myjourneysinsight

YOU HAVE NO HOPE

Posted on December 30, 2012 by Judy

My post title is from a lyric line in my song “Hang On.”

My post title is taken from the lyrics of my song “Hang On.”

Recently, I wrote about a new direction in my life. I began reading other blogs.

Suddenly, I felt far less alone. There were so many wonderful words and I found myself reaching out to other writers. As a result, I also had a new audience of readers with whom to share my story.

I was particularly touched by a searing post, written by a grieving widow. I often reach out to other bereaved parents because I am one. It was interesting for me to be so affected by the grief from this widow.

I had never read anything more desolate before.

The post was named: My Mystical Quandary.

–

The blog’s title was: Doyle’s Widow / searching for a way home. (Please note that all of the blue post-titles are links back to the author’s blog.)

Reading her despairing words, compelled me to comment. But what could I possibly say? I was going through a divorce and certainly could not imagine a widow’s pain. I never considered myself a grief counselor.

But I deeply believed in healing and felt compelled to share my optimism.

And so it was that a month ago, that I wrote my comment and an exchange with Doyle’s widow began. Her name was Relinda.

Our correspondence inspired me very much and actually allowed me to clarify many of my own feelings about healing. After writing my first comment to her, I expanded upon the metaphor of grief being like a wildfire on my next blog post.

–

Here are excerpts from our first exchange. Her words are in brown and mine are in blue.

–

Dear Relinda,

–

As you pour out your pain, which you express beautifully – one day you will discover joy again. It is not your destiny to suffer. I pray for some hope to gently whisper something into your ear. Listen carefully, because it will come. Grief can cause total devastation, but like after a fire burns – growth and life are possible again.

–

I will agree with you in that I believe that is true for most; however, I do think my destiny is to grieve forever. Thanks for your thoughts, Judy.

–

I continued commenting to Relinda about my optimism related to healing. No matter what I wrote, she politely thanked me and then reaffirmed that she would never stop grieving.

On her story “A Mystical Quandary” she wrote that without her husband’s encouragement, she had little desire to write. She also felt no one wanted to read her sad writing and she was a fraud for hiding her grief.

After two weeks, I went back to leave her another comment. I wanted to encourage her to write.

I also knew that holidays are awful when grieving, and I was especially sad for her.

–

This watercolor painting of mine portrays isolation

This watercolor painting of mine feels like isolation.

I wrote her this message:

–

Relinda, do not hide your grief. Keep writing. I will continue to read whatever you write. I am waiting for more. Holidays are very hard when you are grieving. I want you to know that I am envious of you. I never experienced the love that you lost. I’m 53 and wonder if I’ll ever experience it. I don’t expect to because I feel condemned to being alone. It’s my choice with divorce now and that leads me to a different form of grief. I support you, Relinda. Please write more.

–

Thank you, Judy. I appreciate your support. I will write more soon. The holidays are especially difficult for me because I buried my love two days prior to Christmas Eve. Today is the three-year anniversary of his death. I believe that you will find that kind of love, Judy. It is there when you stop looking. Thank you for your encouragement.

–

Although you are certain about your grief lasting, trust me, you are wrong. Open your heart to the possibility of healing. Even if you do not believe it, you will find signs of feeling better. Your encouragement to me is the same. I find it unlikely that I will find that kind of love, and you said I would when I stop looking.I am so sorry for the pain on this 3rd anniversary! I believe you will soon reach a turning point. I am going to tell you that when you stop telling yourself that you will grieve forever, you might actually start to see signs of healing. Healing does not mean you love him less. A sign of a good relationship is the ability to love again. But start with yourself. You are beautiful and worthy. You will help many people with your insight. Keep writing about it and on this sad anniversary I am thinking of you.

–

Thanks, Judy. I appreciate your optimism. I don’t tell myself that I will grieve forever, my heart tells me. For some, the love of your life comes along once, he and I shared that kind of relationship. Thank you again and you are in my thoughts as well.

—

I envy you for experiencing that kind of love. A broken heart definitely speaks – in my deep grief I wrote many things that I feel differently about now. I have thought of you throughout the holidays and hope you will write a new post soon. You have eager new readers! Do not hold back. You are absolutely entitled to your feelings and I am expressing my optimism because I never had any for many years.

–

I am glad that you have optimism now. It is hard to live without optimism. Thank you for thinking of me and for reading my blog, Judy.

—

–

This story continues. I did not know Relinda. I only knew her grief was endless and that was all.

Last night, I saw she had a new post on her blog. It was named The Promise. It held a lot of information for me about her. She began her post by sharing a very moving graduation speech. She wrote:

It was during semester finals time that my husband fell ill and my instructors were so kind and worked with me to ensure that I did not drop out. Before he died, Doyle wanted me to tell those instructors what wonderful people they are—I am doing that now. He made me promise that I would finish college.

–

After I read more, I was crying. I hardly could leave a rational comment, but I quickly typed a message to her. For some reason, many feelings began to erupt within me.

–

Relinda, this is so beautiful that I am crying!

–

I am touched that you found it beautiful, Judy; however, please don’t cry. You deserve to smile.

–

Her words touched an even deeper nerve in me. More tears began to flow and were unstoppable. I gasped as my feelings became clear to me:

–

I am crying because I wish I had experienced that kind of love and I am not optimistic about ever having it in my lifetime. You are my inspiration for being able to fulfill Doyle’s promise while crawling with your overwhelming grief. I wish I could smile more, but I am mourning many decades of settling for an empty relationship. I do deserve to smile and will keep trying.

–

My heart goes out to you, my friend. I sincerely hope that love finds you because it is obvious that you have a big heart. Look at your reflection and say, “I deserve to be loved the way that I love.”

–

Relinda, perhaps we are alike after all! I cannot imagine myself ever finding that kind of love just as you cannot imagine your grief diminishing. For me, the ultimate love is to find the strength to smile and go on despite grief. I seek to feel complete and find my joy within myself. I am blessed that my music does that for me.

–

I think you are well on your way to finding the love you deserve. Music is a gift indeed.

–

Thank you, Relinda.  I would love to share some of my music with you. I am not confident about my singing, but do feel my songs are touching. If you send me an address, I can mail you a CD.  No worries if you are too busy for this either! I would just love feedback if you felt inclined.

–

I would be honored to hear your music, Judy, and more than happy to provide feedback. Your comments mean so much to me. I appreciate the support and kind thoughts you send my way.

–

Poetry I wrote before I was married at the age of twenty.

These are two verses from my song “Alone.”

I was completely touched that she would listen to my music. Then I saw she had written a new post again.

–

It seemed that she had a lot more to say on the topic of optimism and grief.

–

widow

–

Her post was named Killing Optimism.

–

Every word was searing and the amputation of her soul was complete. It made me realize how foolish grief comparisons were between the loss of a child versus a soul mate. Clearly her amputated soul was nothing I would ever want to measure.

–

Below is an excerpt:

“To live without hope is to cease to live. Hell is hopelessness. It is no accident that above the entrance to Dante’s hell is the inscription: “Leave behind all hope, you who enter here.”  — Jürgen Moltmann

—

An image from Relinda’s blog

It seems that optimism surrounds me. As much as I try to avoid it—it just keeps calling to me. I despise this time of the year. I despise welcoming some new year that offers so little to me.

Grief killed Hope long ago. Hope is no longer pulling at the drawstrings of my mind. I wished upon all the falling stars I could find and I pretended all that one can, prior to completely breaking with reality.

Oh, it was a mighty battle when Hope and Grief tangled. Hope had resorted to hiding among the corners of my mind, just prolonging the inevitable. When Grief found him cowering, he struck a mighty blow, but Hope stood strong and fought to the end. I watched as the two battled like worthy knights battling for the love of a woman. I watched as Grief dealt the deathblow that would silence Hope forever. I cried. Hope was the only chance at renewal. Hope is dead.

How solemn it is to live without Hope. I think knowing him for 44 years makes his absence more devastating. I was an optimist. I always had Hope, even when Hope wanted to go away.

I see the way people look at me now, or rather do not notice me. I suppose that when I had Hope it just did not matter. I was once loved. I was once adored. When you are loved, you perceive a reflection of the person your lover sees. When love goes away and Grief murders Hope, you see an accurate reflection of yourself. When I gaze into a mirror, I see an image so haggard it makes me gasp in disbelief. When Hope is dead, you see only reality. There are no rose-tinted glasses or dreams blocking the accurate view. There is only reality. Reality is lonely.

I found Optimism hiding with all the Others and I asked what it is they are so frightened of and Optimism said they did not want to live in hell anymore.

A photo taken from my wedding video from 1981

© 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 | Tagged child's death, death, death of a spouse, divorce, divorce after a long marriage, divorce and grief, Friendship, gray divorce, grief, grief and optimism, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, healing from grief, hope, hopelessness, inspiration, loss, loss of a husband, loss of a spouse, loss of a wife, love, maintaining hope, optimism, relationships, sadness, separation, separation and divorce, widow, widower, writing | 4 Comments

MEMORIES I TREASURE

Posted on December 21, 2012 by Judy

My post title is a lyric line from my most recent song “Music Saved Me.”

I do have a strong attachment to memories. My memories might involve “objects,” but those objects only serve as a way to remind me of memories filled with special people whom I’ve loved. Some of those memories are sad.

Currently, I’d like to think that I am creating happier memories. There are many “firsts” in my life, as I am now living on my own at the age of 53 for the first time in my life.

–

A picture from when I was 17.

I understand why exciting things in my life can cause me to feel sadness. For decades, I relied upon my parents to cheer me on. Sadly, I didn’t share much with my husband.

Somehow, simply knowing that I can write freely has allowed me to dispel much of that sadness. Finding the courage to change my life, gave me the clarity to know that I was alone for far longer than I realized.

Not being able to express myself was far lonelier than anything else.

Now I can share my insights by writing. But my true expression has been through my music. I am joyful and dancing along to exquisite new songs arrangements that I work on weekly.

–

This image is from a video of one of my performances at Kulak’s Woodshed. Sometimes the video has images that overlap, and I can see myself playing in the refection.

Recently, I told a good friend that my music has allowed me to “keep my sanity.” Later on, it dawned on me that those were not the best choice of words.

Even though I’ve written that “music saved me,” the fact is that I survived the death of my child without any music to help me. I wasn’t insane then, just sad. I see a far more positive way of looking at what my music does for me.

–

My beautiful music inspires me and gives me tremendous appreciation for life.

–

After I wrote of my memories related to my old Previa, I read a post on another blog that really spoke to me. I share an excerpt below. The author is D.D. Wood and her blog always carries such insightful words and beautiful photography (the image above, for example). D.D. is also an established singer/songwriter who has performed in various Disney films. Her blog can be found by clicking this link: Daily Divorce Meditations

“When I first went through my divorce, my feelings and my memories were so intense that they often hindered my progress in the present.

I spent so much time examining what had happened in my past, turning over each and every memory to see if it held the answer to what went wrong, that I wasn’t living in the moment.

I found myself unable to recover from my pain because I was constantly reliving it.”

–

MEMORIES OF MY 1993 TOYOTA PREVIA

I created a rendition of my old Previa going to heaven, which begins my post.

I ended up giving my car to my former housekeeper, Rosa who worked with our family for 23 years. Certainly, I was happy if she was able to get a little extra money at the junkyard for it. She was over this evening and I was able to show her my “dead minivan going to heaven” image. Then she told me something interesting.

She told me she gave the minivan to a neighbor with a large family who planned to fix it. It turned out that it would actually benefit two families. The husband’s sister had cancer. His wife’s sister was recently diagnosed with cancer also. The van would help them transport all of their children during this crisis. I was touched hearing this and imagined I might see my old car on the road someday; something I didn’t expect!

Now, I want to share some memories about the very first new car I ever owned. The excitement about my 1993 Previa lasted only a few months. The Northridge earthquake came along and my car became dented in many places because so many items in the garage fell on it.

I took that as a sign to get over keeping it like new. It was the perfect “mommy van” and later on “elder van.” It survived two major accidents and worked great for all the years I needed it to. The first accident happened when my daughter was a toddler. Five years later when my youngest son was born, my husband had an accident due to his fatigue.

Both times the car could be repaired.

On family vacations, our mini-van was packed and there was no end to fighting between our three children. There never was a pleasant car ride. I am traumatized remembering my husband’s booming voice yelling at them, as well as my own shrill pleas for them to stop fighting.

My children continued to grow. When they were older, I was buying huge amounts of household items and food every few days at Costco. My minivan was very useful for that.

But I had no pride in my vehicle. It attracted shopping cart dents. Eventually, none of the seatbelts retracted well and my husband would curse trying to put one on. I gave up trying to clean it. I even made a note of how long I could go between car washes. My last car wash was two years ago.

When my parents became infirm, the back area that once stored strollers was excellent for wheelchairs. In the beginning, a wheelchair was very heavy for me to lift. Later on, I learned how to easily fold it up and heave it into the trunk area.

My Previa had 215,000 miles on it. Only a year ago, I endangered my life when the drive shaft almost broke apart while I was driving on the freeway. I knew I deserved a newer car, but didn’t care. My car got me around.

I was slightly ashamed at how dirty my van was and decided the end was coming. I began to curse at it when the seatbelt continuously got caught as I closed the door.

My Previa didn’t even have a decent radio, so I listened to my iPod while driving with ear buds. I knew that wasn’t a good idea and I might even get a ticket.

I dreamt of listening to my music through speakers someday.

The beginning:

It was a summer evening and my parents came over for dinner. I was so excited to show them my new car. It was the first new car I had ever owned in my life.

I was able to buy it with cash, because that year my art career provided a good income.

I went to meet my parents outside. My mother gushed over my new car. She was enthusiastic while my father was quiet. He stayed outside with me and she went inside to see her grandchildren.

I recounted to my dad how the car salesman would not give me the price I wanted, so I went home. Two days later, the manager of the dealership agreed to my price and the car was delivered to my doorstep with the papers to sign.

Suddenly, my father started sobbing uncontrollably. I hadn’t expected this. I said, “Dad, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” I was shocked.

He caught his breath and said hoarsely, “I am crying because I am so very proud of my daughter.”

Then I began crying!

When I wrote this, I cried again remembering how wonderful it was that my father loved me so much.

A picture from a family vacation. My brother, Norm is on the right.

A few months later:

It had been ten years since I had last seen my friend, Cheryl. She lived far away and was in town for a brief visit. We had been so close in college, and now this was our first visit after ten years. We had finally reconciled, and didn’t discuss our rift.

A long time ago, we were single woman and now we were mothers. Cheryl’s two young children played in the backyard. I held my infant daughter in my lap and my 3-year-old son sat next to me.

It was a lovely afternoon. We sipped iced tea and reminisced in-between tending to our children. It had been a little over a year since Jason had died. I was very sad and overweight. Rather than avoid bringing up grief, Cheryl asked me if I could show her pictures of Jason. She said, “Judy, he was so beautiful,” I cried and was very touched.

When it was time to go, I followed her outside to say goodbye. I had just gotten my new Previa and when she saw it in my driveway she said, “Oh my God, Judy, we wanted a Previa, but couldn’t afford it. You know, it’s the perfect family car, the absolute best! You are so lucky!”

I beamed at Cheryl. She always knew how to make me feel great. I hugged her tightly; I had missed her over those ten years. I also knew that it might be many years before I’d see her again.

I miss my good friend, Cheryl, who died from breast cancer in 2009.

–

Not sure if this was the illustration in my anecdote below or not. But it was one of dozens that were commissioned through my San Francisco agent, Barb Hauser.

2 years later:

My illustration was due the following morning in San Francisco. My agent wanted to give me as much time as possible and agreed to pick the artwork up at the airport. I simply had to drive half an hour to a local airport and send it as a parcel on a flight. It wasn’t cheap, but the client had agreed to pay for it. I felt exhilarated to be able to pull off such a challenging assignment so quickly.

My eyes were bleary and when I finished my painting at 2 a.m. Fortunately, there was a 7 a.m. flight and my agent would be able to pick it up and still get it to the client in the morning. It made sense for me to drive to the airport and be done with it.

But at 3 a.m. when I arrived at the airport, it was closed. I didn’t know this airport wasn’t open all night.

I curled up in the trunk area of my Previa and was thankful for the room. I slept a few hours until the airport opened, so I could put my artwork on that flight.

After that, I always kept a pillow and blanket in my car.

–

3 years later:

My daughter was in preschool and I was on my way to pick her up. As I exited the freeway, I saw a car careening toward me through a red light. I couldn’t stop in time. I braked as the other car clipped the front of my car. My head lightly bumped the side window, but I didn’t feel any pain.

I could see the other lady was bleeding and her windshield was shattered. I sprinted out of my car to the nearest house across the street. I banged on the door, and shouted that there was an accident nearby. How wonderful it would have been if I owned a cellphone then!

I ran back to my car and a moment later there were sirens. The paramedics immobilized me with a large brace upon my neck. They told me that I should not have moved at all after the accident. But all I could think of was how my daughter was waiting to be picked up and I wasn’t there.

At the ER, I begged a nurse to bring me a phone so I could call the preschool. Finally, I was able to call, and was relieved to know that another mother would bring my daughter home. The preschool receptionist was concerned about me, but I reassured her that I was fine and the hospital would release me soon.

At that moment, I had to put the phone down because a doctor came to examine me. I was taken out for x-rays and when I came back into the room, a nurse told me my husband had called. It turned out that the preschool had called him. He did not know if I was injured and had frantically searched to find out which hospital I was in. I picked up the phone and my husband’s voice was angry when he asked me why I hadn’t called him right away.

An hour or so later he arrived to pick me up. I tried to explain how I only had time to call 911. After that, I was so worried about our daughter being picked up that I hadn’t had time to make any other calls. My words did not ring true for him and his eyes were filled with disappointment.

The ER said I was fine and I was allowed to go home after four hours. I went to bed exhausted.

I could not let go of how disappointed my husband was with me. I told myself that his reaction was because he was so worried. But I had such an ominous feeling.

I also missed my parents who were out of town on a cruise that week. They were the ones I really wanted to call; my husband was right. As I was dozing off, I heard him shrug his shoulders and ask me to give him a back rub.

I felt such a stabbing pain in my heart, and I pushed it back down.

I just knew my husband would never forgive me for not calling him immediately. And at that moment, I knew I would never forgive him either. It was the beginning of my heart growing cold.

I wished instead that he had offered to give me a back rub.

–

I named my photo “No Longer Lovebirds.”The bird on the left looks angry and the bird on the right has her head somewhere else.

I named my photo “No Longer Lovebirds.”
The bird on the left looks angry and the bird on the right looks withdrawn.

Eighteen years later:

It was outing day for my 87-year-old father. He always looked forward to coming to my house so he could “putter” around. I arrived at his nursing home to pick him up and pushed his wheelchair to my car. Even with a scarf and blanket, he still shivered. He gripped his catheter and hose in a shopping bag, which he thought cleverly concealed it.

A nurse urged me to wear gloves when handling his bag because my father had rampant infections, but I never did. When we reached my minivan, my father slowly stood up from his wheelchair. I gently lifted his leg into my car while he gripped the door handle. He moaned loudly and then grunted, “I need you to move my other leg over now.”

It was always the same routine. I moved his other leg over. Then I reached around to put on his seatbelt. His voice was gruff when he said, “You don’t need to bother with a seatbelt.”

I ignored him. He was like my child now. I actually enjoyed reaching across his body to snap him in securely. I felt like I was a “good mommy,” even though he flinched when I touched him. I still remember his soft flannel shirt and skinny body under it.

After that, I felt confident as I put his wheelchair in the trunk. The car ride to my home was interminable because he cried out loudly with every bump I went over. During the rest of the drive he softly moaned.

I could not stand to hear his suffering and cried tears inside while I drove. I felt so helpless when he cried.

I decided I was just not a good enough driver.

–

“Getting Up Off the Ground”

It was Sunday morning and the sky was gray. I drove in the misty rain half an hour to attend my first voice lesson with a new teacher.

Her name was Kimberly. A year earlier, I had heard her sing at an event for a good friend of mine. When I heard Kimberly’s voice, I was envious and wished I could sing that way. When the moment was right, I introduced myself and told her what a beautiful voice she had. Later on, I found out that Kimberly taught voice lessons and I wrote her last name down on a piece of paper.

My first vocal coach, Peaches Chrenko moved away two months ago. Peaches had worked with me for over two years and I sure missed our joyful lessons.

Last week, I decided it was time for me to sing again. Just like with George, the day came when I was ready and I remembered in my drawer there was a piece of paper with Kimberly’s last name on it. I searched her up on the Internet and contacted her. I was amazed when she emailed me back and said that she remembered me.

On Sunday our lesson went beautifully. I brought my guitar and played one of my favorite songs for her called “Alabaster Seashell.” She understood exactly what I wanted.

I just knew Kimberly was special. There was a paper list taped on the wall above her keyboard. It was a list of vocal reminders. I asked her if they were written specifically for me and she smiled and said they weren’t.

Her technique was exactly what I needed. I drove home singing. Life was definitely improving.

It was all about giving myself permission to be happy.

–

My two older brothers, Howard and Norman

“My second new car”

I came home from my lesson and twenty minutes later I drove to meet my brother, Norm and sister-in-law, Jo at a Honda dealership.

My brother said he’d help me when I leased my first car. The entire process took five hours. It was exhausting and I kept looking at Norm and Jo with intense gratitude.

They had given up their Sunday just to be there for me.

At one point, the negotiations were getting frustrating. Hidden costs kept popping up, and Norm questioned each one. The fact that Norm was a CPA became easily apparent to the salesman because Norm understood every ploy.

Finally, we all had had enough. It turned out that the car I was negotiating for wasn’t even available in the color I wanted. They had another Civic in that color, but it had a more expensive accessory, a spoiler, which I didn’t care about.

It was time to go.

I picked up my purse. We were all tired. I told my brother there was no hurry. It had been 19 years since I’d had a new car and I could wait a little longer. But just as we began to step outside, the salesman came running after us. He said they would give us a better offer on the Civic with the spoiler.

Two hours later, I was driving home my new Honda Civic.

I felt so blessed that I had so much love from both my two brothers.

With Norm and Jo’s help, I returned the car I had borrowed from my middle brother, Howard. Howard’s generosity allowed me to take my time while shopping for a new car.

It was still drizzling as I drove home. I was overcome by the overpowering odor of my brand new car. In the darkness, it maneuvered so easily.

I pretended I was piloting a rocket ship through space. As the drizzle became a steady rain, I was pleased that I figured out how to turn on the windshield wipers.

–

I decided the rain held my father’s happy tears from above.

My childhood artwork that my father saved was especially meaningful.

I love the childhood artwork that my father saved.

My parents would have been so proud of my brothers for helping me. Sadly, my dad died this past May and my mother has severe dementia.

Humor Moments:

I received an email from my old boyfriend, Dr. Sam congratulating me on my new car. We reconnected when he found my blog and left a comment (#137 YOU’RE NOT THE ONE) Sam and I love puns very much. His words are in brown.

On Dec 19, 2012, Dr. Sam wrote:

Hi Judy!…Mazel Tov on the car…use it in good health!

Thanks, Sam – It’s new and that’s so cool for me. I’m really enjoying it. I’m actually writing a farewell story about my Previa at the moment. Hope you’re well.

A farewell story? How about a car-toon?

I love that pun! It would be a car-tune if I wrote a song! Thanks, Sam.

You are right…so make it an auto-biography!

–

Your puns are driving me crazy!

–

I thought that I had the last word, but I was wrong. I received an email from my good friend, Carol. Carol and Sam were together many years ago and I reconnected with Carol at the same time as Sam.

Her message was:

On Dec 20, 2012, Carol wrote:

Keeping up with these puns isn’t just tiring, it’s exhausting!

–

–
– ––

© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2012. 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", Aging Parents, Art and Illustration, Caregiving, composing, coping with divorce, creativity, Daily Life, divorce, divorce after long marriage, Friendship, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", Honda Civic, Humor, humor daily life, inspiration, lease a car, loss, lyric line, mother daughter relationship, mother's illness, Music, new car, separation, those memories, Toyota Previa, voice lessons, writing | Leave a comment

HOW WILL I EVER SAY GOODBYE?

Posted on December 20, 2012 by Judy

The link below is for a recent performance of my song in progress:

NEVER GONE AWAY-ACOUSTIC PERFORMANCE

ON 12/21/12

–

Every time I sang the words “How will I ever say goodbye?” I felt tears fill my eyes. My son’s death was something I had not consciously anticipated, though he was sickly with his heart defect.

What would it have been like to be with my child knowing he would soon die? I could not imagine!

I wrote to a mother last night. She was anticipating that soon her daughter’s suffering would end and she would be entering the black hole of grief.

Wednesday afternoon:

I came home from working with George. My newest song arrangement was so magical that I could hear it playing continuously throughout my day.

This was a very special song. I wrote it in 1980 for my good friend, Marge before she left to go abroad for a year. Marge was also in my thoughts recently when I contacted a new voice teacher, Kimberly. It was through Marge that I had heard Kimberly sing.

When we met.

I knew the memory of Marge’s smile would definitely stay with me while she was gone and my song was originally named “You’ll Have Never Gone Away.” I was grateful for our friendship. I let Marge know that she would always be a part of this song, though I planned to revise it. I decided there was a new story to tell with my song.

First, I gave my song a shorter title of “Never Gone Away.”

I pictured a mother getting ready to say goodbye to her daughter who had suffered so much. What could she possibly say to her as she was dying?

I decided I would channel their love in order to revise my lyrics. Then I would give them my song as a gift.

Wednesday night:

Dearest Tersia,

Today, I worked on an older song and it became very meaningful for me. My song is about saying goodbye and letting go. It had me thinking of you. I am going to dedicate a revised version of this song to you and Vicky. It will be called “Never Gone Away.”

I don’t have a vocal for it yet and may not have it finished in time. Just know that when it is finished, you and Vic inspired me. I cannot sing it now without crying.

Even without lyrics, the music speaks. I have a karaoke of it and I’m attaching it here. I hope my music is a ray of light in your darkness. This song is for both of you.

My father saved so much of my old artwork. This drawing is from middle school.

I belong to a club that no one ever would want to join – the one for bereaved parents. There was no mistaking my pain this past week when I thought of all the new members resulting from the tragedy in Connecticut. I read something written by another bereaved mother who said it so well that I couldn’t imagine writing anything better than what she wrote.

In the Days Following a Child’s Death: One Mother’s Perspective

Children died Friday. They died in schools, on highways, in hospitals, and in their own homes. On Friday, their mothers joined a sisterhood I’m in. They are now one of us. We are one. By now, she is exhausted. She discovered early-on one of the hardest truths. Sleep is cruel. She longs for it because it offers her hope of escape, and in it she can still see her son or hear her daughter’s voice. Yet in it, she also re-lives the words no parent wants to hear, and by now, she knows there is no escaping them. They reappear in her dreams, and she cries out in her sleep or bolts upright in bed hoping it was just a nightmare only to rediscover her living hell. By now, she has discovered the cruelest of sleep’s tricks, that when waking, there is a foggy moment of forgetting that precedes the remembering, “My child is dead.” Each time she remembers, she feels the same knife to her heart she felt when she first heard the words, and she has felt that knife again and again and again by now.

The rest of this amazing post can be read by clicking the link below:

In the Days Following a Child’s Death: One Mother’s Perspective lettersfromdonna on December 17, 2012

–

On Dec 19, 2012, Judy wrote:

Tersia, it meant so much to me that you found the time to read Jason’s story and to share my words.

On Dec 19, 2012, Tersia wrote:

Dear Judy, Thank you so much for reaching out to me. I finally read your Jason’s final journey, and I wept for you. I did however realize that in a weird and convoluted way there is a purpose behind all our grief. You reach out to people in a similar situation to you were in, and I am starting a Hospice. You touch peoples’ lives and souls with your beautiful words and voice. Jason has brought peace and consolation in peoples’ lives – through you. Thank you!

Love and light, Tersia

–

“More than you know”

By tersiaburger

I have received a couple of very touching emails from Judy Unger. I am an avid follower of Judy’s blog, myjourneysinsight.com. I have sensed from Judy’s blogs that she has suffered deeply. I have however always avoided reading her posts on her son Jason’s death. Somehow it is too close to home.

This week I received another caring email from Judy. Tonight I read Judy’s post on her child, Jason Mark.

I wept for Judy.

With fresh, tear-filled eyes, I reread my email. I listened to Judy’s beautiful song and went to lay with my child. I held her gently and told her how much I love her. She is having a bad day and is feeling very frail.

Once again I share this remarkable woman’s caring email with you. Her words are flattering and the email personal. Yet I am compelled to share this email…I hope that you will listen to her beautiful song. Thank you dear Judy for baring your soul and showing your compassion. Thank you for reaching out to me!

–

Tagged anticipatory grief, Caregiving, childhood friendship, compassionate friends, composing, creativity, death, death of a child, dying, Friendship, grief, grief bereavement "Loss of a Child", GRIEF RELATED, Hospice, impending death, loss, lovesong, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, mother daughter relationship, Music, original songs, right-to-die, singing, songwriting, terminal illness, writing | 4 Comments

I WAS SO SAD

Posted on December 13, 2012 by Judy

“Songwriting saved me”

At this time in my life, there are few words to describe the euphoria in my soul when I am listening to my musical creations.

I’ve mentioned how I sometimes hear a voice in my mind that channels lyrics and stories for me. It grows louder and louder until I am compelled to listen. If it’s words, I must write them down. If it’s a melody, I’ll play my guitar or sing.

Creating a song is almost like a birth. It swells inside of me, until it breaks free. I see each and every one of my songs as a unique entity and like a child, each one has it’s own personality. Just as a baby grows, so do my songs. Sometimes I’ll arrange them in different ways, and then they are like multiple births!

All of my songs were seeds. It is at this beautiful time in my life that I am growing and developing them.

Recently, I wrote about how my grief was like a forest wildfire. Out of the blackened devastation, a new forest began to grow again. Then I mentioned my awareness that there were certain wildflowers that only grow as a result of a fire; that was my high school biology coming back to me.

–

When I was younger, I smiled continuously.

There was a reason that I wrote that. Originally, I thought that I was one of those flowers, but then I had an epiphany. My songs are those wildflowers!

It turned out that the grief that once wrecked my life, gave me a gift to access my heart in a very special way.

Grief allowed songs to blossom that might never have been born otherwise.

And believe it or not, now I’ve decided that this concept applies to my separation and divorce. I am grieving my marriage and former life. If a fire was my metaphor for grief, it made sense that I pictured fiery imagery to describe my current feelings. Recently, I’ve written about journeying through a burnt landscape and dealing with a fire-breathing dragon.

–

Therefore, the “fire of grief” is the fuel that allows me to compose.

My divine song creations inspire and heal me with their beauty. I eagerly share them because I love to help and inspire others.

–

My ole Previa

Well, the final word is that my Previa is not worth fixing. It has been many years since I’ve had a new car. I know this sounds silly, but I am mourning the death of my minivan. It was the first and only new car I ever purchased in my life. I bought it the same year my daughter was born, and they’re both 19 years old. My Previa carries many memories for me and I plan to write more about it.

–

A painting of grapes I did at age 10.

A painting of grapes I did in my forties.

Unfortunately, last week I bit off most of my fingernails. It was not a good sign for me. I had been so proud of growing them when I first began healing. Before that, I was a nail-biter all of my life.

For such a long time, I was so sad. I carried the world upon my shoulders and did not ask for help. But I have changed a lot. I am leaning on friends and family. At this time in my life, I am fortunate to have my two older brothers looking out for me. My oldest brother is negotiating the best lease deal possible for me on a Honda Civic. My middle brother has lent me a car until I make a decision. My parents would be so proud of them!

–

I’ve continued attending hypnotherapy sessions. When I see my hypnotherapist Connie, I am always passionate and enthusiastic as I share with her my latest musical creations. Yet when I speak about other aspects of my life, sometimes I find myself weeping.

I have been frustrated how I began my journey feeling joyful and light, only to gain my weight back. The heaviness that eclipsed my joy actually began well over a year ago. It led up to gathering the courage to end my marriage. Connie was supportive, but could only do so much.

Hypnosis only works when a person wants to change. I have not felt ready to diet or exercise more, even though it would certainly help me if I did.

On Saturday morning, I began our recent session by telling Connie how my eyesight was really bothering me. Connie was always compassionate as she listened.

All of my other stressors were worse because my eyes always hurt and felt tired since my cataract surgeries. It was as if I were wearing uncomfortable contact lenses that I couldn’t remove. I had considered going back to see my ophthalmologist, but didn’t really see any solution. At my final appointment, I was told to just continue putting in artificial tears, and so far that hadn’t made any difference.

I also felt frustrated that my close-up vision was so poor. Glasses simply did not allow for the intricate details that my younger eyes were once able to see.

I continued with more self-pity. I am so human!

–

It was time for me to do “discovery work” while under hypnosis, which would allow me gather information from my subconscious. I was definitely ready to discover anything that would help me feel better.

I relaxed and settled into a soft reclining chair before our hypnosis began. The light from outside filtered through a window and illuminated the room. I loved examining her beautiful garden when I’d walk by, and now the flowers outside sparkled in the sunlight. Connie’s warmth usually brought me to tears; I missed my mother so much and it felt so nice to be cared about. She covered me with a soft blanket, and gently adjusted it. It was such a safe place for me to be. My eyes closed as I drifted off into a hypnotic trance.

–

Connie asked me to find a place that felt safe and comforting. As I had many times before, I imagined I was in a forest.

–

When I was younger, I smiled continuously.

It easily popped into my mind, because only recently I had written about how my life was like a beautiful forest. But then it had burned to the ground many years ago.

It turned out that fire was my metaphor for grief.

My forest grew back and I had deep appreciation for the new growth. I arose out of the ashes and pictured myself as a flower that only bloomed because of a raging fire. It gave me strength and purpose.

Then I heard Connie’s voice and she gently asked me to describe my surroundings. I tried to picture it, but could not. Even though I concentrated, I still drew a blank. Where was I?

It was confusing to me that I wasn’t able to describe where I was. After a moment, I looked around and said to her, “Okay, I am not in a forest anymore!”

–

Suddenly, it was amazing how the imagery became vivid. I began to describe my vision.

I told her I was in a desert.

This painting cropped from a salad package illustration of mine, reminded me of my love for mountains and shadows.

As a child, I would stare outside the window for hours as we drove on a family vacation to desert destinations. I loved looking at the colors of the desert. The warm creases of the sculpted mountains with contrasting blue shadows always intrigued me; I held the images in my mind so I could paint them later on.

I liked the idea that I was in new surroundings. I had started with a forest and ended up somewhere else. That was a parallel to my life. A forest is packed with growth and a desert is sparse; hence I had definitely downsized.

It occurred to me that there was no longer evidence of a fire, either.

Even though a desert landscape was often barren, I told Connie how I always found deserts to be beautiful. Deserts held amazing vistas in every direction I looked. And the colors of the sky were always breathtaking.

As I described my vision, I noticed that I was appreciating the distance. I was looking toward the mountains, instead of the small footpath in front of me. I said, “I am not looking closely at anything. I feel more alive looking toward the horizon; it is so expansive and beautiful.”

I was able to make a meaningful connection, because there was a way that I could apply this to my life.

I said carefully, “Perhaps it is time for me to stop focusing so closely at everything. If I did that in this desert, I would be looking at the spiny plants and sand, instead of appreciating the entire landscape.”

I continued. “When I was in the forest, I marveled at the details. I did not look too far ahead. As a young child, I was lost once in a forest. I kept looking down and didn’t keep track of where I was going. Now that I’m older, I feel like I could appreciate a sweeping landscape because that vision allows me to contemplate a bigger picture. Tiny details take me away from that.”

–

My thoughts were still thinking about ways to stop focusing on everything so closely, when it was time for me to awaken from hypnosis. Connie counted slowly to ten and instructed me to awaken.–

–

A crayon rendition I made as a young child of a beautiful desert.I reminded how I loved reptiles.

A crayon rendition I made as a young child of a beautiful desert. It reminds me how I loved reptiles.

Our session yielded tremendous clarity for me. Not looking too closely, was completely relevant to my current situation following cataract surgery. I decided my disappointment with my eyesight could be reversed if I appreciated the excellent acuity I now had for distance instead.

Also, the problems related to my separation and divorce were fairly temporary. If I was able to look farther ahead, rather than focusing on all the smaller issues, I was certain I’d feel better.

It was a few days after that hypnotherapy session, when I realized how much that session really helped me. I share some anecdotes about my daily life.

–

On Monday, I had a consultation with a cardiologist to go over the results from my holter monitor. While waiting to be seen, I stared at an illustration of a heart that was on the wall. I had created several illustrations of hearts early in my art career. The poster had the word “Heart” in large letters. I love word plays and began to notice all the applicable words in my life that fit into the word heart. I found: art, hear, ear, and he. The word “he” didn’t really fit in, so with irony, I tossed it from my list.

My cardiologist wore a turban and was a handsome young man. He made comfortable eye contact with me, and carefully listened as I described my palpitations to him. When I finished, he calmly told me he was not concerned about my extra heartbeats and medication usually made this type of condition worse.

He asked me about my level of exercise. I said I planned to go back to playing tennis soon. The fact that I played tennis really impressed him and as a result, he said a stress test was unnecessary.

–

But then as I was leaving, he told me he wanted to order an ultrasound echocardiogram in order to completely reassure me. I would get an appointment for that soon.

The next day, my mother visited my home – it was the same home I grew up in and even though my mother had dementia, she was aware of the familiar surroundings. Her caregiver/companion Miriam came with her.

Miriam and I caught up on things. Miriam also told me how much she loved my coop/apartment. She was suffering in her own marriage and wistfully looked at my bedroom. My bed had a new brightly colored comforter. I gave myself permission to buy it.

I had not purchased a new comforter in a long time. My old bedspread before it was at least fifteen years old.

“I love those colors,” Miriam said. She continued and added, “Judy, I dream about having a bedroom like this, it’s just perfect.”

I knew what she meant. It was one of the best parts of my new life.

–

After our lunch, I played my new song aloud for my mother and Miriam. The new arrangement was gorgeous and I put my heart into singing it. It was good practice because soon I planned to record a vocal for it.

My mother was pleasant and sweetly glowed with a radiant smile the entire time I was with her. I let myself bathe in her smile. I did not focus upon her dementia and the sad fact that she could not converse with me anymore.

For just a moment, I imagined I was looking into the distance.

I took a deep breath and savored her presence because I knew that one day I’d miss her smile very much.

–

A picture of the way I want to remember my mother

This picture is the way I want to remember my mother.

Below, I am sharing some messages from an Internet grief forum:

–

On Dec 10, 2012, Judy wrote:

Dear Sammi, Thank you so much for commenting about my story. So often I feel like I am irritating. I don’t want to upset people who are suffering with their loss and can’t handle hearing about hope.

I remember when I was suffering with my child’s death, I was always angry. I didn’t want someone telling me that time would heal. I just didn’t believe it and certainly felt like my pain was too horrible to overcome. Also, I felt like I loved my child more than anyone could.

That’s why I continue to share. I share how sad I was, because it reminds me of my progress. The torment of grief is horrific, but you will emerge. It is just a different life.

Love, Judy

From: Sammi

Date: December 10, 2012

Subject: [grief support]

Judy I do not find you irritating. I view you as someone who knows what I am going through. I appreciate your thoughts and experiences. I am having a very hard time right now. I just went through Thanksgiving, and now the Christmas holidays then New Years. There are days that all I do is cry in spurts all day.

I was touched when I looked at your beautiful baby boy’s picture. He jumped off the computer with the brilliance if his smile. My son was much older, but still too young. He also was always smiling. I miss that with every beat of my heart.

Thank you Judy for sharing your journey. I appreciate it.

From: Sheryl

Date: December 10, 2012

Subject: [grief support]

Judy, I am always moved and learn from your posts. I just don’t write on here often so please don’t feel like you are irritating us. There are probably lots of people like me who are soaking it in quietly.

I like reading what you write to help me when I talk to others who have experienced a loss. Keep writing and let us know when your book is published!

–