myjourneysinsight

WITH ALL THIS PAIN, I CAN’T REMAIN – PART 2

Posted on May 28, 2013 by Judy

Today is my “anniversary of the heart.” My son Jason, who died in 1992, would have been 26 years old today. He never grows any older. Forever, he remains frozen in time for me at the age of five.

Below is a link to my story about a special song of mine called “Every Season.” This song was the very first completely new song that I composed after rediscovering my music at the age of fifty. Originally, I named my song “Every Season You Come Back To Me,” but later on I decided I preferred shorter titles.

I recently recorded a new vocal for my song. Below is a link to my story and song:

EVERY SEASON YOU COME BACK TO ME

A few days ago, I received a beautiful card from my brother and sister-in-law. I am so touched how they remember this day every year. My mother used to also send me a card, but dementia has stolen her awareness. When I was married, anniversaries of the heart were not mentioned between my husband and I. He hated dealing with anything related to grief, so I never brought up that it was the obvious day of pain. Sometimes, I even wondered if he remembered or not.

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The sentence that really touches me is, “We remember all the years that he has missed and we have missed him.”

There are many “triggers” that can cause me to become emotional at this moment. Going through a divorce and having eyesight issues have left me vulnerable. But my sentence below is huge and absolutely true.

After twenty years, I am certain that I have healed from grief over the death of my son.

About two months ago, I attended a funeral for the mother of my close friend, Cheryl. Cheryl died five years ago from breast cancer and I did not attend her funeral in Cleveland. I felt grief on that day, because it was an opportunity for me to remember my dear friend as I listened to beautiful tributes about her mother.

The cemetery for this funeral was the same one where Jason was buried. I decided to take a quick walk to visit his grave before the casket was lowered for Cheryl’s mother. Jason’s grave was at the bottom of the hill and I gingerly walked to find it. As always, I caught my breath to see my son’s name carved in stone. But inside, I felt peaceful and accepting.

There was a lovely breeze surrounding me that day. As I walked back up the hill to rejoin the funeral, I felt Jason hugging me. Cheryl was holding me, too.

I have tremendous compassion for people who are grieving. I frequently write messages on grief forums to instill hope. Many people are absolutely certain they will live out the remainder of their life in anguish.

My messages always affirm that healing is possible. I understand the resistance I often encounter to my optimism, because when I was deeply grieving it seemed remote. But I always held onto hope. Hope kept me going.

To shed more light upon this, I share below some of the responses of grieving mothers on a Facebook site. A newly bereaved mother posted two questions. I have copied some of the replies out of hundreds (listed in blue below). 99% of them echoed these same feelings:

Her questions were:

How long did it take you to accept that your children are gone? And for you to get back to life to live again and be happy?

Never! I will never ever be happy until I’m back with son again.

It’s 7 years since I lost my daughter. I will never be happy again. My life was over the day I lost her. I miss her so much.

It will never happen!

I still have a hard time accepting my son is gone and everyone is different. To move on is hard for me and that is why I am in therapy and take meds.

No one can tell you when it will be normal again, but for me I will never be whole again because of that big hole left in my heart that can never be filled.

I don’t think we will ever be truly happy again.

I accepted it the day my daughter died and the day I buried my son. You have to keep on living. They wouldn’t want us to stop. You just have to live one day at a time. I can’t be completely happy, but it does get a little easier to cope. I’ve tried, but when two of my children died I think half my heart died, too.

I haven’t and I never will.

6 years on from the murder of my 25-year-old son and I still can’t accept that he has gone. I will never be happy again until I am with him.

You never do, you learn how to live with it!

I think that if I ever truly accepted that my daughter was gone, that would be the day I would totally go insane. I have to hold onto the fact that she is with me or I can’t make it. I have accepted the fact that I will never be “happy” in this life again. This is my life now and I live it one day at a time.

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Below is my answer to the question on Facebook about acceptance and happiness after losing a child:

Although it is unimaginable that you will ever heal from the death of your child, do not give up hope. It is possible.

I don’t speak for anyone else, but it happened for me. I never believed it would when I was suffering.

It has been 20 years since my 5-year-old son died. I accept his death; I am at peace with it.

Acceptance does not mean I love him any less. For decades, I died inside to be closer to him, but it did not bring him back to me.

It is true that you learn to live with it; there is little choice. It is a horrible adjustment and I carry scars from the amputation of my soul. I can easily remember the pain. I picture my child’s death as if it happened yesterday.

But happiness is possible.

It just isn’t comforting to tell yourself that you will never be happy. That is a powerful message. It stays in your subconscious and causes you to remain in a state of suffering. Your dead child loves you and that love translates to trying your best to survive and live your life carrying that love. Your child does not want you to suffer!

The best message you can tell yourself when you are anguished is that someday it will be easier. You will be at peace and the sun will shine again. Never give up hope!

Below are my exchanges on an Internet grief forum. My words are in brown:

We’re told not to worry about tomorrow. We know that worry is not productive. Yet, when child loss enters our lives, it’s as though the bottom dropped out and our trust in good things happening to good people who try to do their best dropped to the bottomless pit and worry came flying up to the top of our minds! Losing a child means that anything — absolutely anything — can happen to us, and that causes our hearts and minds to swirl around and around with worry. Our faith suddenly needs props to hold us up. We feel so weak and so vulnerable. We sit awake dreaming up every possible thing that could happen. Why? Because we now know what it feels like to have the very life sucked out of us and we are constantly hoping, praying and yes — worrying — that we never go through a pain like this again!

I am still waiting for one day of peace …

I cry reading this. But your last line is hopeful, which I am certain will lift you through this hell. I try to hold onto things that are helpful.

I believe this tenant from hypnotherapy of: “The more you look for something, the more that you will find it.”

Statements of: “It will never get better” and “I will feel this way forever” generally are not comforting at all. But when we are grieving – it is certainly easy to go there. Your last line of waiting for peace, therefore, is extremely positive and beautiful. It says a lot and is very helpful for you.

But right now, your soul has been amputated and you are bleeding out. Peace is elusive and unbelievable while you are in horrific pain.

Set the bar a little lower. A day of peace is too much to expect right now. I will wish for you a single moment.

It will come – trust me.

“The more you look for something, the more that you will find it”…. I am aching, I am reaching out, I am yearning, I am looking for…my son!

That’s understandable because he’s been stolen from you. You’ve lost a piece of your soul. No doubt there is yearning and aching. You will find your son. He will appear to you in a different form in your life. It will happen someday, trust me. With grief, our life can never be what it once was.

You will find a new existence. But it is awful when they die and we die with them. It feels like that is the only way to be with them.

You are still alive, but it is too hard. I remember the pain well. I have few words of comfort because telling you it will get better doesn’t help at the moment.

I am crying for you because I’ve never forgotten how awful it is. I am so sorry.

If anyone were to ask me how I am, I would tell him or her I am under construction. I feel like Humpty Dumpty. I have shattered into a million pieces and nobody can put me together again… except me. The pieces are hard to realign with my shattered soul, and each one takes a toll on my heart, but little by little they find their place and hold.

The other night I lay awake, as I usually do, thinking of how broken my life is now and suddenly I had the feeling of a lid settling over me and snapping into place. Odd comparison I know, but it felt that way. When I heard the click of it settle I actually sighed because I understood. I understood suddenly that this was meant to be. That my son’s journey was meant to end here and it was OK. He was fine and happy and we were meant to go on without him. It was a wonderful moment of realization and I marveled at its simplicity.

Then just as suddenly that lid was yanked off and all the pain and grief that it kept out came pouring in on me again…. with a vengeance. I sobbed for hours and tried to find that peace again but have not been able to. I know it is out there; I just have to continue this journey and reconstruct my life. It has not been easier but harder, much harder. The anger is still there. The resentment is still there. The shock of it all is still there. It has been nine months since my soul has been ripped apart. Nine months and I still wait for him to call or walk through the door. I miss his wonderful personality. I miss his sense of humor. I miss his joy in living. I miss him.

Whenever you write, I cry for you! I don’t know what to say. Your words are a perfect description of what I also experienced.

Grief is definitely a journey and you are realizing things that took me far longer to understand. Perhaps that was because I pushed grief aside for many years. Grief that is “unaddressed” is waiting for us later in life. I learned that.

You are facing your grief head on. I know you cannot see the inspiration in your words. There is so much hope for you and you will help many other people with grief someday. I am certain of that.

You will always miss your son and wonder. The pain isn’t forgotten. But you will find another life beyond this. The hardest part is surviving the agony until you get there.

Judy, I certainly don’t feel like an inspiration…. at all. I feel like a hot mess.

–

A few weeks later, the woman whom I corresponded with above wrote to someone else. She responded to the message below:

I have really been down since my wife died. I don’t know how to ever get over it.

This was what she wrote:

I am so sorry for your loss. You have taken the first step…..sharing your feelings with someone. We all know the grief you are experiencing. We all know this journey.

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Continue to share here and the many voices of those that have traveled this road before you will help guide you.

Happy Birthday, Jason.

© 2013 by Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com. 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, Healing and Hope | Tagged child's death, compassionate friends, composing, death, death of a child, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, guitar, healing, healing from grief, healing music, hopefulness, inspiration, is happiness possible after losing a child, loss, optimism and grief, original songs, singing, songwriting | 9 Comments

WITH ALL THIS PAIN, I CAN’T REMAIN – PART 1

Posted on May 26, 2013 by Judy

This past weekend I performed at a party hosted by Anita and Igal Kohavi; their talented son Darrin also performed, as well as a few other musicians. I befriended the Kohavi family because I record vocals in their wonderful home recording studio.

The party was on the day that marked the one-year anniversary of my father’s death. It was Memorial Day weekend and that was also poignant for me because my deceased son’s birthday falls around that weekend every year.

Unfortunately, most of the evening I was worried about whether I saw sparks in my vision, which meant I could be having a retinal detachment. I wasn’t sure if what I was seeing was related to my eyesight or the tiny light bulbs lining the outdoor performing area. I planned to make another appointment with a retinologist as soon as possible or go to the ER if it became worse.

I played 3 songs and shared a lot about my life in only twenty minutes. I actually enjoyed speaking more than singing. It was very challenging for me to sing because my acoustic guitar blasted through an amplifier loudly; I had little experience singing outdoors.

But my audience was receptive; the people listening were kind and embraced me.

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Clicking the blue links below, plays brief excerpts from my performance:

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BLOG EXCERPT – Performance of Every Season

BLOG EXCERPT – Performance of The Unknown

BLOG EXCERPT – Performance of Set You Free

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As I write this post, I am trying gamely to cope with extremely uncomfortable eyesight. My eyes are not mine anymore and this has deeply affected my quality of life.

This is a result of both of my eyes experiencing PVD, also known as Posterior Vitreous Detachment. It happened to my left eye in January and last week my right eye was afflicted. It seems that having cataract surgery last year accelerated many problems for me due to my severe nearsightedness.

I went on the Internet and the consensus from the medical profession is that this condition is untreatable and something you eventually adjust to; it often takes a year. But I also found words written by other people suffering greatly with all of the same symptoms I had.

I see shadows from dark floaters. There is fogginess; many blurs and my eyes actually feel wobbly. On top of this, I’ve developed sensations as a result of a dry eye condition. My eyes continually water and feel uncomfortable. Daylight hurts.

I am having difficulty functioning and am discouraged. My brain is screaming loudly that this is intolerable. I quiet the screaming by playing music and it does help. But my days are harder than I ever imagined. There is a part two for this post, where I will write more about this.

I wonder when I will start feeling better.

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I took this picture in Kimberly’s back yard while waiting, before my voice lesson. Although it was a beautiful day, the floaters and blurs in both eyes disturbed me greatly.

I took this picture in Kimberly’s back yard while waiting for my voice lesson. Although it was a beautiful day, the floaters and blurs in both eyes disturbed me greatly.

I have no regrets about where my life is right now. I love the freedom I have to pursue my music and singing. I go to places that heal me and feel as if I am the richest woman in the world.

There are so many things I am grateful for. Often, when I am faced with suffocating stress I use humor to help me. I started to write, “There is no end to stress for me,” but decided it would lead to more stress and that certainly wouldn’t be helpful. I really do try to frame all of my thoughts in a positive way.

For two weeks, I’ve had a refrigerator that defrosts and refreezes. Once again, I thanked my father in heaven for buying me an extended warranty. The first repairman that came told me he couldn’t find a problem. On that day, the refrigerator was “refreezing” and getting cold again.

Two days later, my floor was covered with towels to soak up the puddles again. I was back on the phone with the warranty department for the umpteenth time.

The good news after all of this stress, was that I would be getting a brand new refrigerator. My refrigerator was determined to have a Freon leak, which could not be repaired.

I decided to be savvy and use up all of the low-calorie ice cream bars that were misshapen. I asked my 16-year-old son if he would like a smoothie. As he was sipping it, he said, “Mom, I hate to tell you this, but there are splinters in my smoothie!”

I felt a big splinter in my own mouth at that moment. What I thought was a chip of ice, turned out to be a chunk of a Popsicle stick.

I told my son, “Sorry! Your mom’s eyesight is not what it used to be!”

“I hope to be there”

Last week, my oldest son graduated for college. I was waiting with a camera and felt lucky to have planted myself in a perfect spot; I was in front of the processional that was soon to begin. I planned to capture the perfect moment as my son marched forward. My eyes were teary and my heart swelled as the graduation march played. I watched face after face walk by – eyes sparkling, hands waving and feet dancing. I couldn’t wait to see my son.

There were many graduates in his major and it took over half an hour. My camera battery was running low. When the last one walked by, I was exhausted and concerned because I hadn’t seen my son. Earlier, I had sent him a text message that I was waiting for him at his graduation. I looked at my cell phone and saw there was a message back from him. It was, “I hope to be there.”

Fortunately, he did make it. I received another text message that he was able to hop a fence and sit in the area with the other graduates. After the ceremony we connected and I finally got some beautiful pictures. He told me it would be okay to share our picture.

He graduated with honors despite dealing with his parents’ divorce and grandfather’s death. On top of that, he moved the day before his graduation and helped my husband tremendously. I am so proud of him!’

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From the beginning of my journey, I have written with complete honesty. The title of this post is a line of lyrics from my song “The Unknown.” I have not shared that song yet because it is very personal and painful for me.

The line of lyrics “With all this pain, I can’t remain,” relates to three things in my life. In my song, it is about the pain in my marriage. And those words apply to my eyesight, as I struggle with complications related to my three cataract surgeries. Lastly, those words also relate to my feelings about grief.

I began my blog by spilling out everything I was carrying inside for decades. I was truly living like a zombie because I never expressed any of my feelings.

The release and joy that I found as a result of writing for my blog, ground to a halt when I realized that I could not share with honesty what I was living with on a daily basis. I wrote my song “The Unknown” during a very lonely time in my life. My marriage was empty and had been for a very long time. My parents could no longer emotionally sustain me and their decline was devastating. For certain, my husband was miserable, too.

I was terrified to address my situation. I didn’t want to hurt my husband or children, but it was impossible for me to continue sleeping at the edge of the bed, never being touched or complimented. My husband was not a bad person and I didn’t want to hurt him. It would have been unfair to force him to change into someone he could never be. I was married to a man who was extremely negative about life and I couldn’t counter it anymore. My heart had grown cold and felt like stone; there was no chance I could have feelings for him ever again. The thought that my life was this dreary at the age of 53 was too sad to face.

I decided I was ready to face turning both our lives upside down because this was not really living. Our communication was so poor, that we never even discussed why I wanted a divorce. I was racked with guilt for hurting him because he was a good person.

At this moment, I believe I am suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. Simply shopping in a supermarket floods me with painful memories. A carton of strawberries can evoke heartache because I remember constantly buying them for my husband. I always made sure he had a bowl prepared every morning and evening. Despite the emptiness I felt and our extreme lack of communication, I always tried to make his life easier and do the things that I hoped would make him happy. It was an unending job that filled me with frustration.

Recently, a friend was joking. He imitated my husband by admonishing me loudly for putting something down in the wrong place. But while he was laughing, I started shaking and then began to cry. He was sorry and I was ashamed at my reaction. But it was understandable for me.

In my former life, I was so used to making sure that everything was in its place; my life was filled with many rules to follow. Doors and windows had to be closed or open in a certain way. The toilet seat always needed to be up in our bathroom and the shower door left half open. I never succeeded at completing all of those tasks; there was such a long list of rules in my brain. My husband constantly reminded me of my failure if one thing was not done properly. I could not keep up with getting my children or housekeeper to follow the rules either.

I relish my new life where I still follow many of those rules because of decades of habit, but am relieved that no one is looking over my shoulder.

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Tagged acoustic guitar, cataract surgery complications, cataracts, Cataracts when in fifties, composing, coping with divorce, divorce after a long marriage, eye gel separation, eyesight adjustment, gray divorce, guitar, impending divorce, inspiration, loss, lovesong, Music, original songs, performing, Posterior Vitreous Detachment, separation, separation and divorce, singing, songwriting, writing | 5 Comments

YOU’RE WITH ME – PART 2

Posted on May 21, 2013 by Judy

This post is dedicated to my father. Today would have been his eighty-ninth birthday. One year ago today, he went into a coma and died five days later. My song “With Me” was written a month after his death.

Link to performances, stories, lyrics and recordings: WITH ME

LINK TO MORE ABOUT THIS SONG:

Story behind WITH ME – PART 1

Story behind WITH ME-PART 3

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I look at the clouds and see your face

You’re watching me; smiling from space

Not sure where I’m going or when I’ll get there

But you are with me; you’re everywhere

When I’m discouraged, sometimes I crawl

You hold me up so I won’t fall

Not sure of my life now or where I will go

But you are with me; that much I know

With me, when I was born

With me as I mourn

With me in every song

You’re with me to keep me strong

With me every day

With me in every way

With me and always near

You take away all of my fear

Not sure of my future, but I’ve always known

That you are with me; I’m not alone

Though I can’t see you; you’re not in sight

Through the darkness you are my light

Not sure what will happen or how things will be

Yet I am certain, you are with me

With me, when I was born

With me as I mourn

With me in every song

You’re with me to keep me strong

With me every day

With me in every way

With me and always near

You take away the fear

With me when I cry

With me when I die

Watching my life unfold

You’re with me, as I grow old

You’re with me . . . as I grow old

–

My parents’ wedding portrait from 1950.

My parents gave me so much love and I still can feel it.

Oh dad, how quickly this year has gone by since your death. I can easily picture that moment when you died. You opened your eyes and I watched as your soul was lifted to God.

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I was so blessed to have such a loving father as you. With mom’s dementia, we became close and were a comfort to each other.

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I hated that you suffered so much. Even though you were in terrible pain, you were always worried about me. I miss having you there to worry about me. But on the other hand, I am very relieved that you are not here worrying about me!

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I waited until you were gone to end my marriage; we talked about it and you completely supported me. But it was best that you did not witness my transition; it would have caused you great distress.

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I loved sharing all of my excitement with you about my journey. At first you were skeptical, but later on you really had so much faith in me. You even listened to many of my audio stories and gave me feedback. I’m sorry that it was painful for you to listen to some of my stories. You said you could not bear hearing about my grief and suffering.

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Dad, I still feel blanketed by your love. I look at clouds and imagine you watching me. If I close my eyes, I can hear your voice. When I cry, I feel your tears raining upon me from above.

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I stay positive because I prefer for you to beam from heaven instead of crying.

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You are with me always.

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Judy & Lee 2

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Things I wish I could tell my father:

Dad, I have been very careful not to let eggshells fall into the sink. You always told me not to put them in the garbage disposal because they turn into sand and cause problems.

I’ve tried hard to continue to grow my fingernails. You were so thrilled about that. Recently, I have had a few lapses where I’ve bitten them, but I’m certain I will overcome this.

I’m sorry we didn’t eat at IHOP (Pancake House) the week before you died. When you started to cry about it, I told you that it was easier to go to a different restaurant that day. I know you wanted me to find ways to make my life easier and I hoped you’d get over it. Now I regret it very much, especially because you went into a coma on your birthday.

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Dad, you always raved about the eye surgeon who did cataract surgery on both you and mom. I knew you would have been happy knowing he did my cataract surgery, too. Only a few months after you died, I had my surgery.

I told this doctor how much you worshipped him before he operated on me. Even though he was an excellent surgeon, I know that if you were alive you would be very aggravated about my current situation.

Dad, I still carry your favorite “sand pillow” in my car. You wanted me to have it for you when you went to the dentist. Yesterday, I had an appointment and memories came back to me of us going together to that dentist shortly before you died.

You were in so much pain that day and still grateful that I took you to that appointment. You were elated just to be with me, even if it was going to the dentist!

I try not to correct other people by telling them to say “well” instead of “good.” I wish I felt well, and I try hard to stay positive because you loved me so much.

You would be proud that I am working on an illustration assignment.

And when I spent an hour dealing with Medi-Cal issues for mom yesterday, I could feel your sympathy. I heard you say, “Don’t deal with it, cut back!”

Unfortunately, I must deal with many things related to mom’s care. It is amazing the way she clings to life and I am blessed that she is comfortable and not in pain.

Thank you for leaving enough money to pay for her companion, Miriam.

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The sale on my former house is going through. Thankfully, it came just in time so that there will be money for me to buy the coop and have funds to pay Miriam.

Your grandson misses you so much. He treasures the coin collection you gave to him and talks about it all the time. He tells me that he tries not to chew on ice and stands up straighter because he hears your voice. I hear those things, too.

His college graduation is tomorrow. You were trying hard to stay alive to see that day. I know you’ll be sitting right there with us. It is because of you that my son is who he is today. He has grieved you deeply and I remind him that you wouldn’t want him to be sad.

I wish there was some way that my brothers could reunite. I wish I could do more, but honestly I’m incapable right now. If you were still alive, you could not bear this – I know.

I realize now that you planned for me to live at your coop. Thank you, dad. You continue to take care of me from heaven.

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© 2014 by Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com. 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.

Tagged "sandwich generation", acoustic guitar, Aging Parents, comfort while grieving, composing, dad died, death of a father, father's death, father's illness, grief, GRIEF RELATED, grieving a dad, grieving a father, grieving my dad, guitar, inspiration, loss, lovesong, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, Music, original songs, singing, songwriting, with me, writing | 2 Comments

MY TEARS I HIDE

Posted on May 17, 2013 by Judy

The princess considered her music a “magical elixir.” It swirled around her like a soft blanket of comfort; it was indeed enchanting the way it soothed her soul.

Music was her true companion; it was such a special friend. Sometimes, she even envisioned a musical fairy dancing around her. The fairy’s name was Melody and God had sent this beautiful fairy to help her.

Melody was very attached to the princess and thankful that she could ease all of the princess’s sorrow. One day, God told Melody that the princess would face even more challenges. Melody wept because she wasn’t sure the princess could overcome sadness anymore.

For the past month, Melody had stayed close to the princess. She was so relieved that the princess was slowly lifting herself off the ground. Most of the time, the princess stayed positive and treasured the many wonderful aspects of her new life.

She did not miss the dragon and soon he would be leaving their castle. Their castle held many memories; sad ones, as well as happy ones. Now the castle had sold, and the princess realized that she never even bid it farewell.

It was too much for her to think about. For the moment, she decided that she far preferred her tiny cottage; to her it was paradise. She did have smaller dragons to deal with. At times it made her crazy, but she maintained her sense of humor. Her children were destined to be princes and princesses and she hoped that one day they would discover that.

She had dispelled a great deal of her sadness. The webs in her eye were still there, but she focused on other things.

But the spider named Sadness had other ideas. One night, she crept into the princess’s bed. The princess awoke to discover that suddenly webs were completely obscuring vision in the eye she relied on.

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At first, she was incredulous. But then, the princess went into deep despair. All she could do was cry and grieve the vision she once had. She withdrew in sadness. The white spider had succeeded.

Melody alighted upon the princess and gently tried to lift her spirits. The princess’s lip trembled and her voice was shaky as she tried to continue singing. Melody swirled notes around the princess as the princess closed her eyes. Even though the webs were unbearable, Melody wove her magic within the webs as she cried along with her.

Once upon a time, the Princess began a journey to touch many people. Now the princess could barely remember when she was joyful. Her ocean of tears had returned.

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Melody embraced the princess so tightly. The princess would journey with Melody and a white spider named Sadness for now.

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Email message to a friend:

Yesterday, I had a big disturbance in my GOOD eye. Just like what happened to my left eye in January, the gel separated from the eye wall in my right eye. There are large areas of blurriness (from blood) and dark floaters everywhere on both eyes now. I am very discouraged. This is even harder and I am overwhelmed!

Today, I happen to have an appointment to see my eye surgeon. I waited three weeks for this appointment and it was to deal with dryness and inflammation – not this! I want to scream and cry. I hope I can hold it together.

I feel like I am walking through life with a filthy windshield now. All of my words to help other people with grief now apply to me. I hate this situation but have no alternatives.

It is very hard focus on anything. Thank god, for the music that is helping me now.

Message to a tennis friend: (my words are in blue)

I am having MORE problems with my eyes. I had another episode of bleeding inside my good eye. I’m very discouraged and do not feel like playing tennis tomorrow. I’ll play if you can’t find anyone – but I am definitely not in a good place.

My friends reply:

I don’t have another player but what can I say if you don’t want to play???

I’ll be there. I’m just having a tough time. But playing is probably good for me, even if my eyes are crummy. I have acuity, but not clarity. It’s hard to explain. I’m not blind, but I hate what is going on!

The next day, I drove to play tennis. I hardly had slept the night before. My mind crackled on and on; like a radio blaring it was noisy. I could hear my own audio stories with words that loudly echoed through my mind. I was thinking about my story named Grief 101. There was a part where I stated my true feelings about grief. I was angry with God and said: “How could you give me this amazing gift and then take it away!”

My eyesight could not possibly be comparable to my dead son, but I was grief-stricken. How would I live with this situation? What was my alternative? As I drove, I concentrated so as to drive safely. But blurriness and shadows were swirling everywhere. Later in the day, I would see my eye surgeon. However, I knew that there was nothing he would be able to do to help my vision. Seeing him was awkward. He felt he had done his part. He was an excellent surgeon and my cataract surgery was considered successful. Unfortunately, I had so many complications, which were probably a result of my extreme nearsightedness.

I openly sobbed as I drove. This was too much! I put on music to soothe myself and heal my pain. But still, pain and sadness were shooting through every fiber of my being.

The last thing I wanted to be doing was to be playing tennis at a country club. My Friday game was normally played at a backyard tennis court. But today it had been scheduled at this club because our usual court wasn’t available. I hoped I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. I wore dark glasses and held back tears as I exited my car.

My body was heavy and I felt very vulnerable as I held my racquet. I began warming up and was grateful that I could still hit the tennis balls with my annoying eyesight. This was certainly better for me than hiding in my apartment.

After a short while, I decided it was actually a beautiful day. I closed my eyes and felt a soft breeze. I inhaled the aroma of chaparral from the nearby hillside. Perhaps life could still be decent, even if my vision stayed this way. I was determined to find a way.

I was introduced to another woman player who was filling in for our group. When I told her I was going through a divorce, I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me. I quickly let her know it was my choice and briefly shared my story. Then she said, “Well you must be happy about your decision, because there is definitely a glow coming from you.”

I was surprised to hear that. I didn’t feel like there was any glow about me. I accepted her words and was pleased that despite my pain I could still smile.

The two hours went by and as soon as it was over, I fled to my car. I needed my music to soothe me immediately. I was in an emotional crisis because I began crying again.

But playing tennis was excellent information for me. My eyesight was acceptable because I could still hit a tennis ball. I had actually played fairly well and that amazed me.

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Later that day, I had an appointment with the ophthalmologist who had done my three cataract surgeries. Just as I expected, he explained to me that no treatment existed for annoying floaters; eventually I would get used to them. He examined my retinas, and they were intact; I was grateful about that. He did say that my dryness and inflammation could be treated with another eye drop medication. I left with a prescription. He said it would take at least several weeks before I would notice any improvement. His last words were, “Do not call me for another appointment until at least six weeks go by!”

I walked to my car with my eyes still dilated. My discomfort was so intense, that I began to cry again as I drove home. I stopped crying once I put on my music. Over and over, I thanked god for my musical elixir.

It was clear to me. My annoying eyesight was sucking the joy out of my life.

It made it difficult for me to concentrate and to do many things. It gave me headaches, especially when I was doing artwork. But I could still draw. I could drive. I could still work with my computer and play tennis. How fortunate I was!

My greatest challenge was to find my joy again. I suffered for so many years with grief, and was a zombie for decades after that. My journey had brought me boundless joy. Now I was sad and grieving for my former eyesight!

The insight from this was profound. Perhaps God had another message for me, since the word “insight” includes sight!

Grief is part of life.

In an instant, we can lose something that we take for granted. Time might heal, but moves slowly when you are in pain.

No one else can truly know of our pain unless they are also living with it. I do maintain hope that I will feel better soon, but at this moment I am simply putting one foot in front of the other.

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