We're Going on a Bear Hunt - a new way to look at grief!

There are many models of the grieving process thought up by lots of learned people with letters after their name.

Well I have a B.A.(Hons) in Library and Information Studies and some experience in this matter now so here are my own theories first posted last year based on a favourite book!

from Textbook Grief and Other Helpful Models? (originally posted 23rd Sept 2011)

I have come up with my own model based on the popular children’s book “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt” by Michael Rosen, beautifully illustrated by Helen Oxenbury. 

I apologise at the start to anyone who hasn’t read this classic, maybe you would like to pop to the library now and get a copy because there will be SPOILERS to the plot…

This book was a favourite of the boys when they were small and more importantly one Andrew loved to read to them and often quoted when we were out for a walk.

The basic plot is that a family are out on a bear hunt and on the way they encounter a series of obstacles.

We’re going on a bear hunt.

We’re going to catch a big one.

What a beautiful day!

We’re not scared.

Uh-uh! *INSERT OBSTACLE HERE*

We can’t go over it.

We can’t go under it.

Oh no!

We’ve got to go through it!

That’s grieving in a nutshell.  You can’t go over it!  You can’t go under it!  You can’t even go round it!

YOU HAVE TO GO THROUGH IT!

It’s something I am constantly learning.  There is no quick fix.  Tick all five stages, you’ve passed the test and can move on as good as new.  You can read all the theory and understand all the models but you have to experience the day to day living without your loved one.  All the inevitable ups and downs of dual process or swirling whirlpool however you wish to label it.

Let me tell you the hurdles that have to be faced in the bear hunt story because they conjure up some great images that also help describe the bereavement process.

Long wavy grass that goes swishy swashy as they sweep through.  It marks like thin paper cuts, niggling and painful to touch leaving tender scars that may fade but are a constant reminder of the journey.

There’s the splosh splash of the deep cold river.  It’s difficult to walk through normally.  All of a sudden your life has a surreal quality about it and when you have negotiated the river you are left feeling uncomfortable and weighed down by too much excess baggage.

You dry out from the water and find thick oozy mud as the next challenge.  It clings and squelches and my favourite word of the book squerches .  Like the water it is hard to get through and slows you down.  You can’t run or hurry in squerchy thick mud.  Each step is an ordeal.

Then there’s the big dark forest that causes you to stumble and trip.  It’s the unseen branches that snag your clothes and pull you back.  Great tree roots that hamper your progress and make you fall down.  With every tumble you have to get back up however hard it may be or you become lost.

A snow storm closes in, sounds to me like last winter all over again.  It batters you from all sides, howling tormenting wind.  Memories, regrets, swirling “what ifs”.

Finally there’s the cave and inside you find the bear but once you confront your fears you don’t really want to be there so you rush back home and hide under the duvet.

These are the many stages or obstacles you have to face in grief but feel free to mix and match and because this is a children’s story not a textbook this model is not to be taken too seriously!

Right at the end of the book on the final page is the bear plodding slowly back to his cave along a moonlit beach.  He had chased the children back home and when they wouldn’t let him in he wanders home alone.

That’s when I always felt most sad.  I remember reading the story to my youngest son and when we got to that page I said, “Aww, poor bear he only wanted to play.”

Eventually my young son would be repeating my words and we both had sympathy for this much maligned character.  I wonder how the author and the artist saw him?

And maybe that’s what’s grief’s about too, wandering on your own, feeling lost and alone, thinking no one understands. 

In the end you just have to "go through it" and hope when you get to the other side you are in a better place to cheer on the next person and encourage them to carry on.

(or as someone commented last time I posted this, we don't ever get "through it" to the other side but we learn to live with the bear. On reflection - that's a great way to look at it!)

Recycled - Reposted!

Here's a post from a year ago showing off some of my other crafty talents ...

 

Recycled (posted 18th Sept 2011)

I can remember being at Brownies and working towards my “thrift badge”.  Basically it involved making something new from something old.  I made a pot holder out of an old towel.  A square piece of yellow towel, double thickness with blanket stitch round the edge and the words POT HOLDER embroidered in the middle just in case you had any doubts as to its identity.

 

And a “pot holder” is?  Well it lived in the camping box and was used for lifting the kettle off the camping stove to stop you burning your hand in the process of making a pot of tea.  But that would have been far too much to stitch on a small scrap of fabric.

 

I got my thrift badge which had a bee on it.  Are bees renowned for their thriftiness?

 

The strange things us young girls got up to in the seventies!  I’m sure there is no longer such a thing as a thrift badge.  It's not a word we use much any more.  The name of course could have been changed to a "recycling challenge badge" but not having girls I have no idea.

 

The idea of "recycling" or "thrift" or "make do and mend" mentality is not new at all.  It’s come full circle and is all back in fashion. 

 

 

There is a lady at our church who has for a long time made handbags from recycled materials, old coats, curtains, skirts.  She has plundered the charity shop for buttons and beads, oddments of wool and made some amazing creations – several of which reside in my wardrobe to be matched and co-ordinated with the appropriately coloured outfits.

 

As a fundraising idea in the holiday she held a day in the church hall to teach us how to make a bag with a view to sharing her skills and getting more bags made up ready to sell near Christmas in aid of our church hall development project.

 

We’ve been inspired and several of us have taken up the challenge to make more bags.  I have a few in various stages of manufacture and now I have the hang of them I’m sure I can knock up several more before November.

 

I have my own limited supply of fabric and buttons but no end of ideas….

 

One of my many notions involved making a bag out of one of Andrew’s sweatshirts. 

 

Most of his clothes went a long time ago, I didn’t see the point of holding on to them.  I’m glad I did it then because whatever is still left I can’t bear to let go of now.  I was sniffing an old decorating T shirt I found only yesterday.  I think it mostly smells of the wooden wardrobe it was left in but it’s still comforting and reassuring…

 

The particular sweatshirt, I wanted to make the bag from, was one of his favourites and he probably had it the first Christmas we were married.  I know it was a present from my mum and dad.  It came from C&A so that dates it! 

 

He wore it on the first day of the new millennium, I have a picture of him in it; he’s holding son number one on the balcony of our old house looking out at the sunrise.  About three years earlier he had been wearing the same sweatshirt when our eldest son was born.  Again there’s photographic evidence.

It had a soft feel to it, a slight fluffy texture which over the years of wearing and washing had worn flat but it was always very cosy to snuggle up to.

Many times over the years I had tried to put it in the draw of work clothes for him to take away off shore but he’d persist in wearing it out and for special occasions.  For a man who loved anything plain to wear he did have a thing for patterned sweatshirts.

 

I took it out of the wardrobe and folded it into a bag shape with the arms as the handle.  I figured it would work quite well so with trepidation I laid it out on my cutting board and cut the precious garment.

 

“You’ve murdered dad’s sweatshirt!”  Was youngest son’s cry of horror.

 

Too late now.  There was no going back.   

 

It was a real labour of love as it wasn’t an easy fabric to work with.  I’m not used to sewing knitted fabrics which stretch as you go along.  However yesterday I finished it and today I used it for church.

 

I didn’t get many compliments; it’s not the kind of special bag that would warrant much attention and adulation.  It’s a bag to carry while wearing jeans, something very casual which is very fitting. 

 

Something of Andrew I can keep by my side every day.

 

 

 

I don't use the bag every day but it still gets an outing fairly often. It's carried lots of "stuff" over the year and there is some stitching that is coming undone showing it has been used and useful.

It makes me smile to revisit this post the bag is a reminder of all the positive things I have achieved.

If heaven had a phone ...

Last week I went to see my GP, just for a check up as I collected another prescription for my anti-depressants. I've come to terms with my little pills now although my doctor knows I am keen to stop taking them as soon as possible. We'll review that in 2 months!

While walking home I passed some new houses. There is quite an estate now where there were once allotments. I saw curtains and blinds up at the windows, cars in the driveways, signs of life.

When Andrew died, not yet 2 years ago, these houses weren't even built!

It reminded me of a poem I wrote back in March last year, my one sided conversation with Andrew telling him our news. I mentioned the new houses under construction.

Some people talk to their deceased relatives, and I don't mean through a medium or anything like that, just everyday ordinary conversations but I don't tend to do that. I only ever SHOUT at Andrew when something has gone wrong that he could have fixed!

But maybe I should write an up-dated poem of the things I would tell him now if he could telephone me from heaven like he used to ring me from the oil rig...

(words in italics are what Andrew would say to me in every phone conversation)

Anything else?

Thought I’d write

                Just to let you know

I’m doing fine

Well, as well as can be expected

                                                I suppose

                                Anything else?

The days are getting brighter

The sun has been quite warm

Everything is growing

                But I miss the sound of you on your “tractor” mowing the lawn

                                Anything else?

The shower’s still dripping

Sometimes it sounds like rain

But I got one problem fixed

Did you know we had blocked drains?

                                Anything else?

I know you’d rather hear the “gossip”

But there’s not a lot to say

                                Anything else?

I can tell you of my walk

And what I spied along the way

Those new houses by the school

What was the last you saw?

Roof trusses sit like skeletons now

In a line of four

And you know the “home” beside them?

Was your Dad there for a while?

It’s all knocked down!

The stunning view would really make you smile

                                Any post?

On some days there’s a big pile

And on others there is none

Lots of paperwork to sort out

And more filing to be done

                                How are the boys?

The boys?  On the computer

Still shouting very loud

Good reports from school though

Made me feel quite proud

                                How are you?

Me?  I told you.

Yes I’m fine

and you think fine’s - OK

Not much else to report

I’ll write again another day

                Anything else?

No just this little snapshot

Of what’s been going on

And how our lives continue

Even though you’ve gone…

A change in the weather?

Here's a post from the end of the summer holidays last year. After 6 weeks of doing very little I felt swamped by all the tasks I'd left undone.

Fast forward to this year and I feel that the days before me are a challenge, yes I've got lots to sort out, new ideas to try, decorating to do. This year I am stronger but also I feel less guilt, I don't apply so much self-imposed pressure.

I'm learning to wait and see what's around the corner insteading of rushing to fix my life and make things happen NOW!

(I've written a little poem today about that end of the hols feeling but I'm going to pop that on re-ravelling...)

However with all the changes some things forever stay the same ... the rainy summer weather!

 

Rainy Days (written 27th Aug 2011)

Yesterday was miserable, it rained all day and today looks like it’s going to be the same.  Summer appears to be over.

In a couple of weeks the boys will be back at school and maybe I can start to clear some of the clutter accumulated over the six week holiday.  The piles of “stuff” where I have emptied a bag or suitcase from our travels but haven’t actually put things away properly!

Then there’s the paperwork that has been mounting up needing serious attention and filing.   My brain has shut down and it’s time to start getting back into gear.

I’ve just had a few days by myself but they have not been as productive as I would have liked.  There seems to be so much to “do” - AGAIN – there’s a recurring theme here I know.  Don’t tell me to rest, I’ve kind of done that for six weeks; there are things than NEED to be done to restore some order in this chaos!

I’ve yet to discover what all the buttons “do” on the car.  Where’s Andrew when I need him to read the manual and teach me what’s what?  My workload has doubled!  

Perhaps it’s the new car that’s slightly unsettled me, it’s a big change and I still have some niggling doubts with no calm voice to allay my fears.  Actually we’d have been as bad as each other, each taking turns to offer reassurance.  It doesn’t matter how many people tell me my new car looks great, I can’t hear from the one person I need to.

It also hasn’t escaped my notice that the nights are already drawing in.  It is now dark BEFORE the lamppost comes on outside, another task - reset the timer.

I’ve never been aware before of how dark the evenings get in late August and it scares me that the year is suddenly passing quicker.

A few months ago time moved so slowly.  I remember when I wished the months would pass so I could get over things.  Now I know I never will.  My heart still aches, I still find myself crying and the passing of time hasn’t made everything easier.

Back in June I bought a new CD by “The Pierces”, I was going to use some of their lyrics in a post, “Seven months to the day since I saw your face.”  It was so apt and the timing was perfect.

Baby where’d you go?

Did you sail away over some distant ocean?

Darlin’ what we had

It cannot be taken, it cannot be stolen

And it won’t be forgotten

No it won’t be forgotten

Now suddenly we are nine months along the journey and I’ve just noticed the second verse after the chorus.

Summer disappears like a dream I had

And winter comes with a knife

That cuts you down

And it never ends, it never ends.

I don’t mean to be morbid.  Maybe I should find some happy music to listen to?

As winter draws ever nearer so does the first anniversary of Andrew death. 

Twelve weeks today.

Some people say the second year is harder when all the birthdays and special dates come round again.  They are already stacking up, Andrew’s birthday in 14 weeks; Christmas only 4 weeks after that and in between two special sons will celebrate another birthday without their dad.

I remember summers when they were little.  Once we got to September and being back at school I would start planning for Christmas.  Would Andrew be home or away and where would we spend Christmas and New Year?  I liked to be organised so other family could fall in with our definitive plans.  Mum would start asking what the boys wanted for presents.  I’d start drawing up lists and getting organised for my busy December.

Now I don’t know what to do for any of it!  Where to go or how to “celebrate”.

I hate to leave my post like this.  I always like to end on a positive note.  Today is just too dreary, damp and depressing.

Maybe if the sun shines later I will add another happier comment…

A car for all journeys

I have just found my post from exactly 1 year ago. It was written on the day I picked up my new car.

I wrote about journeys and cars past and present, about being unique and yet being comforted by thoughts that others have travelled this tough road.

Here's a special, silly little poem in honour of the Skoda that gets me from A to B. 

Happy Birthday car!

We've travelled near and far.

Through sunny days and rain

Through tears and aching pain.

With laughter, sometimes singing

Occasionally a SHOUT!

A helper on my journey

Of that there is no doubt!

And here's last year's post.

Same But Different (written 25th Aug 2011)

“I don’t remember driving on this bit of road last time.”  I thought to myself as I set off once more along the A1.  I’d only travelled it a few weeks ago and I was certain I was going the right way.  Why did it look so different?

Then it dawned on me, last time I drove this route there had been a serious hold up here and we barely moved for an hour!  The scenery went past much slower.  Two lanes merged into three just after the junction and then the road narrowed again back into two.

Same route but a different journey.

During our last journey we had passed the time in the traffic jam with a story tape called “Seriously Weird”.  This time the story CD from the library refused to play on the car CD player and I’d already had complaints from the back despite the fact we were making better progress.

On this occasion my eventual destination was somewhere different.  I wouldn’t be turning off at the usual junction to visit my parents.  This was an adventure for me and youngest son, oldest son being away on his own holiday escapade. 

We were visiting friends and they had given me fantastic directions.  My navigator in the back, now distracted from the lack of story CD, read them out to me,  past the sign to the swimming pool, Black Horse pub on the right, over two mini roundabouts (can we really drive straight over the top?) and along the wiggly road!  The Sat Nav finally fell in line with the route we wanted to take and I amazed myself – I was driving in London!

OK this may not be a very big deal for some of you and I was only in the suburbs not the city but this was a journey I may not have even considered if Andrew was still around.  I would have chickened out and planned a time convenient for him to drive us instead.

It’s another step forward and something else to tick off on my own personal CV of achievements in the past nine months.

The word “journey” itself has been an interesting one this year.

The Sunday before Andrew died as we sat in church together I was doodling during the sermon, pretending to take notes, and it was a word that popped into my head and it started my thoughts for the Nativity play last year.  I thought about all the characters and how they each had to travel to reach Bethlehem.

Maybe God had given the word for me personally as well?

And now I have found out about “A Different Journey”, I wrote briefly about it a couple of posts ago. It is a Christian organisation working with people who have been widowed at a young age.  It has been great getting in touch with others who are on a similar path and I have booked to go on a weekend away.  It will be a chance to meet others travelling in the same direction, not the one we all expected when we set off.

I love the fact that we are on the same journey and have appreciated reading other people stories as they are a comfort.

The organiser wrote me an email and said

“Although there are similarities each person’s journey is unique in time taken to grieve and recover.”

However at the moment it is the sameness that most attracts me.  The fact that these people can understand on a deeper level because they have shared this kind of journey.

There are many times when I want to be unique and stand out in the crowd, just look at the picture of the dress I posted in the last blog, that is not the dress of a woman who wants to fade into the background and not be noticed!

But then there are times when you just want to wear jeans and a T shirt, nothing special just something comfortable.

Today, in my jeans and Tshirt, I go and pick up the new car.  Something else “different”.  Something else that Andrew hasn’t shared with me.

I was sorting out the documents to take to the garage and found the receipts for both our current car and the previous family car we bought together.  I looked at how much we had spent before and satisfied myself that I had made a sensible purchase price wise this time, Andrew would be smiling.  But then I always imagine him smiling down at me with each new step forward I take.

(I have a photo of "happy" Andrew by my laptop and that’s the face I always see giving me courage to carry on despite the tears. A few are inevitably falling as I type...)

Our current car was imported it, a cheaper viable option at the time.  When it was delivered Andrew was away.

“What do I do when it arrives?”  I was flustered.

“Just look round it and make sure it looks OK.  You’ll be fine.”

I knew he really wanted to be there to take delivery but he trusted me to do this on my own.

When the car arrived neither me and nor the delivery truck driver could find the CD player but that was the only "problem".  It said CD on the radio so the man left reasoning it must be somewhere in the car.  It was eventually found underneath the front passenger seat.

So I was the first person to drive our car and I will be the last, at least while I own it.

From now on I whatever journeys I make will be different even if they follow a familiar route.

And Andrew is still there smiling, trusting me to do the right thing without him here.

Some things are different but some will forever be the same.

still walking that hard path but looking back the view is astounding!

Here's a post I wrote about a year ago. It was the middle of the summer holidays, I was distraught and unable to cope. It wasn't an unusual feeling, holidays have often been tough, routine goes out of the window and there is no breathing space bewteen the hours of 9 and 3 when the boys are at school.

I was reflecting on these feelings yesterday while I sat at my counselling session. After a couple of abortive attempts at therapy I have finally found the most wonderful woman to talk to. It doesn't come cheap but as the saying goes you get what you pay for!

This summer I am calmer, more at peace with myself and with the world. Some of my anger has been spent and oh so many tears have been wrung out of me but I have evenually come to a place where I am ready to get up, dust myself down and continue.

The road hasn't changed, it's tough, full of grit and another word that rhymes with it! There are still 3 of us living in the same big old house and things are pretty much the same as they were twelve months ago.

But I have grown - stronger, resilient, more patient, more forgiving of myself. I have gained a perspective that only comes through time and circumstance.

Grief is such a long and winding road but I am glad of my blog, it gives me a chance to look back over the road I've travelled and marvel at the distance I've come so far...the view is astounding!

When the going gets tough…. ( written 15th Aug 2011)

Saturday -   I went into meltdown.   This new life is too hard. Sunday -   I stamped my feet again and declared, “I can’t do this anym...

Scattered

It's just over a year since we picked up Andrew's ashes from the undertakers.

Here's the poem I wrote about them.

All That Remains

Picked up ashes

They run like sand through my fingers,

Dark sand

Like the shores of Tahiti.

Volcanic black remains

A place where our story began

Love and tenderness intermingled.

White bone,

Black ash,

And specks of golden wood.

Weighing as much as our babies

But heavier by far,

The weight of the world

Encompassed in a shoe box.

The depth of our love

To be blown on the wind.

We stopped in Tahiti on our way to New Zealand for our honeymoon. It was the one place I always wanted us to return to when the boys had flown the nest. The beaches are made of black sand and I was reminded of them as I stared at the ashes before me.

Our dreams were gone and this was all that was left.

If you click here you can read about the day we scattered them which typically didn't go to plan...