Read What Abi Taught Us Online
Authors: Lucy Hone
Kicking the shit out of option B has become a mantra for me. Just the other day I found myself in bed, silently sobbing, thinking, It's not okay, it's just not okay, I don't want to have to live this way. But when option A is no longer possible, then, yes, I too will commit to kicking the shit out of option B. Thank you, Sheryl.
Having a survivor mission: Marcie Warrington and Joe Kasper
People who survive trauma and go on to thrive very often have what Charney and Southwick refer to as a âsurvivor mission'âa mission to help others, to make something good come from the misery they've been forced to endure. In my own research and interviews with people who have displayed remarkable resilience in the face of grief, the power of altruism, or a survivor mission, to propel growth often shines through. For example, in November 2014 the people I work with at the Values in Action Institute in Cincinnati introduced me to Marcie Warrington. Her mission to help herself and others to âlive well' has fuelled her recovery and transformation following her 17-year-old son Johnny's violent death.
For many years, as it is for so many grieving mothers, I wasn't sure I'd survive his loss. Then one day, nearly four years on, I realised I had survived, and would likely continue to survive. The question of life, not just survival, now loomed large before me. At that time I realised the future could so easily become nothing more than an endurance contest, one I could win, as the past four years had shown. But living well requires much more than that. My love for my son and his love for me deserves more than endurance. It calls for, even demands, living well. I now realise that our love is so much bigger than mere survival, endurance contests, even death. Living with this eternal love, each day, was the answer for me, and the direction for my future.
Love is infinite, not limited to a specific recipient. While we can never replace our children (nor would we ever want to), we can honour them, their life, and the love we share. We can wake up and
dedicate each day to the love of our child and make our focus the spreading of that love to others both near and far.
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For Marcie Warrington, the realisation that her new life mission was to assist bereaved mothers was the impetus behind her organisation, MotherLOVE (
www.motherlove.net
). Designed to support bereaved mothers after the death of a child, to rebuild their capacity to give and receive love, MotherLOVE offers a variety of evidence-based programmes helping mothers to live a meaningful and fulfilling life: workshops and weekend retreats; volunteer opportunities across the USA, and working with partner organisations in Tanzania and Ethiopia; plus the MotherLOVE website providing comprehensive resources, support and mentoring for bereaved mothers.
âIt is important to note that living well does not necessarily mean we ever completely stop grieving. I miss my boy every day. Living well means accepting all that life has to offer us, all the pain, the joy; both sides of love's coin. But I can vouch for the long lasting benefit that comes from living and loving among HIV+ and extreme poverty in a strange countryâit puts things in perspective. It is like being turned on your head,' she continues.
A colleague of mine, Joe Kasper, who lost his teenage son Ryan to Lafora's disease in 2011, refers to this kind of grief response as âco-destiny'âwhen the bereaved take on a new role in life as a direct result of the loss of their loved one.
In Ryan's eulogy, Kasper described the impact of Ryan's life on his own, and how Ryan would continue to influence his actions even after his death. âRyan through his life; through his disease; and through his death has taught me so much about the
meaning of life. I have reaped a bounty of lessons on character, handling adversity, overcoming fear and fulfilling one's purpose in life. In short, he has made me the man I am and will be the main influence on the man I will become. My student has become my teacher. Ryan, you have fulfilled your destiny.'
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Looking back on what he'd written, Kasper explained later, he recognised these words as demonstrating his intention to incorporate the lessons of Ryan's life into his own worldview, âthus forming a new destiny for myself that incorporates much of his personality and, in doing so, forming a co-destiny with my son'. Their relationship hadn't ended with Ryan's death.
âFor the weeks following Ryan's death I continued to write about the importance of fulfilling one's destiny and stumbled upon the concept of a co-destiny. It was at that time I knew what I had to do. I realised that my destiny was to live my life in a way that would make my son proud. I knew to accomplish this I was to help others who had suffered the loss of their child to not only survive the ordeal of their child's death, but to grow from it. The awareness that I could add “goodness” to my son's life by doing “good” in his name motivates me to this day,' he explains.
When I first encountered Kasper's thoughts on co-destiny it took a while for it to sink in, but now I realise that writing this book is in many ways my expression of co-destiny with Abi, just as MotherLOVE is for Marcie Warrington, or Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) is for Candace Lightner and Cindi Lamb, and the Modern Widows Club is for Carolyn Moor. These actions we have taken to honour, and in many ways in partnership with, the loved ones we lost, allow their legacies to live on in us.
What's your Giveaway? Rachel Remen
Dr Rachel Remen is clinical professor of Family and Community Medicine at UCSF School of Medicine, and founder and director of the Institute for the Study of Health and Illness at Commonweal in Ohio. As a medical educator, therapist and teacher, she has encouraged thousands of physicians to practise medicine from the heart, and thousands of patients to remember their power to heal.
Belief in the âGiveaway' can be traced back to the North American Indian nations of the high plains. Our personal, sacred Giveaway is what we alone have come to contribute to life, our reason for being. Knowing and honouring your Giveaway imbues life with a sense of meaning and belonging, a sense of direction.
Everything is born knowing its Giveaway: trees and birds, stars and flowers know their Giveaway. Nothing is here at random. Everything belongs. Only humans are born not knowing their Giveaway, not remembering why they are here and how they belong.
From earliest infancy the Giveaway of each child can be seen and discerned by others. Helping every child recognise its unique Giveaway, its unique place of belonging is one of the most important functions of The Elders and the tribe. They observe the baby with stillness and patience. They look for signs with caring and watchful eyes. What is the baby drawn to? What draws its interest, what calms it? What makes it laugh with joy and what causes it sorrow or pain? What gifts come easily to it, what qualities are natural to it? They dream dreams for the baby that offer insight about the baby's nature and its Giveaway. There is much help to come home to yourself.
No one says âgood job' to such a child, no one influences the recognition that can only come from within by their approval and praise or their disapproval and criticism. Everyone helps the child to listen. The Giveaway of each child is a shared discovery, different for every child, every man and every woman. All Giveaways matter.
Our western experience is, of course, quite different. I recently went to visit a young friend and meet her 3-month-old son. When I arrived I found the baby sitting in a cloth jumper seat on the kitchen table watching âBABY EINSTEIN' on a laptop. Around him on the table were many brightly coloured and noisy toys. As we talked and had a cup of tea together the young mother presented her son with toy after toy, taking one away and offering him another every few minutes. At my questioning look she laughed âIt's the newest theory,' she told me. âThe forming brain is highly plastic and needs constant stimulation.' By the time our tea was over I had learned that the baby was already registered for a prestigious private high school, Class of 2029, and letters had been written in his behalf to Princeton by his grandfathers both alumni of that institution. Other august Princeton graduates had been asked to write letters as well, the young mother told me. Chances looked good. I looked at this little boy wondering why he had come. Hoping he might someday be able to discover his Giveaway despite the powerful messages he would be given about who he was and how he was to be from the very beginning.
The closer we are able to live to our own unique Giveaway the stronger and more resilient we are despite external pressures, the more passionately and joyfully we can live, the deeper the satisfaction we feel in our daily lives and the greater the difference we can make in the world.
These ideas hold a certain magnetism for me now. What if you could find and follow your Giveaway at any age? And what if you
could find your tribe, the people who watch and listen and help you to give birth to yourself? What if you already knew many such people but had not recognised why you were drawn to them? What if you could help others in this way as well? What if you did not need some catastrophic event like an illness or the loss of a loved one to finally remember who you are and why you are here?
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All three of these stories resonate with me because they draw us back to life, encouraging us to take on board the lessons that bereavement has taught us, and to identify how they've shaped and altered our future direction. The worst thing about death is that it is so final, permanent and unchangeable. And yet, the pause it brings to our lives, the reflection and introspection we are forced to endure, also provide the opportunity for reconsideration and, sometimes, the impetus for change.
GRIEF IS A BY-PRODUCT
of love. Because we loved, so must we grieve when the person we love is no longer physically with us. But the fact that they've gone doesn't mean that we must stop loving them, or thinking about them. Coming to terms with this fact, understanding that your love for that person never dies, is a major advance in our understanding of grief.
In the first year after Abi's death I missed her physical presence so badly. It took all that time, and some, to get used to her just not being here any more: to grow accustomed to her not being part of our daily routines; not there to kiss goodnight or have breakfast with in the morning; no more after-school activities to drive her to, hair to comb, fantasy books to share, shops to browse, boyfriends to discuss, waves to jump, card games to play, or rom-coms to watch. The local swimming
pool and netball courts were gone from the routine of our lives. The loss of her physical presence, and particularly her and her friends' constant noise, was huge.
But, as time has passed, I've been forced to get used to that, and have grown to accept it. As much as it saddens me to say it, I no longer expect her to walk in the front door, to hear her steps outside our office, to see her face at the breakfast table, to hang out her washing, to buy her shampoo or Shapes, her favourite lunchbox snacks. I have now accepted that. My brain has caught up with the harsh reality.
Yet I also know that she has not completely gone from my life. She is very much part of me, of the life I lived, the one I live now, the places I inhabit. She is much loved, well remembered and frequently talked about. Somehow, Abi Hone is still a part of our lives. She's just not here physically. She happened, she existed, she
was
very, very real. I can keep her present in myriad small ways: consciously imagining which skirt she would pick out for me for special occasions; wearing a tiny ring that reminds me of her every day; visiting places she loved; catching up with her friends; blasting out her favourite songs and, very occasionally, snuggling down in her bed to read one of her most treasured books.
George Bonanno's
The Other Side of Sadness
is packed with observations about resilient grievers, and the common habits they adopt. One chapter covers the different ways the bereaved maintain their connections with the dead, such as keeping in touch with their loved ones' friends, treasuring precious items as keepsakes, visiting places they loved, finding time for peace and quiet in their lives because that was something the deceased taught them to value, and even talking to the dead.
âRegardless of what the relationship was actually like, resilient people are generally better able to gain a feeling of comfort from remembering the relationship during bereavement. They are also more likely to find comfort in talking about or thinking about the deceased, which, they report, makes them feel happy or at peace,' explains Bonanno.
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Fortunately, the historical psychological view that successful grieving required us to sever our bonds with the deceased has been very much overturned. It is now commonly accepted that working out some way to continue the bond forms part of healthy adaptation. Thomas Attig is another who writes thoughtfully about this: âWe can continue to “have” what we have “lost”, that is, a continuing, albeit transformed, love for the deceased. We have not truly lost our years of living with the deceased or our memories. Nor have we lost their influences, the inspirations, the values, and the meanings embodied in their lives. We can actively incorporate these into new patterns of living that include the transformed but abiding relationships with those we have cared about and loved.'
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He has helped me understand that developing ways of continuing bonds is particularly common practice among parents grieving the loss of their child. Similarly, studies show that the practice of maintaining bonds is common among children in mourning for their parents too: one study found that two-thirds of children still felt connected with their dead parent by speaking to them, thinking of them, dreaming of them or feeling watched by them two years after their death.
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