Here

I’m back from a three week visit with my family in Florida. Even though “cold” for Florida’s standards, the sun beamed hot on us from clear blue skies. Such a stark difference from midwinter in the Netherlands. Proximity to so much saltwater (and salted air) was healing. My memory remains soaked with the image of live oak trees covered in Spanish moss.

Being an ocean apart from my family informs how I make meaning in my landscape of grief, but in short I embrace being there as much as I can, and the environment steps in to help hold all that I cannot on my own.

It was a significant visit because it was Joan’s first time in Florida. Seeing my 96-year old grandparents was top on my list so that they could finally meet Joan, and the encounter was nothing short of amazing. My grandmother, holding Joan on her lap, and Joan’s curious hands touching my grandmother’s face – it means more to me than I can describe here.

When I say goodbye to my grandparents at the end of each visit, it is always emotional for me. I write about it in my essay “Florida and North Carolina” in Dying Livingly:

I know this goodbye very well. I think to myself how much I know in my heart that I have loved them as much as I possibly could. Their love is in my heart, then, now and in the future. I look into the eyes of my grandma, light blue and cloudy, small universes of amazement and mystery. “I love you as much as I possibly can. Don’t forget that,” I say. As I walked away, my grandma held my hand, “do not forget it: you’re perfect.” I was at the car door and looked at them standing there and I had the sudden urge for one more hug. It is always worth it. As a death doula I take my goodbyes very seriously. Go for the extra hug.

Yet, this goodbye was different. They even said, “this is it.”

“As in, this is the last time we will see each other?” I asked. They gave me a half-smile and shrugged, like they’re testing out their newfound knowledge on me. I believe them, as most people who are close to natural death know that death is near. But, what could I do or say that would feel adequate for this moment? I did exactly as I normally would, though slower. I went for the extra hug. I told them how much I love them. That I am so happy they’ve met Joan. Then I made more space for silence and inaction. We stood there holding hands. I became very aware of their ceramic floortiles, the walls that shape the living room behind them from my vantage point, and the unlit candles next to us that mark the entrance to their house. It crossed my mind that we were like a relief sculpture, standing there so still. I squeezed their hands gently, turned around and left.

Since I returned, I have written them a letter. With our gift of time, I would like to be more clear and share my core message. I want them to know that I have been truly loved by them, and the number of ways in which they have made me feel loved. I think that at this point, when one is closer to death, it is more important that they know the impact of their loving than it is for them to know they’re a recepient of my love.

If we’ve worked together before, you know that I highly recommend writing letters to our loved ones. We can continue to feel the impact of their love by expressing it, again and again.

This letter to my grandparents won’t be the last one I write to them.

Now

To say the very least, death and grief can produce a lot of fear and anxiety. Death phobia can show itself in all sorts of direct or indirect ways, but I think of anxiety as a mosquito buzzing around the ear. Symptoms of anxiety include excessive worry, feeling on edge, restlessness, and physical signs like a racing heart, shortness of breath, muscle tension, and nausea. Anxiety can be debilating; it robs us of presence and the present, stopping us from moving towards the kind of living we want. According to writer and sociologist Martha Beck, and many of us can vouch, creativity is the antithesis to anxiety. The anxiety parts of the brain cannot be “online” at the same time as the creative ones. When bringing the anxiety spiral down, we can just as well initiate and drive a creativity spiral up, leading us to the kind of flow, clarity, connection, and wellness that we seek.

There’s also a spiral for healing. I’ve learned of a formula from grief expert and widow Krista St. Germaine that has simplified the process for me.

To stimulate the spiral, first settle the storm inside. Regulate your nervous system back to baseline.

Then, choose your thoughts intentionally. Remind yourself that reality and perception are not one in the same. How you think about your situation matters and you can choose to take part in shaping it.

Finally, take aligned action. What’s something nourishing you can do that follows your intentional thinking and capacity to weather the storm?

ex. I know I have strong feelings around the death anniversary of my loved one. It’s important to me to honor them as well as take care of myself on this day. I am going to create and do a ritual, and keep my schedule clear so I can go for a long walk afterwards.

The formula stays more or less the same while our approach changes and evolves with us over time.

Which ones do you struggle with at the moment? Sometimes tinkering a little here and there can be just the inspiration we need to start meeting our death and grief care differently.

Close

Just in time, I got to visit the exhibition Missen als een ronde vorm - de kunst van het doorleven (“The roundness of loss – The art of living on”) at Stedelijk Museum Schiedam before it comes down. Still processing it (this oscillation between cloudiness and precision in grief/grieving…), but I am impressed by and have respect for curator Hanne Hagenaars in addressing death and grief through a survey presentation at this scale. Many beautiful artworks (by Odonchimeg Davaadorj, Jennifer Tee, G, Kevin Simón Mancera, Keetje Mans, Minne Kersten…) are included.

Trust,
Staci

PS. Love to Iranians / End to US imperialism / We Play Paradise with Poppy Seeds by Darrel Alejandro Holnes