I had lit a candle during joys and sorrows. It was a candle of gratitude for the veterinary social work internship I’d been selected. I’d not a clue that veterinary social work was even a thing and had come to appreciate my mentor who paved the way for my role of supporting pet parents on their journey of grief. When that service was over and I was leaving, two members of the community stopped me and inquired about the work. They wondered how I could thrive in a job that sounded so depressing.
I told them it was because of my own experiences with grief. How I’d faced the loss of my mother and of my own fur babies. I know that if I’d not done healing work on myself, I would have gone down a completely different path. Many folks feel guilt for leaving things unsaid with a dying loved one. Mom and I had a tough journey but our relationship had evolved. My parents divorced when I was 13, and I grieved the loss of my family as I knew it. I felt abandoned and turned into a walking, talking—well actually a ranting, ravingteenage rebel. While Mom was a compassionate nurse and practical mother, years of verbal abuse and the stress of running the household alone played itself out in passive-aggressive parenting. Unable to set boundaries, she exploded when her limits were tested, which was pretty much constant with me for a teenage daughter. Our relationship became a synergistic soup of perpetual screaming and settling.
With the help of therapy and a non-violent communication workshop, we began to heal. And then, when I was 27 I ended a long relationship. Pre-disposed to numbing my pain, Mom tended to me with huge helpings of Southern comfort cooking. We had both returned to college, and over grits and eggs, we listened to and edited each other’s research papers. I watched in awe as Mom became a mentor for Youth at Risk, a rape crisis counselor at the YWCA, and was promoted to nurse supervisor of the Psychiatric unit at her hospital.
Eloise had lived a life of hard work and little play when she was diagnosed with colon cancer at only 58 years old. I was 30 and both of us were scared to death of death. Once Mom made the decision for me to move in, the Visiting Nurse came to set everything up for home care. We lashed out at each other in fear…but with that nurses’s support, we ended up proclaiming our mutual love in a puddle of tears. I hugged her and was shocked when I felt how thin she’d become.
This anticipated grief resulted in a night out with friends at my local Cheers. When I arrived home, our family friend had long gone, and Mom was in serious pain. I’d tried to keep track of her medications, but in an attempt to shield me from her suffering, Mom didn’t let on that she was low on Oxycontin, and now she’d run out. I drove to the all-night drugstore, and the pharmacist accused me of being an addict. I felt ashamed and became indignant, insisting he check with Mom’s oncologist. Overcome, I turned down the aisle in tears.
Around this time, my sister flew in from San Francisco and brought with her a book called You Can Heal Your Life. I’m not sure if it was the author’s proclamation that she’d healed herself from Stage 4 breast cancer, or the rainbow heart on the book cover, but something made me pick that book up from the kitchen table. Not only did I end up reading it, I started doing the exercises Louise Hay prescribed. The concept of self-love was foreign to me so it felt a little cringy. But were it not for repetitiously reciting the affirmations and purging harmful beliefs, I probably would have been unable to move through my grief and provide the loving care my Mother needed.
Here is an example of one of Louise Hay’s affirmations: “I love myself; therefore, I work at a job I truly enjoy doing, one that uses my creative talents and abilities, working with and for people I love and who love me, and earning a good income. I love myself; therefore, I behave and think in a loving way to all people for I know that that which I give out returns to me multiplied. I only attract loving people in my world, for they are a mirror of what I am. I love myself; therefore, I forgive and totally release the past and all past experiences and I am free. I love myself; therefore, I live totally in the now, experiencing each moment as good and knowing that my future is bright and joyous and secure, for I am a beloved child of the Universe and the Universe lovingly takes care of me, now and forever more. All is well in my world.”
As my perspective shifted, it was all I could do to heighten mom’s quality of life. If that meant driving up to Yale for Bernie Siegel’s Exceptional Cancer Patients group, that’s what we did. If Mom wanted to go to the ocean and feel the waves or over to Park Avenue to see the Cherry tree blossoms, that’s what we did. Ellie also fell back on faith…I brought her to a Catholic Mass at St. Theresa’s—North in Trumbull—where she was anointed with the Sacrament for the Sick, which offered her strength and comfort in the face of her prognosis.
In her very last days, Mom needed continual pain-free care. She knew about palliative care and sought out the first ever hospice facility in the country. Connecticut Hospice was 40 minutes up I-95 in Branford. The place was surrounded by colorful gardens and the staff were amazing angelic-like heroes. They educated me every step of the way in regards to medication and prepared me for what was to come. They even encouraged me to bring our dog Shane; he lay beside her throughout all of that second day.
On day four, I went to my office to onboard an intern. The nurse from Connecticut Hospice phoned and told me it was time and I needed to alert the family. I lay my head on my desk for a minute, took a deep breath, and then called my siblings; my sister in San Anselmo and older brother at Davis Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson. When I arrived, my younger brother was already there, along with Aunts Marie and Terrie—my Dad’s 2 sisters. They looked on as I massaged Keri Lotion onto Mom’s legs and then gently brushed her hair. An English-Irish Southern Belle, Mom’s light brown curls had become streaked with silver and the strands straight and course from treatment. Eventually, I put the brush down and just rubbed her head in gentle circles. And when her breathing slowed, I leaned in and whispered, “I love you, Mom, it’s okay to go now. It’s okay.”
The Air Force had flown my brother into nearby Tweed New Haven Airport, and when he arrived, he was brought to Mom and then the chapel where my sister and I had shifted. There I prayed to God for a peaceful passing for my beloved Mother, and for good measure, hazarded back to Catholic creed with an Our Father.
I was incredibly grateful for the doctors and nurses at Connecticut Hospice. Because of them, my mother felt safe and comfortable in her final days. Consequently, I was at ease with her passing. Moving through the grief was difficult…especially that first time I picked up the phone to call Ellie and realized she wasn’t there. Mom had always been my stand-in doctor. When it dawned on me there’d be nobody home at 366-4242 I lost it. Who was going to heal my—well, my everything?
Back here in this sanctuary, I responded to my fellow congregants that the hospice experience I had with my mother, and end-of-life crossings with my pets were all positive experiences. I recently facilitated a Pet Loss Grief Support Group where one of the participants, in an effort to help her accept it, said she’d looked up the word Euthanasia; it’s from the Greek language meaning “Good Death.” I appreciated her sharing that information as it helped minimize the fear and guilt of others in the group. I told them about a podcast I’d begun listening to by Anderson Cooper called “All There Is”. He discusses the twists and turns of his grief surrounding the losses of his family with Palliative Care Specialist, Dr. BJ Miller, and interviews many well-known figures, such as president Biden and Whoopie Goldberg about their experience with loss.
My own pet, sheltie-shepherd Shane had been with me for 17 years. I had no idea how to say goodbye to him but I had a loving veterinarian that did. And years later, when our family Beagle Blue was ready, she lay peacefully on my lap while I petted her across the Rainbow Bridge.
It’s never easy to lose our loved ones. The angels at Connecticut Hospice and my two veterinarians made way for good grief. What was integral to my experiences was knowing that my loved ones were safe, free of pain, and I had the support of caregivers, my family, friends, and faith communities.
I had finished answering my fellow UUers’ question when I felt a big ball of grief well up in my throat. I politely excused myself and made a beeline for the car.
I skipped the stop to return my badge and barely made it to the car before the floodgates opened. I opened my EV door, climbed into my protective shell, and turned on a favorite Fogelberg tune that made way for my tears.
Really? I thought, and counted 31 years since Mom had passed. I acknowledged the concept that grief isn’t linear. And then a feeling of gratitude for my fellow congregants washed over me. I was grateful their inquiry led to that healing cry. And two Saturdays ago, before we left for our tour of the Presideo, Jocelyn and Ellen became witnesses to my grief after Aunt Terrie had suddenly passed the day before. That’s what my community is to me. People with whom I can connect and share and heal. My call to action is words from the spiritual leader, Ram Dass: I think our journey is all about healing ourselves and healing each other in our own special ways. Let’s just help each other put all those pieces back together and make it to the end more beautifully. Let us help each other survive.”
And now our musicians are going to present To The Morning by Dan Fogelberg. During high school my family moved between Georgia and Connecticut five times. In the midst of the turmoil, I discovered this album called Home Free by Dan Fogelberg. This primary track invoked a melancholy peace and messages of hope that I craved.
BENEDICTION May you be tender and gentle with yourself,
and be cared for by those who will envelop you with compassion and presence.
May you know that there is so much beauty in your grief,
especially when it feels messy.
