Kay Cozad

  • Honoring our needs

    The seasons have changed and summer is finally in full swing. There are concerts in the park, fairs and festivals, weekend barbecues, special holidays celebrations with fireworks and picnics, and maybe even a family reunion or two. So many traditional social events with which to make fond memories.

    But for those who have experienced the loss of a loved one, whether recent or years past, traditional social events may make for some painful times. Though we have no choice as to having to grieve when we lose someone dear, we can choose how we maintain our lives as we grieve.

    Some of us in deep grief choose to jump feet first into any and all invitations or activities that we can find. It becomes a way of deferring our grief for a time. Others in mourning choose to discern how and when they will interact socially, mindful of their need to slow down and turn inward for healing. Each path is of benefit if it honors our needs.

    The summer following my husband Trent’s death was very difficult for me to navigate. Summer had always been my favorite family season, with so many fun and energizing outdoor activities to share. Though my young daughters were anxious to experience summer as it “should be” there was a gray pallor that permeated the sunny days that lay ahead for me. And though it was unusual for my typically active family, I instinctively felt the need to accept only those invitations that would help me reach my goal — that of simple survival. Staying in touch with my own tender needs was the only healthy way through my grief.

    There were those, of course, that saw my decision to decline activities as an unhealthy or even selfish act. When others question our decision to change or decline a gathering, their criticism may cause us to second guess ourselves.

    But I have learned that if we are honest with ourselves and honor our own unique journey, we won’t need the approval of others to create a new tradition for ourselves. Though I respect others’ perspectives, I knew in my early grief I needed time to myself more than a constant flurry of activity. The girls and I created a few of our own new traditions that have sustained us over the years in addition to cherishing some old familiar ones as well.

    As difficult as it seems to look forward, there is healing in each passing season. It’s okay to participate in any activities we feel comfortable with. But sometimes a holiday or activity doesn’t hold the same meaning it once did, so choosing a different way to celebrate may brings us a new focus, and perhaps a new perspective. As we design an event or ceremony that meets our immediate needs, we will create a new memory that will add life to our past. And if we chose to do something totally different for a time, we may find solace in the break from grief.

    We can always return to traditional or annual events and holiday fare at our own pace as we become accustomed to life without our loved one. It is in the choosing that we create our “new normal” in which to live.

    It’s important to recognize what we need to make it through those seasons, holidays or special events that seem so painful. And equally as important to let others know our plans so they can support and encourage our decision for healthy mourning. Don’t lose heart. Each year that we decide to make new memories, it becomes easier to cherish the ones of the past.

    By following our own unique path through healthy mourning, by being honest with ourselves and honoring our needs, we will find the way to memorialize each holiday or gathering in a new and touching way that will bring us closer to joyful living.

    Posted on July 13, 2010, to:

  • The heart of grief

    As guest speaker for a graduate counseling class recently, I was formulating what the bulk of my message would be to these eager students, many of whom had experienced field training or currently held counseling positions within area middle or high schools. They all reportedly felt under qualified to address issues of grief and loss with their teenaged students.

    What would be most important for these students of life to learn in the short time I was allotted? Surely the logistics of grief and its dimensions were important in the study and understanding of the process of grief. I would explain the difference between grief and mourning — grief being the innermost thoughts and feelings related to a loss; and mourning, the expression of those thoughts and feelings, or grief gone public. I would offer information on the importance of not only acknowledging the emotions that sweep the bereaved as a tide wave racks the shore but also the healthy expression of those feelings.

    A worksheet with a myriad feeling words would be helpful in eliciting the process of naming what is sometimes difficult to name. Words like fear, vulnerable, confused, lonely, irritated, relieved and so many more.

    We would discuss the unpredictable and disorderly manner in which we as human beings experience grief. I would introduce the concept of dimensions to replace the antiquated five stages of grief put forth so boldly by Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in the 1960s and how we move in and out of these dimensions as our need takes us.
    A discussion on grieving as a whole person — body, mind, heart and spirit — would provide a snapshot of the physical, mental, emotional and spiritual manifestations of grief to be aware of and ministered to for these students of counsel. Such symptoms as fatigue and sleep disturbances, confusion and memory loss, anger, guilt and sadness, and the painful search for meaning coupled with doubting the very purpose of life and faith.

    Our discussion would turn to grief expert Alan Wolfelt’s six reconciliation needs of a mourner where we as counselors assist the mourner with acknowledging the loss, moving toward the pain, remembering the person who died, developing a new self identity, searching for meaning and receiving ongoing support. 

    And finally we would discuss activities that they as counselors might use as tools to assist their grieving students work through their pain — activities such as drawing, journaling, group support sessions, creating a memory book or collage, writing a letter to their loved one and so many more. 

    There would be several handouts with lists of what to expect as time moves on in the aftermath of the loss and how they as counselors might companion those students who mourn a loss.

    But the core of my message, I think, will be to explain that grief is heart work. One cannot think their way through it without the beat of their heart.
    Following our “grief 101” discussion, during the energy-charged session, I asked each of these bright students to take a moment to recall a loss that they had experienced. As expected a variety of losses were reported around the room, from a recent death of a mother to an accidental death of a best friend some 15 years past. 

    As we shared our stories of grief the atmosphere in the room changed from one of academia to one of intimacy and support. In their vulnerability these students shared tears and laughter, and exclamations of surprise that their memory would cause this unexpected pain to rise up with such fervor. Following participation in the activities that they might use with their own students, a new understanding dawned on this remarkable group as surely as the morning sun rises over the horizon — through the process of sharing your story of grief, the heart begins to heal.

    These graduate students were now better prepared with tools to assist anyone who sought help with a loss issue, because they themselves had experienced a taste of the work to be done. And, I think, they learned to be gentle with themselves as well. With this, a new generation would come to understand that, though painful, the process of mourning a loss in healthy ways is important heart work that grows the fruit of a joy-filled, meaningful life after loss.

    Posted on June 15, 2010, to:

  • The healing cocoon

    There seems to be a general consensus in our culture today that those who lose a loved one must spring back into normal life activities directly after the funeral service. And those who wish to support their bereaved loved ones many times offer an abundance of activities to assist them in deflecting the pain of grief. “Keep busy,” they say, “It’ll keep you from thinking about it.” Unfortunately, after a loss there is a natural need to slow down and draw inward as grief begins to settle over one’s heart.

    Navigating loss can be exhausting. Following the immediate flurry of activity surrounding the planning and execution of my husband’s funeral, my heart took a stand and wouldn’t let me move much further. I found myself, in the aftermath of his sudden death, slowing down to conserve what little energy I had, just to survive each day. 

    I did the best I could to care for my two little ones as the weeks and months went by, all the while feeling suspending in the sheer terror of my loss. I withdrew from much of my regular outside activities and sought refuge in my home where I was not held to any outside standard of normal behavior. This need for solitude felt right to me even as my loved ones persistently offered alternatives to my grief — those urgent invitations to rejoin the couple’s world I had been recently ripped from. Right or wrong, I wanted no part of it.

    Now years later, I empathize with Joyce, a member of a widow’s group, who recently confessed that she felt the need for rest and solitude as she sought healing, but felt discouraged by her well- meaning friends who insisted she get out more. 

    “Have you turned any heads yet?” asked one acquaintance, only six months after her husband had died a slow painful death. This woman’s energy was focused inward as she navigated the necessary changes occurring in her life — not on finding a new spouse. She sought comfort in the quiet of her own home.

    Joyce, like so many who have suffered a loss, found it essential to remove herself from some of the regular comings and goings of life, with hopes of doing so without reprisal or shame. She chose only those activities that were beneficial to her healing during this critical time. 

    Of course, we must continue to participate in those activities of our choosing. Some structure in life helps us maintain a bit of sanity as we experience the pain of grief. But it is in the stillness that we gain new insights into life and loss. And in this isolated state as we face our fears and loneliness we can begin to heal and be transformed — much like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

    A caterpillar instinctively forms a cocoon, in its season, to protect itself from predators and the outside world. In this safe place, it undergoes a transformation such that it emerges, after great struggle, into a bright future as a new creation — a butterfly. Following the quiet time of cocooned isolation a new purpose develops as the butterfly takes wing. And so it is with grief.

    We may find the need along our grief journey to cocoon ourselves and take time away, to just “be.” That may entail giving ourselves permission to relinquish some of our responsibilities to those who wish to help. We may let go of any unrealistic expectations we or others place upon us to grieve the “right way.” 

    It may also be appropriate to remove ourselves from certain activities for a while as we allow our hearts to heal and our new life to slowly emerge and take wing. It’s okay to say, “No thanks, not this time,” to well-meaning friends who continue to push for unnatural movement through your grief. 

    As we follow our hearts in discovering and honoring our needs as we mourn we will find what works best for us. Grief is only for a season and as we do the painful, sometimes solitary and very unique work of mourning, we will emerge, newly energized with new purpose in life. Allowing ourselves the luxury of cocooning ourselves for a season may just give us the time we need to discover who we are becoming and how to fly in a world without our loved one.

    Posted on May 11, 2010, to:

  • The miracle of linking objects

    Each loss we experience brings us to a new and unique journey of grief, on which we face myriad questions concerning how life is supposed to unfold now that our loved one is gone.

    One common question that occurs in the months following the loss of a loved one is, “When do I distribute his/her things?” This can include possessions such as clothing, personal items, awards, cars and jewelry — all tangible expressions of the precious existence of our loved one.

    These material items or linking objects become for some of us the last real connection we have with our loved ones. Or so we think.
    I have learned that the answer to the sometimes overwhelming question of whether and when to give possessions away is as unique as the individual who asks it. Each of us must decide how we will remain linked to our loved one long after his/her physical presence is no longer ours to share.

    There are those, like my dear mother, who see possessions as holding little sentimental value other than their practical use. The week following my father’s burial, my mom called her six grown children to her home and systematically divided his things among them. Her pragmatic perception of life led her to empty the house of my father’s presence and redecorate. That, for her, was the course she claimed for her survival after 49 years of marriage to a man who was her life companion. And it worked for her.

    However, six months later, when my own husband died, I learned that I needed to keep everything in my home the same as before Trent died. With my less pragmatic personality, I found that my survival became based on what little shred of “normal” I could find. And my husband’s possessions were the only unchanged thing left in the life that had been turned upside down with his death. Though I could no longer have Trent’s physical presence with me, I at least could touch those things he held dear.

    So those linking objects become the physical connection we have to our deceased loved one. For me and others, keeping our loved ones clothing for a while can be a consolation, as we not only see and touch the fabric, but revel in the comfort found in breathing in their familiar scent. Many widows struggle with whether and when to remove their wedding rings. Issues of guilt, imagined betrayal and fear must be addressed to discover the individual truth these symbolic wedding bands hold, that we each have inside us.

    Occasionally those in mourning may feel pressure from family or friends to give their loved one’s things away soon after the death so as to eliminate the tangible reminder of their pain and loss. They second guess when that potentially emotional undertaking should take place. Unfortunately, there is no guide book on how to grieve well. When to distribute possessions and other answers to questions we all must face in grief are ultimately a personal choice we each must undertake. There is no right or only way to be linked to our loved ones. But I believe if we listen to our hearts, we will discover the right path to take with those precious possessions.

    Some learn that those treasured linking objects need to remain a part of their lives, while others begin to let go of that which made easier the transition of their relationship with their deceased loved one from one of physical presence to one of the spirit.
    As I look back over the 20 years since my husband’s death there has been a slow and steady relinquishing of my initially intense need to keep Trent’s possessions. Of course, I thought, I must keep all of his possessions just in case.

    Now after 20 years and countless purgings, I cherish a few of Trent’s favorites as well as his wedding band and a plethora of photos so dear to my heart. But the rest is gone, distributed over the years, when the time seemed right.

    Those possessions that were useful or pleasurable to my husband are now someone else’s to enjoy. But my link to Trent is no less diminished by that distribution, because the memory of his spirit resides in its rightful place now deep in my heart.

    Posted on April 14, 2010, to:

  • ‘Dark night of the soul’

    As a young girl I joined my eighth-grade class in attending the funeral of a fellow classmate’s mother. It was a sad and confusing time, as none of us had ever considered the death of a parent before. But what I remember most of that time was my classmate’s response to his loss. “I’m so sad that your mom died,” I offered. “My dad says we shouldn’t be sad because she’s in a better place. If I cry that’s because I’m selfish,” he said.

    Even then that perception of faith and grief left me feeling cold and confused. But as I matured in my understanding of death and grief, I came to see the unique journey we each take after our loss.

    Some Christians believe that if their faith is strong enough they should not feel the sorrow naturally associated with a loss. The belief in the glorious eternal life awaiting all of us should dispel any sadness, anger or loneliness.
    Unfortunately, in an attempt to play that out grief is avoided, repressed or denied and may become distorted.

    Others hold fast to their faith and believe that all will be well. Jerald says of his faith walk following the death of his wife of 43 years, “I instinctively kept on going to church instead of turning away. Perhaps more a gut reaction than a conscious choice although it was a choice I continued to make.”

    Though he never felt abandoned by God he says, “I think that when you are grieving you feel isolated from everyone and everything at times … including God. I think that is when the faith part kicks in and helps you cope, if only a minute at a time. Slowly the feeling of isolation lessens and perhaps that is when or why people return to God. “
    Then he adds, “Or does the feeling of isolation cease because of God?”

    An interesting question! I have come to believe that God is always present in our need. It is perhaps the weight of our grief that cuts us off from the very connection to our Redeemer that would ease our heavy burden.

    Some of us who have experienced a life-altering loss have found ourselves in what 16th century Catholic mystic St. John of the Cross described as “the dark night of the soul.” It’s a time that is marked by a sense of loneliness, introspection and desolation. What better way to describe the grief journey.

    Facing the soul work of grief requires courage. It involves experiencing deeply felt emotions including anger, sorrow and confusion. The search for meaning becomes the very catalyst for change. When we allow ourselves to ask the hard questions and reevaluate our lives and our world view, over time we have the opportunity to deepen our understanding of how we fit in the universe as well as our faith in its Creator.

    Following the death of my husband, I found myself searching for a constructive reason why he had to die so young. Questions like “Why did this happen to my family?” and “How will we live without him?” swirled long after not only in my head but in my conversation with others. And I felt isolated and abandoned by God.

    At times I felt a burning anger at God for leaving me stranded in a life I didn’t choose. And as I railed at Him for taking my husband too soon I recognized that my anger was justified. God and I became much closer as He held my tender heart in His healing hands and embraced me as I tantrumed.

    The very act of communicating with God, though at times excruciatingly painful, gave me hope that a future did exist. And as I searched for my future, a deeper, richer faith rose up from the ashes of my loss. It was my husband’s final gift.

    David Wolpe suggests that we “have faith in the searching. Loss is the platform on which we build a deeper, sturdier faith.” I have found that to be true for myself and others I’ve encountered in grief.

    Another wise man, R. Scott Sullender, offers “Faith is hope in a new tomorrow in spite of one’s present sorrow.” Faith in the redeeming power of God does bring us hope for the future, but it doesn’t mean we can avoid the soul work of grief. It’s natural to doubt and question the meaning of life and our faith, and encounter all the pain and sorrow that comes after the loss of a loved one. We must allow ourselves to ask those hard questions and trust the process.

    Posted on March 16, 2010, to: