Kay Cozad

  • Pausing between the past and future

    As this New Year approached I was delighted to receive an email from an old friend. Mel and I made up the long arms of a trio of women who had been friends for over a decade. Our friendships ran deep and intense from the very beginning as the three of us bonded over the shared grief we faced following the untimely deaths of our young husbands.

    Extended and powerful visits and phone calls provided the emotional and spiritual support we each required as time and our grief journeys unfolded. As the deep pain of loss began to soften, we three began to share the common details of our lives. And our life-long friendships were forged.

    “Can’t believe that New Years is just around the corner and we will be done with 2011. In some ways I want to move on and other ways I don’t want to let go,” wrote my friend. Though Mel’s words resonated with me, I felt a need to ask her to elaborate on her personal thoughts.

    You see our tertiary musketeer, Denise, succumbed to leukemia in the early spring of 2011, after a long and valiant fight for life. Mel and I walked as closely with our brave but ailing friend as much as she would allow us, but we still regret being unable to spend more time with her.

    “Okay, details lady, what is it you don’t want to let go of and what do you want to move on from?” I replied in my email.

    Mel’s response stirred something in me and I began to mourn once more the loss of our dear friend and all she meant to me.

    “I don’t want to let go of talking to Denise in 2011 and yet I know we move further from it in 2012,” she wrote. Her poignant words reminded me of something many of us who grieve a loss face — the pause between the past and the future.

    That is the place on the sometimes baffling path of grief that is both frightening and hopeful. It is the time when we feel a shifting in our grief perspective toward hope and a future, but are still deeply embedded in our desire to retain what was lost.

    It is a time when our weary hearts cry out for just one more moment with our loved one, while our logic reminds us that they are truly gone. The sweet memories of all that made up the details of the life we shared with our loved ones begin to fade into the recesses of our minds as they find their rightful place in our new existence following their death.

    Many of us fear that our memories will not sustain us as time and our grief work call us to move forward. Some of us even fear that we will forget them altogether. But I have learned that we will never forget what our loved ones meant to us and what we shared with them. Those are the memories that become the foundation for new life and a hopeful future.

    The pause between the past and the future that Mel and I have experienced may take some time to move through. But it can be done with gentle compassion and understanding support. So as Mel and I continue our grief work and share our hopes and fears, we will embrace the New Year and all it promises as best we can. We will cherish the memory of our third musketeer and hold tight to the enriching gift that our friendship was to us, as we move — hopeful — into all of the New Years to come.

    Posted on January 18, 2012, to:

  • Peripheral vision

    I have been honored over the years to have witnessed the stories of men and women who have lost their spouses, parents whose precious children are gone and children who miss their deceased siblings or parents. As their journeys unfolded and they learned to navigate the wilderness of their grief, an interesting phenomenon seemed to occur. As the heart work of grief was undertaken and the pain and loneliness were faced and responded to, the bereaved began to step forward slowly and engage in life more fully again.

    That doesn’t mean they had forgotten their deceased loved one or that they were in denial. No, they have walked with grief and had learned from it. Their stories resonate within my heart.

    Following my husband Trent’s death I found myself confronted by grief at every turn. The decisions I was required to make for my little family, now without the support and wisdom of my life mate, were all colored by the intense emotions of grief — disbelief, fear, confusion, insecurity … so many emotions that vied for my attention.

    In those early years of my grief I struggled with daily living that had become for me a slow plodding through what seemed like a robotic existence as I attempted to create a “new normal” for my two young daughters who desperately missed their daddy. Grief was ever present and mourning soon became a way of life for us as I lost sight of our future.

    But as time marched on, as it has a tendency to do, our lives did begin to change despite and perhaps even because of the pain. We worked hard at mourning our loss and remembering the good man who had helped shape this precious family into what it is today. And as we did our remembering, even sometimes against the well-meaning advice to “get over it” offered by family and friends, we began to create that “new normal” for ourselves.

    Our lives began to take on a different shape that was ours alone. Our grief taught us that though Trent is no longer with us in the physical sense, our hearts still hold an open space for our memories of this man we loved so much.

    Many years have come and gone since my beloved died, but I must admit that there are times when some memory or circumstance causes me to touch that place deep inside where my grief still lies. Through these experiences I have learned that grief is a life-long journey that requires my attention.

    So when those times arise, I allow myself time to remember, cry, tell stories, or whatever soothes my heart. And then I move on.

    Though I have full confidence in the fulfilling life I lead today, I know I will always miss Trent. But grief no longer pervades my days. The pain does soften as the grief work is done. Life does become livable again as we create that “new normal” where the memory of our loved one and the grief we feel finds its rightful place.

    A wise and gentle-hearted man whose teenaged son died a few years ago in a tragic accident explained it this way, “At first my grief was in my face. I couldn’t see anything else. Then as time went on and I worked through my grief, I began to realize it is a life-long thing. This wasn’t going to go away. So I made it my friend. And it began to walk with me. Now, after four years, it’s not in my face anymore, but rather in my peripheral vision. It’s always there. I’ll always miss him, but it’s not in my face anymore and I can enjoy life again. And that’s a good thing.”

    Posted on December 13, 2011, to:

  • Hope for the holidays

    I was recently invited to speak at a gathering of the local chapter of The Compassionate Friends, a bereavement support group open to parents and grandparents who have lost a child. Our topic was coping with the holidays.

    As I listened to the introductions of the mothers, dads and grandparents of the group I was awestruck by the deep abiding love they had for their children and the depth of grief that was palpable in the meeting room that had become a sacred space for these broken hearts to gather for support.

    The children, who were lovingly described, came in all sizes and ages from infancy to mid-30s. Some had been lost to accidents, while others had suffered terminal illnesses.

    I watched silently as one mother, who had lost her tow-headed, teenaged son 14 years ago, gently fielded questions from several who were newly bereaved.

    “What are your thoughts on spending the holidays away?” asked one young mom who was obviously dreading the upcoming holiday family gatherings.

    This anticipatory anxiety came as no surprise to those who had lost their children years ago. The veteran parent was quick to report that she relied on regular tradition for the sake of her other children that first year after her beloved son had died, but allowed herself to limit the bountiful decorating she once enjoyed.

    “I did only what I had to do. I didn’t even send Christmas cards. Do what you feel is right for you,” she offered. “The anticipation is always worse than the day itself.”

    Another participant quickly spoke up, telling the group that he and his family traveled to Florida the first two years after his 13-year-old daughter had been killed in an accident. He explained that his wife, children and in-laws all agreed it would be best for all. Due to finances this year, the family would remain home and was apprehensive about the possibilities Christmas day would bring.

    “Change something about your traditions,” another veteran mom offered, adding that her family created new traditions along the way that now work not only to inspire joy for those involved but also to memorialize their deceased child in exceptional ways throughout the day.

    As I listened to the exchange of anxious inquires and heartfelt suggestions, I realized that experience with loss spoke the gentlest truth to these grieving parents. “It will get easier,” it whispered. “Take care of yourself as you work through your grief and you will find hope in life again. You are not alone.”

    These lovely people didn’t need me to explain how to survive the holidays. Each already had in his or her heart the best route to take for their own personal journey through this season without their beloved child. By sharing their fears they gave voice to the overwhelming anticipation that threatened to consume them and gave themselves permission to experience the holidays in a way that best suited their needs.

    As the meeting got underway, we spoke of the physical, emotional, cognitive and spiritual symptoms of grief that must be addressed in healthy ways as we anticipate the weeks to come. Issues such as fatigue, anxiety, memory loss, the roller coaster of emotions with its peaks and valleys, including loneliness and despair, and the disconcerting faith questions many of us grapple with all have a way a vying for our attention, making it all the more difficult to navigate the already stress-filled holidays.

    As we named our fears about the upcoming holidays we shared some survival tips that included planning ahead and finding quiet time to grieve, seeking support, talking about our loved ones with safe others, being gentle with ourselves and allowing ourselves to enjoy activities without guilt.

    The discussion shifted to how best to remember our loved ones with activities from simply lighting a candle to creating a memorial ceremony or buying a gift for your loved one and giving it to someone special. One mother spoke of how she placed an empty chair at the holiday table in remembrance of her child, while another said she could not accomplish that in her home as it brought her too much pain.

    That hope-filled evening reaffirmed for me that though we are each on our own unique journey of loss, we are never alone. Maintaining hope through the holidays begins in the heart.

    For more information on The Compassionate Friends or to locate the local chapter in your area visit www.compassionatefriends.org.

    Posted on November 16, 2011, to:

  • It’s not just all in your head

    By Kay Cozad

    A young widow and I were discussing the trials of grief the other day and settled on the topic of health. She herself had been experiencing frequent headaches and persistent low-grade fatigue since the death of her husband several months ago, both foreign and disconcerting to this once-energetic wife and mother of three.

    “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Do you think it’s just all in my head?” she asked sheepishly.

    Of course, I believe that each path of grief is as unique as the person who navigates it. But, I told her, I suspected these ailments were not just in her head, but real symptoms of her loss — physical manifestations of the internal thoughts and feelings she had about her husband’s death. These maladies were her body’s way of protesting the idea that she would have to make a life without her spouse in it.

    And she is not alone. Maintaining physical health during the grief process is not only a common topic in grief literature and among individuals who have experienced loss, but I have personal memories of unfamiliar aches and pains that I hoped were not just in my head.

    Within two weeks of Trent’s funeral my two young daughters and I came down with colds and shortly after we survived that respiratory madness, I suffered a flu that I had never before experienced in such severity. It turns out immune suppression is common among those who grieve.

    Fatigue was an everyday occurrence for me in those early years of raising children, but the ebb of energy my body endured after Trent’s death was peculiar. No amount of rest seemed to renew me.

    Unfortunately, as naive as I was about grief, I was convinced that it was all in my head.

    But I as I began to investigate grief, by shared experience and reading grief literature, I became aware that we each feel grief in every part of us — body, mind, heart and spirit, with each manifesting its own distinct symptoms.

    The physical expression of grief can come in many ways and it’s important that we educate ourselves on the possible health issues so we are not taken by surprise. Our bodies have been as traumatized as our hearts by the loss and we must listen to them during this trying time. Taking gentle care of our very real physical symptoms honors our bodies and helps us heal.

    Many bereaved find they experience appetite changes. Some lose interest in foods and eat less, while others eat more. It’s important to eat small portions of nutritious foods throughout the day to maintain energy levels. Fluid intake is critical during the early months of the grief process. Dehydration can cause a series of distressing ailments including mental confusion, so we must drink generous amounts of healthy beverages and water.

    Sleep disturbances and depravation make for long and tiring days. If you have trouble falling asleep or getting back to sleep after waking in the night try changing your bed time routine or changing the side of the bed you sleep on.

    Lethargy is a another common physical manifestation of grief and poses a real issue in the process of healing. This physical feeling of just not caring about what used to bring you joy can only be faced over time and in one’s own unique way. Investigating new interests sometimes assists in joining life’s flow again. But there is no time frame for regaining that joy.

    There are heart palpitations, shortness of breath, aches and pains to contend with. These are all natural responses to losing a loved one and I assure you, not just all in your head.

    If we focus on doing the hard work of grief, these symptoms will abate over time. Be patient and give yourself permission to take gentle care of yourself as you grieve. If you are uncomfortable with an ailment or it persists over time, consult a doctor.

    As we discussed the physical aspects of grief my young friend and I agreed that it takes an immense amount of energy to mourn the loss of someone you love. And that is energy that must sometimes be drawn from other areas of our lives. It’s important to understand that these physical ailments have a natural place on our journey of grief and that we must attend to them. My friend spoke of her understanding of her physical grief so beautifully when she said, “It’s when your body finally catches up with your mind.”

    Posted on October 12, 2011, to:

  • Mirror of the heart

    Being in relationship with God and others is what life is really all about. Our relationship with God grows daily if we work at staying in communication with Him via prayer, the sacraments and service. But that’s for another column.

    Our earthly relationships with others help us form our identity and those boundaries within which we move. As children our relationship with our parents gives us the title of daughter or son. We know that mom and dad are there to guide and love us, to keep us safe, and we stay within those boundaries as we grow to independence.

    Each relationship we nurture offers its own unique opportunity for identity and growth. Each connection provides a mirror from which to see and evaluate ourselves, a place to experience life to the fullest.

    Being a sibling, friend or coworker means meeting another on level ground where a healthy give- and-take exchange creates the contemporary bond we seek. A spousal relationship can be one of the most intimate bonds as it is a complex relationship of choice, which requires commitment and understanding. A parent-child relationship is based on unconditional love and is like no other.

    Of course, there are many relationships we form throughout our lives that paint the landscape of our being. They are the conduits within which we experience joy, heartache, drama, fulfillment, direction, support and our very identity.

    What then when we lose a loved one to death?

    What happens to our identity and the place in the world we held in relation to that special person?

    When a child dies are you still a parent? Are you still a spouse when you lose your marriage partner? A friend when your loved one is no longer there to share life’s joys and challenges?

    My struggle with identity began 21 years ago when my husband Trent was killed in a car accident. In our early 30s, Trent and I had built a nice life for ourselves with our two young daughters. I was happy and secure in my role as wife and stay-at-home mom. When Trent died, what I knew of the place in life I held so dear was forever altered.

    It became immediately clear that we live in a couple’s world in which I no longer was a part. With no husband to balance my title as wife, my legal identity changed to widow. As my coupled friends slowly withdrew I fought loneliness on a level I had never experienced before. My spousal relationship with Trent had provided a place for me in that world.

    As I worked through my grief — through many tears, trials and mishaps, I discovered new ground on which to safely stand, with friends and family who allowed me space to discover who I was without my spouse.

    Many of the widows and widowers I have companioned in grief have felt confused, just as I had, as to who they are to become now that their beloved is no longer beside them. The hole in our lives that our loved one leaves upon death opens not only a frightening abyss of confusion and loss, but also fertile ground in which to plant a new life. The natural response of confusion to the loss of a loved one can only be remedied by acknowledging the loss of identity and working with the grief to form a new place in life.

    And I have found that there are many who wish to help.

    This new normal requires time, persistence and a little help from our friends, but is achievable. Our new lives and identities will be based on the love we carry in our hearts for our deceased loved ones. We can create new relationships and nurture old ones that will provide us with the mirror with which to identify ourselves. And though we are changed by our loss and life is different, we can still create a fulfilling life of joy and purpose.

    Posted on September 15, 2011, to: