Word For My Loss

The US Supreme Court ruled in favor of same sex marriage nationwide on what would have been my 28th anniversary with my late partner. Though we were never able to marry, I still consider myself a widower.

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“I am a widower.”

Those are four words I never imagined myself saying at my age. Maybe at 70 or 80. Mid-60s, if something terrible, like a plane crash or a terrorist attack, took one of us. Or never, if I was the first to go.

None of those scenarios took place.

I lost my partner, Gary Lussier, to liver disease two years ago. He was a wonderful man — a former dancer, handsome with a wicked sense of humor and a way of embracing the world that would shame most people. He didn’t get to embrace the world for long enough, though. He was 52 and I was 53 on the day I walked out of NY Presbyterian Hospital/Cornell Medical Center, dazed, confused and alone.

He died less than 24 hours before he might have had a successful liver transplant, slightly more than three days after I rushed him to the hospital, over a year since his illness began to manifest itself and about a quarter-century since we had joined our lives. Even though I was well past 50, I found myself in the “he’s too young for this to happen” category.

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Michael and Gary

And, of course, there was another complication: I was not married to Gary, even though we had been together 24.5 years. Though we had no legal document, ours was as true a union as any other. Emotionally supported by our two good families and a phalanx of friends, having the benefit of treatment in New York City’s best hospital and embraced by the staff of my company, St. Martin’s Press, I had the rare luxury of being able to consider my place in the world free from legal battles and financial concerns that can be real, threatening and, occasionally, life-shattering for the one left behind.

In the days after his death I began to ask myself, “What am I now?” I was no longer “partner.” I searched and searched for a word that defined me. Finally, I settled on the most obvious and yet, for me, most problematic word: widower. In choosing it I set myself the task of understanding its meaning.

I was also trying to find the courage to say it out loud.

Of course, “widower” implies “marriage,” “husband,” “deceased wife” and — in our world — “heterosexual.” We weren’t married. We referred to each other as “partners.” I am gay. The first time I said it out loud — “I am a widower” — I was alone in my apartment. The silence was so loud it threatened to crush me.

When that sentence broke the isolation I’d been living in. I knew I had found a word that would take me forward, but one that would provoke surprise in others. “Did he say ‘widower’?” I imagined people thinking to themselves at cocktail parties. “I didn’t know they were married…” they might say, in private, when they took off their pearls or undid their ties. Worse might come from hate mongers I didn’t even know. The question obsessed me: How could I call myself “Gary’s widower” and be true about it?

For me, the ability to say “widower” came down to the question of what the word “marriage” means. We’ve all been taught “marriage” refers to the moment when two people profess vows of love before a governmental or religious authority, rings are exchanged, documents are signed and the couple runs off to Happily Ever After. They are “married.”

There is, though, a deeper meaning, I think, of the verb “to marry,” a more private one concerning itself less with ceremony and legality than with the intimacy and commitment between two people: “to take as an intimate life partner by a formal exchange of promises in the manner of a traditional marriage ceremony.” Had Gary and I done that over the years? Did we have some formal exchange of promises?

Stephen Sondheim has a song about marriage describing it as “…the little things you do together…” We certainly had our fill of them throughout the years: Not just Thanksgivings and Christmases and Easters or trips abroad or weeks on the Ogunquit beach. No, we had more than that. We had almost a quarter century of eating pizza while watching television, having dinners with friends, arguing about how best to do the laundry, having a bang-up row in public, commiserating over each other’s daily work woes and celebrating each other’s triumphs. So, in that way, we did indeed have a marriage. Through millions of small acts, private and public, we were intimate life partners.

But, did we have a “formal exchange of promises” I wondered? Over the years, every night, we said “I love you” to each other before falling asleep. Were those not exchanges of a mutual promise renewed each day? I think they were. But, were they enough to pronounce us “married”? Did we have some deeper and more formal promise? In looking back, we did, though no clergy or justice of the peace was present.

We met when a legal marriage between two men was unthinkable. We also heard the revolutionary roar of “We’ll live together unmarried!” from both straight and gay couples. Now that marriage was actually possible, I had begun to think about how wonderful it would be to have a “husband,” someone to call my own, someone defined by a word that could not be mistaken for a business associate: “husband,” not “partner.” Just thinking of those words made me feel different: stronger, safer and — in a corny way — a man-in-love.

When the New York State gay marriage law was finally passed in 2011, we were at our house in Massachusetts where gay marriage was already legal. It was a beautiful day and we were in the garden, weeding. Gary seemed to be on the mend after his initial diagnosis and treatment. I had felt a strong “are we going to get married?” vibe from him since we heard the news. There in the garden, down on one knee as I was weeding around the boxwoods, I said, “Gary, will you marry me?” He was shocked. So was I. He said, in a typically Gary way, “Well, I don’t see a ring…” And, then, to my surprise, he said “No … not until you get me a ring …” as much with shock that I had asked as he was by the need to answer. I was crushed. I had never asked anyone to marry me before, but there it was. “No.”

Not long after that day, Gary began to spiral downward again and the incident was pushed aside by multiple hospital stays, the imperfect weekly calculation of his place on the liver transplant list, the day-to-day monitoring of weight, at-home visits from medical workers, frantic expeditions to specialty pharmacies and, most wrenchingly, the ups-and-downs of watching the person you love most in the world become increasingly and dangerously ill.

My marriage proposal remained buried in our garden until about an hour before Gary began to die. He was in the ICU, his liver failing (unbeknownst to me). He was drifting in and out of consciousness. During one lucid moment, he grabbed my hand, pulled me to him, eyes wide-open staring straight into mine, and said, “I do!” with such vehemence that it startled me.

I was speechless; but, since I was his chief cheerleader on the road to transplant, I said “Oh, no you don’t… we’ll do this right once you get your liver …” He laughed a little. If God or The Idea of God has to do with love, I like to think that He or She was present when that vow was made because, if true love has ever made itself manifest, it was in that moment. We finally had our formal ceremony and I clasped his hands tightly. An hour later, the massive hemorrhage that ended his life began and he lost all consciousness. Months later, I told a friend that I wished I’d said “I do, too!” and he said, “You did, on that day in your garden.”

I now understand that we were, indeed, married in so many ways that I have come to say, “I am a widower” with confidence, if with little joy. It’s not a nice thing to have to say. It puts people off, or — even worse — makes them want to take care of you when you least need it. That statement’s message is “I lost my spouse, but I am still alive. I’m standing on my own two feet and intend to go on living for as long as I can.” It means you freely have given a significant part of your life to someone who is now gone and that you are alone. It means, “I remain while he has moved on.” It also now, thankfully, has less relationship to gender preference. As Wendy Wasserstein wrote: “Love is love. Gender is just spare parts.”

How, then, do you say, “I am a widower”? It has nothing to do with age. Young or old, you say it plainly, like saying “armor,” knowing that nothing else can ever hurt you as much as your spouse’s death. You say it in the full knowledge that the union you had with your deceased spouse was as deep and as rich and as true as any other. You say it with remembrance and, most of all, you say it with love and pride for the spouse who has passed on — that singular, unforgettable human being who taught you, truly, how to love and to be loved.

“I am a widower.”

Complete Article HERE!

4 Surprising Ways Social Memorial Websites Help Your Families Grieve

By Rochelle Rietow


So, you’re a funeral professional, and you’ve got a pretty good idea of what makes your products and services valuable to your families. And if you’re really good at what you do, you’ve probably memorized the value statements for all of your products and know how to pitch your families on just about everything.

But did you know that there are valuable products out there that can actually inspire and help your families, even when you’re not around? For example, funeral products that can bring light to the darkness, not just for family, but for friends and loved ones all over the world. This is something I’ve spent some time thinking about, particularly when it comes to the value behind social memorial pages.

Since releasing our own social memorial websites over a decade ago, I’ve spent a great deal of time observing the true meaning and value that they bring to families – both during and after the funeral service. I’ve seen them turned into books that families keep on their coffee table. Heck, I’ve even seen them printed and kept on people’s desks as a reminder that they can get through their grief. And through all of these observations, I’ve come up with a few foundational ways that social memorial websites have added value to families’ lives over the years, and ways they can add value to yours, too.

  • 1. Continue the conversation of life after death

If you’ve ever lost someone, you may have had an experience like this before: You’re doing something that reminds you of your loved one and really want to tell them about it, but you can’t… who do you share it with? That’s where social memorial websites come in. They give you a space to write these thoughts, experiences and messages down. And when it comes to grieving, we all know the only way to heal is to speak your heart.

Another great feature of social memorial pages? People will see the message you wrote to your loved one and recognize it, respond to it, or maybe even share a new memory that they, themselves, created with your loved one. And they will be able to do this on your website for days, weeks, and even years to come, as f1Connect’s social memorial pages are hosted online forever. After all, the healing process is never really over, and we believe your family should be able to always come back to their loved one’s memorial page to reflect and share memories whenever they need to. It’s an ongoing conversation, and a really important one.

As you can see above, it’s easy for family and friends to continue the conversation of the loved one’s life by sharing memories, stories, and more. To view a live social memorial website, click on the photo.

 

2. Help families receive continuous support and healing

While going through a few social memorial websites, I read a message that someone wrote on their co-worker’s social memorial page when they heard the news of his passing. Once they came across the memorial page, they decided to share their own story of the co-worker, and what he meant to them. This gave the loved one’s mother, Cindi, a glimpse into a new story about her son that she had never heard before.

This beautiful story from the deceased’s co-worker was very healing to his mother, who may not have known this side to her son. Hearing how he impacted other people’s lives and was a positive influence can help with the healing process.

The situation might not have played out like this if it had happened any other way, or on any other platform. The co-worker may have been alone in his grief, because he wouldn’t have had this healing outlet to share his story and he may not have known about the funeral. And the mother may have never heard the heart-warming, caring story about her son if his co-worker wouldn’t have shared his sympathy online.

Social memorial pages allow us to do things a bit differently than we did before. Maybe we can even grieve in a more complete way because we have access to more memories, more people, and more support. In this case, I think it’s especially true.

3. Family and friends can see the real impact of their loved one’s life

One of the biggest advantages of a social memorial page is that they allow family and friends to share their own stories and memories of how a loved one affected their lives. This process is not only healing for the people who are sharing these moments, but also for the family of the loved one who may be hearing these stories for the first time. After all, it’s powerful to read just how many lives have been touched and changed just from the impact of one person.

One great example of this is the social memorial page for Benjamin Wheeler, a six-year-old who passed away in the Sandy Hook Elementary School tragedy that made national headlines. Even though his death occurred back in 2012, many people are still leaving stories and memories of how his life and his story have touched them on his social memorial page.

Just read the following message written on Benjamin’s social memorial page, from a family in Australia who heard about Benjamin’s tale and felt compelled to share their own story with those closest to him.

Keeping Benjamin’s social memorial page online forever on B.C. Bailey’s website allows family, friends, and others impacted by his story to leave their own memories and stories for years to come. This is a powerful healing tool for the family, as they know his legacy lives on long after he has gone.


4. They can help in unexpected, surprising ways

I’ll never forget the day that one of funeralOne’s employees ran up to me in tears and said, “Come quick, you have to see this!” She just witnessed a powerful moment that, through a twist of fate, could have only happened because of the existence of the social memorial websites our team created.

What had happened was, a man had been searching for a friend who he hadn’t seen in years (maybe even decades) and thought he had disappeared. After long hours spent on Google, he came across his friend’s social memorial page on a funeral home’s website. Finding out that his friend had passed away was sad news, but ultimately, it gave him closure to an unclosed chapter in his life. And through reading all the wonderful messages friends and family wrote on his tribute wall, he was able to feel close to his friend one last time.

This story goes to show that, when you introduce a new way to grieve and share memories, unexpected things will occur that help your families heal and remember, long after they step out of your funeral home.


How else will social memorial websites add value to your families?

As you can see, social memorial websites can play a pretty amazing part in families’ lives. And the great thing is, they’re only just beginning to change the way we deal with life, death and grief. In the future, social memorial websites could become an important, if not essential, part of our stages of grief. And with an ever-growing integration between our lives and technology, it’s pretty amazing to think about all the possibilities.

If you’d like to see the value of f1Connect’s social memorial websites first hand, be sure to click here and find out more about the website features your families are craving.

Complete Article HERE!

At Rest in the Fields

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A simple memorial stone serves as the only visible marker for this shaded gravesite.

There is nothing unusual about these three girls. They are sisters. They have eyes and ears and they will remember this part of their lives forever. Taylor Ann, 9, is the oldest, and determined to speak for the others, even when it gets her in trouble. She is a smiley redhead with freckles and talks without punctuation or taking breath.

Tori is the second-oldest at 7. She is exactingly articulate, pronouncing each syllable in “e-ver-y-thing.” She has light brown hair and a slight lisp, evidence that she is growing as she speaks, her baby teeth falling out and her adult teeth growing in. Her voice is perfectly childish and curious.

Texie, 4, is the baby sister, but not the youngest sibling. That title goes to the girls’ 2-year-old brother, Junior. Texie’s placement on the second-to-bottom sibling rung sets her just high enough to grab her older sisters’ attention, but she is still something of a baby when it comes to conversation. Even so, her sporadic observations are often quite sharp. Of the three girls, Texie has the most recognizable voice when they’re all talking at once. It’s a soft garble she uses in hiccup-like bursts to coo to her stuffed animal or scream “Caaaoooolllerr the feaddderrrs!” at the ruffled bird in her coloring book. She has baby-blue eyes and platinum-blond hair, and she makes her sisters laugh.

The sound of the three of them speaking at once is not unusual. Tori and Taylor Ann bicker over the details of a story about a kitten while Texie boks like a chicken. When I ask about their oldest brother, L.J., Taylor Ann quickly gives an answer she thinks will satisfy me, and then goes back to talking about her cat. “No,” I say, clarifying my question. “How long were you with him at your house after he actually died?”

Every time they visit Eloise Woods“Oh, you mean like right after he died?” The other two are quiet now. “Um, just a night. Yeah, just one night.” The distinction is meaningful because, as Taylor Ann had told me earlier, the sisters were with L.J. for a whole year after they knew he was going to die. I look at the younger girls and they’re not interested in talking about it. We’ve talked about it enough over the last three months. Every time they visit Eloise Woods, the natural-burial park where their brother is buried and where I work, they reveal a new angle of their experience of his death. Today’s angle is that they don’t feel like talking about it.

“Let’s go see L.J.,” Tori says.

“Yeah!” the other girls shriek.

We leave the coloring books on the small table between the two sheds where we always meet and walk down Cardinal Trail to visit his grave.

I was wearing hiking boots and jeans with a bloodstain on one of the belt loops when I caught the eye of the lady at the gas station.

“Going to the beach?” she asked coyly.

“No,” I said, giggling. “A cemetery.”

“Ooooooh,” she gasped, her interest piqued.

I didn’t have time to get flirty about death. I swiped my card and rushed back to my car. Just broaching the subject of what I do often turns into a lengthy discussion about the complicated politics and emotions surrounding natural burial. It’s imperative that I engage in these discussions, and most of the time I do. Word of mouth is one of the few ways people learn that they can in fact bury people in Texas without embalming, without a vault, without even a casket. They can even bury on their own land if they meet the requirements of their county and aren ’t concerned with complicating resale of the property. But such conversations are rarely brief, and I had to get to the Woods.

We weren’t sure what time the family would be arriving with L.J., the 11-year-old who had died the night before. Specifics weren’t part of the deal with his family. Though we’d known for close to a year that they would have a home funeral followed by a natural burial, we knew little else. Even the boy’s condition—why he was terminal—was discussed only vaguely by the family. All we knew was that he was in a wheelchair and that he didn’t have long to live.

Home funerals usually lead to natural burials, but not always. Most of our families employ conventional funeral homes, hold a service in a chapel and transport the body to us in the funeral home’s vehicle. We have good relationships with many funeral homes in Austin, even though we can tell their employees feel out of place when their shiny loafers step onto our roads, mulched to prevent erosion. They usually give us a couple of days’ notice before they arrive. The night L.J. died, Ellen MacDonald, my boss, the owner of Eloise Woods, emailed me at 1 a.m. telling me to show up the next morning at 8.

L.J.’s family decorates his casket in preparation for burial.
L.J.’s family decorates his casket in preparation for burial.

Every time I drive to Eloise Woods, the sun strobes on my left cheek as it passes between houses and trees. It’s a bright nuisance, just beyond the reach of my visor. I drive along Austin’s eastern edge, and once I’m past the airport and under the toll road, it’s a straight shot to the burial park. I listen to music at a loud volume, usually a certain Warren Zevon live album. I roll down my windows and daydream the rest of the way to the cemetery.

When I park at the Woods 25 minutes later, I remember that I’ve forgotten my hat and will be feeling the full heat of a June day. I complain about it to Ellen as I walk from my car. “I hardly slept last night,” she responds. “I just figured I’d get out here as early as I could to get it set up. The grave still needs to be deeper because I guess they’re bringing him in a casket now.” Under Texas law, a bare body, or one in a permeable encasement such as a shroud, must be buried at least 24 inches deep. An impermeable case, such as a casket, must be covered by at least 18 inches of earth. The first few feet of topsoil is where the most aggressive organic activity takes place, turning whatever has been buried into plant food. We had dug 2.5 feet deep, enough that L.J. in a shroud would be covered with 24 inches of soil. But a family member had offered to build a casket at the last minute, and now we needed to dig at least another foot to ensure that a full 18 inches of soil would cover his little box.

It’s about 50-50 at the Woods when it comes to shrouds vs. caskets. Only one person has been buried without any covering at all—an infant from a Hindu family. Cremation is a custom in that religion, a manner of releasing and purifying the soul, but children are considered already enlightened, and so natural burial with nothing between the body and the earth is traditional. Ellen told me she had laid rose petals on the soil before the baby was placed in the grave, a gesture in line with why someone had offered to construct a casket for L.J. Burying a child in raw dirt isn’t easy.

Ellen wore an apron with a picture of a cat wearing a chef’s hat and the words “The Chef Breathlessly Awaits Your Order” printed beneath.

“I thought it was cute, you know? Kids like cats. Something kind of fun for today,” she explained. Ellen is good at remembering what’s most important and forgetting everything else. Today was all about being there for the kids.

Ellen had no connection to funerals or burials when she bought the Eloise Woods property in 2009. She had completed a doctorate in neuroscience at Stanford University before becoming a stay-at-home mom in Austin. She was so inspired by the show Six Feet Under, where she first learned about natural burial, that she decided to get into the death business herself. She became obsessed with creating a space in Austin where people can bury their dead themselves, a place where the memory of the deceased can continue to grow with the landscape.

Ellen is the reason I got into natural burial. Her accomplishments as an industry outsider signified a shift in my profession and revealed an opportunity largely untouched by traditional industry professionals. In Wisconsin, where I received my funeral director’s license, combining the business of funeral homes and cemeteries is prohibited under the state’s anti-combination law. Due to this 80-year-old statute, I became accustomed to hearing each business condemn the other, usually over outrageously high prices.

When I got to Texas, which allows the two businesses to be combined, it became apparent that such criticisms stemmed from a shared anxiety about the future of the industry as a whole. Cheap, efficient cremations have risen in popularity since the ’90s, eating into the conventional funeral industry’s profits. Families with little interest in embalming or holding a service make it harder for funeral homes to maintain their value.

Even Houston-headquartered Service Corporation International, the nation’s largest funeral corporation, appears to be acknowledging this change of venue. In October 2014, having lost a battle to overturn Wisconsin’s anti-combo law, Service Corporation opted to sell the last of its 16 Wisconsin funeral homes, keeping the five cemeteries it owns in the state. For people in search of a final resting place for their ashes or bones, a cemetery is the only choice. Natural burial parks that are accustomed to working with families without the involvement of a funeral home make that choice easier.

L.J.’s family surrounded his memorial stone with rocks carrying special notes
L.J.’s family surrounded his memorial stone with rocks carrying special notes. Owner Ellen MacDonald creates hand-engraved memorial stones for everyone buried at Eloise Woods, like this one featuring Donkey, L.J.’s favorite character from the movie Shrek.

The first burial I worked at Eloise Woods was for a young man in his late 20s. This last summer we buried three kids: one boy of grade-school age and two infants. There are more than 60 occupied plots in the park, a quarter of them for infants and children.

I met L.J.’s family for the first time about a month prior to his death. His three sisters attacked me with questions and whirled with an exuberance that only children seem able to bring to their first experience of death. Having never seen me or even heard my name, they grabbed my hands and Texie crawled into my arms as we set off to explore the graves.

“What happens if you are the last person on earth and everyone else dies?” Tori asked.

“I guess it would be very quiet,” I answered.

“Do you know the month and day you are going to die?” she asked. I said I did not.

“When you die, are you the same age forever?” Taylor Ann asked.

I thought about that carefully before saying “I think so,” though I also told them I was unsure. Then I asked what age they would want to be forever, and we all agreed we’d want to be somewhere in the teenage years, in the bloom of youth.

They picked the wild coreopsis that grows along the paths to put near L.J.’s gravesite. As we came upon the nearby grave of a 26-year-old man, his pensive portrait engraved on his stone, they wondered how he had died. I didn’t know, and that’s what I told them.

“My brother is going to die and come to Eloise Woods,” one of the girls said. At L.J.’s grave, their parents stood with a stroller into which was strapped their littlest brother. Jackie, their mother, looked only slightly overwhelmed and remarkably well put together. She was talking to Ellen about why she’d brought the girls. They’d been confused about L.J.’s future whereabouts, so Jackie thought it would be good for them to see the little 3-by-3-foot hole with the pile of dirt next to it. They laid rocks around the hole, and flowers inside of it.

The girls were fascinated by the wildlife of the park. It looks like a wooded campground, full of bugs, lizards and animals. Hoping to see a bunny, we walked a few more trails while they told me that L.J. slept a lot and no longer got in his wheelchair.

One of them asked me what happens when you die.

“Out here,” I said, pointing to some wildflowers, “you become a plant.”

“What!?” they yelped in confusion.

“Plants are going to grow out of his body?” Tori asked. I realized that I’d have to explain decomposition to complete the puzzle.

“Well, after we die, our bodies break down,” I stammered. I tried again: “They sort of fall apart.” It was no use. Looks of confusion and then boredom crossed their faces.

“Let’s go look for Mom,” said Taylor Ann. They took off, away from me.

They found their parents at the sheds and Ellen presented them with markers and rocks to scribble messages on for L.J. Tori wrote “Get Well Soon” on one. Texie drew a fairly sophisticated cat on another.

The more they colored, the more evident it became that L.J.’s death was an event they were preparing for in much the same way they would prepare for a birthday. To add extra excitement, the date would be a surprise, no matter how ready they thought they were.

Ellen’s cat apron was overshadowed by other sartorial matters once L.J.’s family arrived for his burial. Taylor Ann jumped out of the van barefoot and ran over to me. She had been too distracted to put on shoes before they’d left their house that morning. After parking the van, Jackie opened the door with a mixture of confusion and exhaustion on her face. She caught sight of the bare feet and became annoyed. “Where are your shoes? I told you to put on shoes!” she yelled.

Taylor Ann’s face suddenly reflected the gravity of the day, a collision of sadness and anger at having been yelled at by her mother, who had just lost a child. She burst into tears. Ellen quickly offered some extra sneakers she kept in the shed. Tori and Texie hopped out of the van wearing matching handmade black dresses with white cats on them and pink-and-blue cowboy boots. Taylor Ann stomped down Cardinal Trail toward L.J.’s grave wearing the same cat-pattern dress and borrowed sneakers five sizes too big.

The small group of guests held armfuls of sunflowers and babies. Kids ran wild while their parents alternated between quiet grief and chirping baby talk. The back door of the van remained open and unattended under a bright early-afternoon sun. Inside was a simple pine box about 4 feet long.

Jason, L.J.’s stepfather, and another man got inside the grave with shovels provided by Ellen and finished the diggingIt’s hard to explain how it felt that we’d been unable to complete that morning. The sisters posed with their sunflowers while I took pictures on my phone, and then they colored pictures to place inside the casket with L.J. After about half an hour, Jackie and Jason went to the van for the casket. Jackie’s face carried a look of powerful intention as they brought it to the grave and set it on the path while we all gathered around. They opened the top and laid it perpendicular across the casket, revealing little L.J. lying on his side, wrapped in a white blanket.

Everyone took turns writing on the top of the casket. The girls laid their pictures next to L.J.

A pastor wearing a rainbow sash covered in peace signs and yin-yang symbols started the ceremony. Taylor Ann, not quite grasping the mood, interrupted with an enthusiastic observation and was reprimanded loudly by Jackie. Still stinging from her earlier scolding, Taylor Ann began to pout until the pastor asked her to stand next to her. Together, they began to read a children’s poem that attempted to explain death.

The girls’ 2-year-old brother, Junior, out of his stroller for the first time I had ever seen, began to stalk the woods. While everyone stood sweating and patient, listening to the poem, Junior squatted outside the circle and began to taste the dirt. Jason alternated between chasing him and standing near Jackie, his expression lightening and darkening between the two situations. When the service was over, everyone said their goodbyes before placing L.J.’s casket into the earth.

It’s hard to explain how it felt to watch the girls embrace their dead brother in his casket. How they kissed his face and stroked his hair then delightedly shoveled dirt onto his grave. If I had to try, I would say it was like hearing a child’s first attempt to pronounce a new word. Ever afterward you hear that word differently, spoken without apprehension and full of love.

The next time I saw them I was measuring and marking plots in an open field. The girls came running at me with arms spread wide like I was someone they loved. I was ripe from working in the sun all day, but Texie clung to me like she had the first day we met. We talked about the other kids who were buried there and walked to one of their graves. Jackie asked questions about him. All the parents do this. They want the story on the kids, looking for similarities that will pull them together. I didn’t know much about the kid’s story, so I asked about L.J.’s.

At the sheds, I gave the girls the coloring books I had brought that day. Junior, red-faced and awake, rolled in the dirt. Jackie gave me the long version of L.J. ’s situation, which started with his being diagnosed with spina bifida, which isn’t a life-threatening condition. The events that led to his death began with him toppling over in his wheelchair. The accident apparently created fissures in his skull, through which cerebrospinal fluid drained. Jackie says his doctors misdiagnosed L.J.’s resulting condition for years before she finally convinced them to perform a 12-hour surgery, but it was too late to save him. He didn’t have to die, she said. She showed me pictures on her phone: L.J. with purple, puffy eyes and a zig-zag incision across the top of his skull. Then she showed me pictures of L.J. when he was healthy, with big brown eyes and a shy smile.

Eloise Woods owner and operator Ellen MacDonald
Eloise Woods owner and operator Ellen MacDonald maps the coordinates of a grave in Dunyah Garden, just off Cardinal Trail. Some portions of Eloise Woods are specifically dedicated, like Teva Garden, an exclusively Jewish section, and Sweet Angel Garden, for infants. Rainbow Bridge holds pet remains, but many people interred at Eloise Woods chose to have their pets buried by their side.

They don’t have the energy to file a lawsuit, but they are angry. The constant hospital visits put a huge strain on the family. They were briefly homeless, sleeping in a van in the hospital parking lot.

“That was my favorite because I got to lie down,” Taylor Ann said, smiling and drawing out “liiiiie doooown” and spreading her arms. Jackie gave her an odd smile, unsure if it was safe to laugh at her daughter’s black humor in front of me. I told Taylor Ann that what she’d said was oddly comical, and Jackie broke into a relieved smile. She said that when L.J. died, the family finally had a laugh. Home funerals, like parenting, bring unpredictable joys.

Jackie explained that after L.J. died, as they were washing him, they had pulled out his gastrostomy tube, creating a leak. They scrambled for the Krazy Glue to close the hole. They all laughed as Jackie recounted this, and the girls became giddy as they clamored to offer their favorite silly moments of the death. They told me about how L.J.’s body went floppy after he died and the girls played with his limbs like a doll. Texie had waved his hand, mimicking a lecturing adult. “I’m Dr. George, and you’re not sick,” she mimicked. The sisters burst into giggles again. I could see very clearly how deeply they loved one another, how making their mother smile and laugh was the most important thing in their world.

Jackie, flushed from the laughter, said L.J. would pull at her hair to bring her closer, right until the end. She said the girls all slept with him in the living room the night after his death. Texie told us that now he’s in Eloise Woods in a silly voice that her sisters made her repeat over and over while they laughed.

When I left that day, I cried all the way home.
Complete Article HERE!

How to let go when a loved one is dying

BY BONNIE LAWRENCE, FAMILY CAREGIVER ALLIANCE

Photo by Dave and Les Jacobs/Blend Images via Getty Images
Even after the conversations are held and legal documents completed, reaching acceptance that a person is dying is a difficult path for the individual who is ill as well as for their family members.

 

Many recent news stories have focused on right-to-die issues — what options might we want, and what control can we exert, as we approach the end of life? When death is sudden and unexpected, there are few choices, and if there has been no preparation for this moment, events will unfold as medical and emergency staff see fit. But when illness is chronic or prolonged, or when pain, frailty and old age impact the quality of life, there are measures we can take to have our wishes respected, to share those wishes with others, and to request a dignified, comfortable death.

An NPR story last year examined why some health care providers are hesitant to discuss end-of-life measures, even with seriously ill patients. There are many reasons: not enough time; not wanting the patient to give up hope; discomfort with the topic. One suggestion has been to initiate a physician-patient discussion about end-of-life issues automatically each year. Not all patients welcome the discussion, but sometimes the increased feeling of control actually can make patients with long-term illnesses feel better. They can decide, for example, to refuse certain medical treatments. They can decide if they want “heroic measures” — feeding tubes, CPR, ventilators, defibrillators — to prolong their lives when a desirable quality of life (however one may define that) might not be possible.

Making these decisions isn’t easy, and for family members and friends, accepting these decisions may be challenging, even traumatic. In our recent NewsHour columns, we talked about Advance Directives, hospice care, and other measures designed to make — as much as possible — the end of life a more peaceful transition for the patient. But watching someone you love slip away can be so overwhelming that it is instinctive to want to do everything possible to keep that person alive, even against their own wishes. How do you accept letting go?

Where to begin

Sometimes we hear from our clients that the person they are caring for wants to discuss these matters, but they or their family members are reluctant to face the issue. Below are some ideas to help begin the process to help clarify decisions about the end of life. Experts advise that you begin by thinking and talking about values and beliefs, hopes and fears. Consult with health care practitioners when you need more information about an illness or treatment.

Consider first the questions below:

  • What makes life worth living?
  • What would make life definitely not worth living?
  • What might at first seem too much to put up with, but then might seem manageable after getting familiar with the situation and learning to deal with it?
  • If you knew life was coming to an end, what would be comforting and make dying feel safe?
  • What, in that situation, would you want to avoid?
  • How much control is important for you to have when facing a terminal illness?

Then, if you have the opportunity, and before a loved one is incapacitated, try to explore these more specific questions:

  • Whom do you want to make decisions for you if you are not able to make your own, on both financial matters and health care decisions? The same person might not be right for both.
  • What medical treatments and care are acceptable to you? Are there some that you fear?
  • Do you wish to be resuscitated if you stop breathing and/or your heart stops? What if there is no hope for full recovery?
  • Do you want to be hospitalized or stay at home or somewhere else if you are seriously or terminally ill?
  • How will your care be paid for? Have you overlooked something that will be costly at a time when your loved ones are distracted by grieving over your condition or death?
  • Will your family be prepared for the decisions they may have to make?

Write the responses down, and share with family members. To formalize the process, you can complete an Advance Directive and POLST (Physician’s Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment). Both documents can be revised at a later date if you wish.

A note: This process is not appropriate for everyone. There may be historic, religious or cultural differences within families that affect their willingness to discuss these deeply personal matters. If it makes sense to bring up these topics, do so. If it is not something that your family is comfortable with, you might not be able to get the answers you seek. You can try again at a later time — or perhaps not at all. Families have their own dynamics, and for some, this discussion simply may not be achievable or desirable. In the case of a serious illness, events will unfold as they may. That is also a choice, and must be respected.

Letting Go

Even after the conversations are held and legal documents completed, reaching acceptance that a person is dying is a difficult path for the individual who is ill as well as for their family members. The person who is ill doesn’t want to cause grief. She may feel there is unfinished business within the family — a reconciliation not completed, an “I love you” never stated out loud. He may be fearful of pain, of the loss of control, of the loss of dignity. And of course family members share these fears. They may dread the grief or fear of losing this critical person in their lives. They may want to attempt the very measures — the heroic measures — that the individual specifically stated he or she does not want.

Despite the pain of grief for those we love, being able to let them go is not about our needs, nor about the physician’s need to try to heal even in the face of impossible odds. It is about what our loved ones need and want to reduce their suffering and help them die in dignity. When those wishes have been talked about, and when they are in writing, a family has the comfort and assurance that they are doing the right thing if they are asked to give permission to accept comfort measures instead of life-sustaining interventions.

A natural process sometimes occurs as an illness progresses. As death nears, many people feel a lessening of the desire to live longer. Some people describe a profound tiredness. Others may feel they have struggled as much as they have been called upon to do and will struggle no more. A family’s refusal to let go can prolong dying, but cannot prevent it. Dying, thus prolonged, can become more a time of suffering than of living.

Family members and friends may experience a similar change. At first, we may adjust to managing a chronic illness, then learn to accept a life-limiting illness, then accept the possibility of a loved one’s dying. Finally, we may see that dying is the better of two choices, and be ready to give the loved one permission to die. The dying person may be distressed at causing grief for those who love them, and, receiving permission to die can relieve their distress. There is a time for this to happen. Before that, it feels wrong to accept a loss, but after that it can be an act of great kindness to say, “You may go when you feel it is time. I will be OK.”

At the time a person is near death, sometimes touch is the best communication. Gentle stroking of a hand or a cheek, and quietly reassuring the person that you love them and that you will be all right is perhaps the most compassionate way to ease your loved one on his journey. In a situation where you are not present at the time of death, forgive yourself and know that you did the best you could to make the final hours or weeks of life peaceful and meaningful.

Grief

Each individual grieves in his or her own way and for an unpredictable amount of time—there is no “correct” way. Grief affects us emotionally, physically and spiritually. There is a deep understanding that nothing will ever be the same. Grief is most acute when someone dies or shortly thereafter, but there are also the effects of “anticipatory grief” and what is sometimes called “ambiguous loss.”

When someone has a long-term illness such as terminal cancer or Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s disease, we may begin a grieving process long before the person passes away. Particularly when an illness causes cognitive or memory decline, we grieve the person who used to be. They were our partners, our siblings, our parents. We remember their personalities, their intelligence, energy, talent, humor. They were our best friend, companion, adversary, advisor or confidante. As those characteristics fade with increasing illness, we start grieving their loss. The body may be there, but the person has changed irrevocably. It may have been difficult, frustrating and exhausting to care for the individual, and sometimes, caregivers see death as a relief. As a consequence, for many family caregivers, there is an extreme feeling of guilt over that relief. This is not an unusual reaction, but if the emotions persist, counseling or support groups may help you get through the conflicting and troubling feelings.

For other people, there is a delay in feelings of grief, or the feelings may be buried or expressed in different ways — withdrawal, anger, escape through drugs or alcohol, or intense involvement in work. Grief reactions may be unexpected and waves of painful memories may assault you at unpredictable times. The anniversary of a person’s death or other important dates can be particularly tough. However the process unfolds, take care of yourself, cry when you need to, seek solitude if that helps, and try to give yourself the space you need to reach an even keel.

While the passing of time will not erase feelings of loss, the intensity will ease somewhat as months and years go by. If you find it too difficult to move on with your life, you may be facing situational depression. Find time to talk with a grief counselor or attend a grief support group (often available from hospice). It is very important to take good care of — and be kind to — yourself. The organizations and resources listed below, or those in your personal or faith network, may also be able to help as you move through this profound experience — one we all must face at some time in our lives. One that makes us human.
Complete Article HERE!

At Vermont’s Dog Mountain, Comfort And Community For Pet Lovers

Dog Mountain's chapel
The walls inside Dog Mountain’s chapel are filled with thousands of notes, cards and photos, all heartfelt tributes to pets loved and lost.

Vermont artists Stephen and Gwen Huneck were married for 35 years. They never had kids, but they always had dogs, their constant companions. In his mid-30s, Stephen Huneck taught himself to carve wood. Naturally, his subject was dogs — lots and lots of dogs.

He was also a dreamer. And he dreamed of building a chapel for dogs in St. Johnsbury, Vt. “I remember when Gwen first told me that they were going to build this dog chapel,” Jon Ide, her brother, told producers Dan Collison and Elizabeth Meister. “And I thought, ‘Well, that’s kind of nutty.’ You know, dogs are great, but you’ve got to eat.”

Stephen and Gwen Huneck
Vermont artists Stephen and Gwen Huneck loved their dogs, including Sally, pictured here with them in 2003. Sally was the inspiration for many of Stephen’s carvings and best-selling children’s books.

Collison and Meister follow the story of the Hunecks and their dream in their radio documentary, Dog Mountain: A Love Story.

The Hunecks made financial sacrifices and, over a period of three years, built their chapel on 150 mountaintop acres. They envisioned their Dog Mountain as a place where dog owners could come and enjoy time with their pets — and where those whose dogs had died could find comfort by leaving “notes, little pictures, photos, remembrances of pets that they had loved and lost,” Ide says.

The chapel itself — small, white, with a steeple and stained glass windows — quickly filled with thousands of notes from people paying tribute to their pets and with Stephen’s carvings. Stephen “said that the dog chapel was his largest and most personal artwork. And it really is — it’s a masterwork,” Ide says.

The Hunecks fell on hard times during the 2008 financial crisis. Tragedy followed: Stephen took his own life in 2010. Gwen struggled to keep Dog Mountain going, and died in 2013.

tribute to bygone pets
Thousands of notes paying tribute to bygone pets line the walls of Dog Mountain’s chapel.

Nowadays Ide, her brother, is in charge of the place. He considers it “almost like a point of honor to do what we can to help Dog Mountain survive.” The place continues, he says, to be “the source of enormous healing and joy.”

You can listen to the full story by Long Haul Productions at the audio link at the top of this story. And you can hear a longer version of the documentary, as well as explore photos and learn more about Dog Mountain, at longhaulpro.org.
Complete Article HERE!

Saying goodbye: Photographer captures precious memories before pet’s passing

BY

They are a true member of the family– some wander into our lives by chance, others are specifically chosen to be brought into our homes.  Pets are loving, loyal and create memories to last a lifetime, but saying goodbye can be unbearable.008

To help brace for the time we must kiss them on their head one last time, a photographer in Minnesota is using her tremendous talent to help families heal and make a special memory before their pet’s death.

Photographer Eva Hagel, owner of Grape Soda Photography in Minnesota,  knows what the pain feels like. She said goodbye to her beloved boxer, Cleo nearly three years ago.  Hagel said on her website:

In the middle of the night I awoke to Cleo moaning in pain, her limbs were swollen and she was unable to walk. We rushed her to the emergency vet, here in Rochester. She was in the late stages of undiagnosed cancer of the lymph nodes. There was nothing that I could do beyond holding her during those last moments. She didn’t want to sit or lay down, she just stood, and then fell limp in my arms. My heart literally broke in two. I have no images, no pictures of us together. If I could change that I would.

 
After her pet’s passing, Hagel launched ‘Project Cleo’ to offer families Bliss Sessions when their pet’s life is nearing the end. The service is free and runs solely off donations.

When the difficult time comes to say goodbye,  Hagel wants to help you capture precious memories with your pet. She does pictures with dogs, cats, bird and reptiles.

For more information on ‘Project Cleo’ click here.
Complete Article HERE!

Check out a slideshow of some of Eva’s marvelous work below.