myjourneysinsight

YOU’LL SURROUND ME IN THE BREEZE

Posted on April 16, 2011 by Judy

A fallen tree is visible in the background.

A lyric excerpt from my new song, “Music From Her Heart.”

It was mid-April, and the weather had begun to change. The intoxicating aroma of spring enveloped me. The gentle warmth invoked the feeling that summer was just around the corner. With seasonal change, my heart began to ache. It was a very slow and almost imperceptible process.

The change of seasons from summer to autumn always brought me sadness, due to Jason’s death in October. However, today I realized that even the impending springtime was another season of sadness for me.

I had hoped it would wait. It wasn’t Jason’s birthday until the end of May. The pain surrounding his “Anniversary of the Heart” was beginning far too soon! My definition of an “Anniversary of the Heart” is that it represents any date that holds sadness for the bereaved. Typically, it is anniversaries of death and birthdays.

With the seasonal change, I was feeling the “pain of anticipation.”

There was no containment of my feelings related my Anniversary of the Heart. As I share what this means for me, it could apply to anyone suffering with his or her grief. It might have been my child for me, but this actually to anyone who is grieving the loss of someone they loved.

Not only was my “Anniversary of the Heart” a sad day, there was a build-up to it that lasted for a period of sometimes even a month! Often, on the actual day there was some relief from the pain that began weeks earlier. Once the actual day passed, the aura of sadness gradually began to fade.

For me, there was always an extremely, exquisite pain on the day of my child’s birthday.

It represented the pain of what he might have been!

My son, Jason, who died in 1992 when he was five, will never age or grow up. Every year on his birthday in May, I used to wonder what he might have been like had he lived. Six months ago, I visited his grave with my youngest son when I attended a funeral at the same cemetery. Before that, I hadn’t gone for at least ten years.

I have accepted my son’s death now after almost two decades. Lest anyone tell me that I need to get on with my life, I have. I am joyful and no longer grieving my son intensely.

However, I am not the same person I was before his death. I was so innocent and unscathed by life. I used to view this as another loss.

Only recently, I see it as something I have gained. The insights that I have shared are significant for me.

The first few years of my bereavement were filled with pain from about any memory possible. It was one great blur of sadness and agony.

With time, my healing was due to “detachment,” and finally acceptance. I used to have tremendous longing and pain when I tried to imagine my child “growing up” on his birthdays. The slow process of acceptance began when that stopped for me.

The pain was not excruciating any longer, although it could be remembered for its intensity. I could describe it quite vividly. It was a black hole that swallowed up every speck of color in the world.

I don’t feel that kind of pain anymore – even on “Anniversaries of the Heart.”

However, this experience was mine, not anyone else’s. Grief is a very personal journey. It wasn’t until I had more detachment, that I could analyze my pain more accurately. After so many years, it has become more bittersweet. I feel tremendous appreciation for what I have, and the depth of my love for my living children fuels my life.

I used to live with the fear of facing future loss, but recently I decided to let go of that. There is no purpose to grieve for what might happen!

Recently, I’ve decided that surviving isn’t enough for me anymore. Now I am living again. To anyone suffering with grief, there is hope. I never believed I’d feel better; it just took a long time.

A paragraph from the eleven pages I wrote and read at Jasons funeral.

Yesterday, I was at the same cemetery for a “gravestone unveiling” ceremony. The sunshine bathed me. It was unseasonably warm, and I felt peaceful. The melody to my recent song was “looping” in head and in my heart.

I was glad to be supportive of my friend, Sonia, who was grieving her beloved husband. When she mentioned I could attend the ceremony, her words touched me. She said, “If you are there, I will feel uplifted. I always feel so happy when I’m in your presence.”

I noticed that while I was standing during the ceremony, I felt light-headed. My bandaged, burned arm was bothering me, but I tried to ignore it. I found a place to sit down.

When everyone was leaving, I slowly walked to my car. It was very hot inside, and I could feel sweat trickling down my neck. Jason’s grave was on the other side of the cemetery, at the bottom of a hill. I parked and positioned my iPod so I could listen to my music as I got out.

My newest song was playing. It soothed me as I navigated a fairly, steep hill wearing sandals. I was careful not to step on the gravestones. I decided to change the song playing on my iPod to “Beside Me Always.” My life has felt like a musical, and it was a very fitting song at that moment.

Jason was buried in an area surrounded by the graves of young children. I always looked at those other gravestones with sadness. I didn’t need to know the stories, as I easily conjured up the anguish I knew resulted from the death of every, young child.

I continued trudging past many rows of gravestones; I realized none of them were for children. Then I noticed the fallen tree. I walked around it. I began to feel the heat, but a breeze helped to cool me. It was interesting, because at that moment my voice was singing the lyric line, “You’ll surround me in the breeze that’s blowing.”

It was getting difficult for me to continue walking on the hillside. The combination of my wounded arm and the heat was affecting me. I didn’t want to give up, but I felt I had no choice. I looked again at the fallen tree. It occurred to me that Jason’s grave was under it and that was why I could not find it.

I tried very hard to allow my emotions to flow freely. Once upon a time, I cried enough tears to fill an ocean. My “well of tears” had dried up. I knew I had fewer tears because I could not remember much about my dead child anymore. After all, it had been over eighteen years since he died.

I accepted the loss of those memories, because detachment was part of the grief process for me. “Time heals” was simply about the loss of memories and resulting anesthesia for the gut-wrenching pain.

There was irony. A tree had died – a capricious circumstance, just as death sometimes is. His grave was as inaccessible as the memories of him were at that moment.

I remembered how often I had looked at that tree while visiting Jason’s grave. In its shade I looked into the sky pondering an explanation. My son was cheated out of a full life, and most plants and trees outlived him.

As I walked closer to where I was parked, I felt faint. I stopped and sat down on the grass. The breeze enveloped me and I closed my eyes.

And then I found a memory . . .

It was a sensation, actually. I remembered how Jason’s tiny body would comfortably lay against my chest. His tousled, light brown hair would tickle my cheek and his soft head would rest upon my shoulder.

As the memory came to me, I felt grief rip and tear through my heart. I gasped as it quickly rushed out of me and into the breeze. As the grief exited, calmness flowed through me. For that moment, he was “beside me” once again. I did not need to see his grave to know where he was.

A single tear trickled down my cheek.

I left the cemetery. There were no more tears.

This paragraph from my funeral speech reminded me of how my mother was so devoted to helping me.

A thank you card from my mother I came across while writing this story. She prayed I would always continue to be thoughtful and caring.

© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Posted in Grief Stories | Tagged acoustic guitar, Aging Parents, cemetary, child's death, compassionate friends, composing, creativity, death, death of a child, graveside, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, guitar, inspiration, loss, lovesong, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, Music, original songs, singing, songwriting, writing | 4 Comments

HOPE BECAME HER THEME

Posted on April 14, 2011 by Judy

When I visited my mom today at lunch, she was so happy. She just had her hair done. Even with mild pneumonia, she still can smile.

Tomorrow, I am going to visit Jason’s grave. It is getting closer to his “anniversary of the heart.” As May approaches, the poignancy of his life and death envelops me. I will be at the cemetery to attend the unveiling for the gravestone of my friend, Sonia’s husband.

I would like to write about my theme of “having hope.”

I wrote about hope almost to the day a year ago when my journey first began. My post was entitled: #85 THERE WAS HOPE FOR ME

For decades, I lived my life a certain way. I grieved and continued to face many challenges. Stress and worry always felt familiar, and I was simply numb from so much “scar tissue.” There was a lyric line in my song “Laughter and Tears,” that spoke to that. It was:

“Numbness and pain left no room in my heart.”

It became a “habit” for me to hide any emotion.

I didn’t expect that anything would ever change, even though I was always grateful for so much in my life.

My journey began when I decided to take a different path. When my “new path” appeared, I was ready to follow it. I was so tired of the path that I was on for so many years.

My new path represented hope!

With that path, everything changed for me. I opened up my heart to the world. When my heart opened up, I found my music.

Every human must find their own path and it is never too late. Never give up hope!

I held onto the hope that someday I would be happy again. Even if it took decades, it was worth hoping for.

There was hope for me!

I don’t know why we’re all so serious in this picture!

“Life is full of challenges and blessings”

I have had a tendency to see things as “black and white.” Today, I’ve decided to categorize my thoughts in a different way.

Therefore, my “good and bad list” will be replaced instead with a list of “challenges and blessings.”

As I drove to record my new song, I wondered how I could express my joy while singing. At my last voice lesson a few days earlier, my teacher, Peaches said to me, “Your voice is a little tight today.” It wasn’t hard for me to figure out why. Our voice is very affected by our emotions.

After yelling at one of my teenagers the night before, my throat felt sore. Fortunately, the next morning my voice didn’t hurt anymore.

I paused my “practice singing” while driving to make a phone call. I needed to check on my mother. Her caregiver said, “When I arrived she was screaming your name in the dining room. ”She’s been coughing a lot and the facility ordered breathing treatments and a chest x-ray.

(A challenge!)

My mother was asleep, so I planned to call her after my recording session.

After that phone call, I checked on my 86-year-old father who was going to have surgery in the afternoon. I propped up his spirits.

(A blessing!)

I arrived at my arranger, George’s guesthouse. The very first thing I did was sing my new song for him. My arm was well bandaged so I could play my guitar. The movements hurt, but I was grateful that I was able to play without mistakes.

(A blessing!)

I sang my song and I was healed!

In this picture, my dad received his Phd from USC. I was probably 11 years old. Those glasses are unbelievable!

Normally, when driving home I always listen to my newest, song recording. I called my mother instead. She didn’t mention anything about her morning “episode.” She sounded clearer and said to me, “I love hearing your voice and I am so lucky to have a daughter like you!”

(A blessing!)

I had a voicemail message from my mother’s nurse. The x-ray showed pneumonia and she would need antibiotics.

(A challenge!)

I came home and carried in my guitar. In my other hand, I carried a hard drive with recovered files I had picked up from a computer recovery service. For $150, I had all of my important art files back that I had accidentally erased last week. Even though I needed to re-organize everything, it was a huge relief to know that years of digitally scanning my artwork were not lost.

(A blessing!)

I changed my bandage and noticed that my arm did not hurt as much as it had the last few days. Thankfully, it really was getting better.

(A blessing!)

It was dinnertime and my family was hungry. We all went out to dinner at a local “fresh,” Mexican restaurant. Everyone got along, and I relished listening to the animated conversations – even more than my food. I could still hear my new song recording “looping” in my head.

(A blessing!)

Yesterday, my father had surgery in the afternoon. It wasn’t until later in the evening when he was able to speak with me. He was disappointed; the procedure to “zap” his kidney stones was unsuccessful, but the surgeon said the next attempt in a few weeks time should work.

While I was speaking to my dad, he began to moan and cry out loudly. I waited and listened to his agonizing cries. Then he hung up on me. While I waited to call back, my heart ached for him.

(A challenge!)

My life is so full of challenges and blessings. But whenever I listen to my beautiful song that tells my story, my heart soars.

Excerpt from a friend’s card:

I was so sorry to hear about that terrible burn you got. How awful for you. You deal with so much between your son’s arm injury, your mom’s dementia and your dad’s recent hospitalization yet, you are eternally optimistic – a true inspiration to me. You can see in the enclosed picture how happy you always look and what a beautiful smile you have.

My newest song will be completed this weekend. Below is the third verse I wrote last week, and after that I was ready to record my song.

With grief there is no sound, and it would seem

that joy she’d finally found

hope became her theme

‘cause she could dream . . .

I started out with all my rhymes at the top of the page.

Tagged "sandwich generation", acoustic guitar, Aging Parents, Caregiving, composing, creativity, Daily Life, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, guitar, Humor, humor children, humor daily life, loss, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, Music, original songs, parenting, performing, singing, songwriting, writing | 1 Comment

SILENCE TURNED TO SONG

Posted on April 12, 2011 by Judy

“A soothing voice was all that was required”

I love the words “silence turned to song” from my most recent song, “The Music From Her Heart.” I hear music in my mind when I fall asleep and when I awaken. Not audible music I am listening to, but I am singing in my mind.

I realize I am not contemporary with my music at all. I stopped listening to music a long time ago. Certainly, there was nothing on the radio that inspired me much. I was busy surviving and did not have any desire to revisit my musical past.

That time in my life I consider “the silence.” At this time, hearing melodies in my mind represents joy and wonderment with life.

I am eager to finish my book so I will have something to market and share. Once I am satisfied with my “draft,” I have no idea how long it will take to publish my book. I do know that on my end, I want it to be my best effort but not to the point of having perfectionism prevent me from finishing it.

Just the other day, George (my arranger), asked me, “Hey Jude, are you ever going to sell a CD?”

I told him how I felt. I am not a professional singer and the beauty of my music is in having my audience understand the honesty behind my songs. I first want to sell my book with my music to create something unique. Later on, I could sell my music alone, hopefully.

As I wrote the above sentence, the realization for me was that I was selling myself!

On Sunday night, I enjoyed playing so much at Border’s. It had been two weeks since my last performance.

The burn on my right arm ached as it rubbed against my guitar. However, my singing soothed and enveloped me in comfort. I felt like the microphone was my friend. I understood how to use it to help my voice sound better.

The audience was completely unfamiliar. I wasn’t sure if they liked my music, but after a few of my songs I started to receive applause. My heart sang! I had no expectations of anything more as I sang and tried to do my best. I could feel that my singing had really improved and it felt great.

The next morning, my arm wasn’t bending too well. I had tried sleeping without the bandages on it; there was so much freedom without the slimy covering. But having it so exposed was exquisitely painful, especially when I rested it upon my pillow. Each movement hurt, so I tried to stay as still as possible.

It had been a week since I burned my arm when I spilled a mug of hot tea. The impact of what happened to my “important” arm had now sunk in.

No more blisters – it is healing!

Yesterday morning, I spoke with my father who was in the hospital. He was going to have a procedure that would try to “zap” and eliminate his kidney stones. That attempt was not successful and another try would be attempted later on this week.

It was interesting that my father needed little time from me compared to my mother. He was very appreciative that he had a nurse who was giving him a lot of attention. I was pleased to hear he was a good patient and I especially appreciated that he was aware of everything.

He said to me, “I know your life! Please! Please, do not waste time to visit and just talk to me on the phone instead! Hearing your voice is all I need.”

This week, I missed the sympathy I knew I would have gotten from my mother. Instead, I was very careful to hide my wound from her. With dementia, there was no reason to add anything else to her imagined fears.

No sooner had I gotten off the phone with my father, I received a call from my mother’s nursing facility notifying me that she had “unexplained” bruises on her legs. After I hung up, there was another stressful call. My mother’s wonderful caregiver, Miriam, was on the phone. I didn’t want Miriam to know that I planned to visit later on to surprise her on her birthday.

She desperately needed my help to calm my mother. She told me that my mother was certain my husband and father had died the night before in a car accident. My mother was sobbing hysterically because it was very real for her.

Miriam couldn’t convince her otherwise and was actually worried that something might have happened to my father, because he happened to be in the hospital.

It took me about ten minutes to gently persuade my mother that everyone was fine. My mother could not find the words, but I knew what she meant when she said to me shakily, “Your voice is all I need.”

Thankfully, my voice calmed her. She believed me when I told her that it was all a bad dream. I realized that my poor mother’s life was now a nightmare for her and the day would come when my voice would not be enough.

All the voice lessons in the world to improve my singing was not as important for me as knowing my voice could make such a huge difference for my parents!

“Showing appreciation

It was Miriam’s birthday; I had wrapped up an iPod Nano and purchased a cake. I was looking forward to surprising her. There simply was no way for me to ever truly express my appreciation, but I was excited to have an opportunity to do something special for her.

I had found an excellent card. Although I often share a lot, I’m not sharing my personal message. I wanted it to be special, unique and only for her. I am sharing the card I purchased, which set the stage for my own words.My mother enjoyed watching Miriam blow out her candles. I found out Miriam was thirty-three years old; there was so much I didn’t know about her. Together, all three of us had some cake and Miriam looked delighted with her gift.

I brought my mom a bag of peanuts – she always loves feeding the squirrels. She and Miriam were headed outside to enjoy the beautiful weather.

She read my card and tears trickled down her cheeks. We hugged each other tightly.

Yesterday was a challenging day. Although having my burn made things a little more painful, I managed with it.

A year ago, I had named one of my more stressful days, “Just Another Manic Monday.” I thought about that title, yesterday. But I realized that with my transformation, it might have been challenging like many days I’ve experienced but it was not manic.

Manic implies a sense of “being out of control.” I realize that I don’t have control over many things. The one thing I do try to control is my own attitude.

Rather than being “tossed around by life,” I decided to keep smiling and humming my songs. Last night, I decided I could perform my new song at the open mic in the evening and looked forward to it.

My performance wasn’t the way I would have liked for my new song. I rushed through it because I was pumped full of adrenaline. I’m not even going to share it.

But I could still hear the echo in my head of the announcer’s voice when I was finished.

He said, “That’s going to heal up soon, I hope – Hopefully, it looks worse than it is. How about a trooper here? She’s got an injury and she’s still gonna come out and play! Ain’t nothing gonna stop her!

LESSON WITH PEACHES & PORTION FROM MY PERFORMANCE 4/11/11

Tagged "sandwich generation", acoustic guitar, Aging Parents, Caregiving, composing, creativity, Friendship, guitar, lyric development, lyrics, Music, Ordinary Life, original songs, performing, singing, songwriting, voice lessons, writing | 1 Comment

SHE SANG AND HER TEARS DRIED

Posted on April 7, 2011 by Judy

A picture of my parents that was taken before the ravages of old age took over.

I was definitely moving slower and I couldn’t bend my arm much. I wished I wasn’t so irritable and had more patience with my youngest son this morning. It was especially painful knowing that I yelled at him before he left for school.

I put on my iPod as I left my house. My music played and was soothing for me. My first stop was to see my father. I had learned this morning that he would be having some procedures done in the afternoon. He had some blood clots in his lungs and a “filter” would be permanently placed in a leg artery to prevent any more clots from traveling upward. A stent needed to be placed into his kidney to drain fluid before he could have surgery to remove two, large kidney stones. That surgery would happen in a few weeks, I was told.

Those details are important information I must share to update my family members, but certainly not what I wanted to write about.

When I walked into the room where I was told my father would be, I was startled to see he wasn’t there. I walked out because there was someone else in the room. I went outside again and looked at the number on the door as I shook my head. Where else could he be?

I went back into the room and felt shock wash over me. The old man in the bed with his mouth open and eyes closed was my father. I hadn’t recognized him!

Without waking him, I sat in a chair next to his bed listening to music and just thinking. I took a picture of him, but wasn’t sure whether I would share it.

A nurse came in and put on the light. My father opened his eyes. He looked glad to see me. He asked me if I had brought him the Chapstick he wanted for his parched lips. I had only remembered when I parked, and bought some at the hospital pharmacy before coming to his room.

I gently applied it, painfully aware of how weak he was, because he was not able to do it by himself.

In a gravelly voice my father lectured me. He repeated the same instructions to me about my children and their “responsibilities.” I was patient, because normally I would have gotten angry and told him to reduce my stress and not add to it!

I wondered if he was nervous about his surgery and his “mortality.” He said, “When I’m better I am going to start throwing things away where I live!” It left me imagining that his current room was probably uninhabitable.

When I was growing up, he and my mother would fight over his hoarding problem quite often. My mother would cry and beg him to “clean up” an area of the house that he had “taken over.” He would always promise he would but he was such a serious hoarder that he could never part with anything.

He started to tell me where to find things that might be valuable. I got upset when he told me about some savings bonds that were in my brothers’ names. His instructions were complicated and I needed to gather them from different locations. I felt my voice tighten as I said, “Why haven’t you just told them? You could give me one less job!”

My father’s eyes flashed at that. He said, “Don’t start in with that! I’m telling you because I know you’re the one who will follow through with these things.”

I felt angry but held it in. I had to leave. It was time for me to go see my mother.

Receiving cards like this one from my friend, Marge, was definitely uplifting!

The burn was tightening and aching. I had several, big bags to carry. I had bought a deli lunch, and had some other bags with new blouses and makeup for my mom. There was no question I was her hero again today.

Her caregiver, Miriam had set up an area for us to eat lunch in a separate room at her facility. As the three of us ate, I could see my mother was confused about many things, but she was happy. That made her confusion bearable for me. I didn’t taste the food I had brought, and ate way too much. It was understandable because I could feel that I had stuffed too many feelings.

It was Miriam that gave me comfort. She was so helpful, kind, and loving. I felt like I had another, new friend in my life.

I had an appointment to check my burn after lunch. I was very tired, but glad that I would find out how it was healing. I spent over half and hour with a male nurse. He took pictures of my arm from many directions, and told me, “Oh, I’ve seen much worse burns than yours. Sometimes the blisters are bouncing like jellyfish!”

I told him that my arm was that way only two days ago. However, now it really was hurting me – I even had trouble playing my guitar. I was told to come back in a week and given the same steps of instructions to care for my burn. He said that I had done a good job; there was no sign of infection. It was a relief.

I came home and called the hospital to see how my father’s procedure had gone. I was told that I needed to call again later, because he was in recovery and his nurse was not available to speak with me.

I opened my mail. There was a letter from a song contest I had entered. It had cost me $30 per song, and I had entered four of my songs.

Clicking on this makes it larger.

As I read the letter, I knew right away I hadn’t won. I admonished myself for allowing my “dream” to give me false hope. Each of my four songs was critiqued, and I read carefully what was written. I could feel the disappointment inside of me.

I decided to rest for a bit. In my darkened bedroom I was sad. I needed to digest all the things that had happened to me over the past week.

I called the hospital again and was told my father’s procedure went fine. I thought I’d try his cell phone and was surprised when he answered it.

As we spoke, I realized how grateful I was that he was coherent and aware of everything – unlike my mother. He was truly a brilliant man. I asked him how he was feeling, if he had any pain.

He surprised me when he said with his voice full of emotion, “I am still here. I survived!”

I got off the phone and went to play my guitar. I could not sing anything. I played the chords and tears streamed down my cheeks.

I could taste their saltiness. I began to softly sing a few of my songs.

It was then that I decided I had indulged my “self-pity” enough. I knew I would write and tried to find clarity about everything I was feeling.

It was easy.

I was successful in my first career as an illustrator, though I was not wealthy. I have touched many people with my writing and songs, and certainly I have not made any money.

I didn’t need a song contest to prove the worthiness of my musical compositions.

There was only one thing in my life that truly counted. And there was no rating that I needed from anyone else for that.

That would be “performing as a good person,” as a human who had made a difference on this earth.

I decided to give myself a ten.