. Laurie took my doctor’s number and told her what was happening. A prescription was called in and she left to pick it up for me and make a quick dinner for her own family before returning. The wait went on past dinner and into the evening. Laurie stayed. We were moved to the ICU waiting room. Another friend and her husband came back to keep vigil with me. I had a banana for dinner that I couldn’t finish. Laurie’s calm and non-anxious presence was perceptible and pulled me back toward her across the spectrum of anxiety when I strayed. At long last, I was called back to see Ken and left Laurie sitting in the waiting room with her knitting. She told me later that she watched us through the window to make sure I was alright. She truly was “good at hospitals.”

Ken and I were both Presbyterians but, truth be told, he had become more agnostic over time. When talking to our pastor one day he discussed a new change in his faith. “I have felt the presence of God through angels right here.” I knew exactly who he was talking about. Laurie was one of several angels we had around us. He was in awe of their selflessness and compassion.

While I have never truly lost my sense of spirituality, I have admitted before that I don’t know how to pray in a piece I wrote about my inability to find words that felt sufficient on the eve of Laurie’s surgery after her own cancer diagnosis. Throughout her illness, remission and illness again I have tried to be there for her in word and deed but always feeling inadequate in reflection on what she had done for us. Yes, I know it’s not a competition and I really don’t see it that way. I would simply like to return her generosity in good measure, if that can be simple. I make another attempt at prayer. And another at deed.

On what would have been Ken’s fifty-third birthday I had the honor of staying with Laurie over-night in hospice. Her family prepared me that she slept a lot so I packed up my polka dot book bag with a few items I thought I might need including, of course, a spiral notebook and pen. I had learned from the master after all.

When I arrived I was comforted that she called me by name. She was remarkably lucid and alert most of the evening as we chatted off and on between her catnaps. She recognized the polka dot bag. I shared that when I told my son where I was going for the night he remembered her as the one who let him play games on her iPhone outside Ken’s hospital room. Noting that it was Ken’s birthday she asked me how I felt about that. “It’s bittersweet,” I told her honestly. Being with her on that day felt like a divinely conspired event, a thank you from both Ken and me for the role she played in our lives. An answer, of sorts, to a prayer though naturally I would have preferred a far different answer.

On that night I learned more about how to be “good at hospitals” from Laurie like the perfect ratio of crushed ice to water. In my toolkit, I now have a procedure for how to help someone who can’t get out of bed to brush their teeth with a real toothbrush and toothpaste. Imagine, for a minute, what a simple pleasure that is. Laurie luxuriated in the task and it was a joy to watch.

When, addled from a recent dose of medication or a brief sleep, she said odd things, I went with it. Correcting someone in this state just causes anxiety and no one needs more of that. At one point she attempted to lean forward and spoke to me as if we were on a retreat.
L: “So Tamara, tell me what you want to get out of the weekend?”
T: “I’m sorry, what?”
L: “What do you want to get out of the weekend? Accomplishments? Set priorities?”
T: “…I think I’d like to work on letting go, on finding peace.”
She nodded, sat back and relaxed.

We talked about the expressions of love that surrounded her: the mountain of cards, the dresser-top full of flowers, the mini ice creams tucked in the freezer, the prayer shawl folded over the bottom of her bed rail where she could see it always. She told me who was responsible for the latter, a common Facebook friend, so when Laurie slept I made sure that Grace knew it was there. She told me the story of the Gracynjoy Prayer Shawl’s creation and how tribe members of Patti Digh’s Life Is a Verb Camp, at which Laurie presented in 2013, had wrapped themselves in the shawl to place within it their love, prayers and admiration before it was sent to Laurie.

Ken and I took a rare solo vacation to Death Valley National Park for his 44th birthday.

He and the kids spent time in Cades Cove of the Great Smokey National Park while I had to stay home to work. I have few regrets, that I didn’t go with them is one.

We celebrated remission with a two week tour of Utah and Arizona. Ken made some of the most spectacular landscape photos of his career.

We spent what would turn out to be our last family Spring Break at the Cumberland Island National Seashore.

We had planned to do an RV trip to Yosemite the following summer. We scattered Ken’s ashes there instead. Half Dome is his monument.

Glacier National Park was the first park I explored while learning how to live forward after such a devastating loss.

Grand Teton was the amazing location of my second wedding when I found love again. My daughter spent three summers in neighboring Yellowstone National Park.

She now lives in Grand Canyon National Park, just steps from the south rim.

These places are precious to us. I think Ken’s love for the parks shines through in the images he created. I encourage you to visit the Death Valley, Old West and National Parks galleries where all photos were shot in and around U.S. National Parks to see for yourself. I hope they shine through in mine too. Maybe you will even be inspired to go on a National Park adventure of your own.

In this 100th year of the parks we are celebrating and honoring by offering 10% off any Ken Gehle print beginning August 25, 2016 and running for 100 days. Enter the coupon code NPS100 toward the purchase of any photo on Ken’s website. As always, the proceeds go toward our children’s college educations. (Expires December 3, 2016.)

“National parks are the best idea we ever had. Absolutely American, absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best rather than our worst.”  ~ Wallace Stegner, Writer and Environmentalist

If you are near a National Park or can get there easily they will be celebrating the NPS birthday week by offering free admission to all parks August 25 - 28. If you go, I’d love to hear about it!