Mitch Carmody of Heartlight Studios spoke with Dr. Heidi Horsley during the 2015 Association of Death Education and Counseling 2015 about the death of a child. He lost his own son when his child was just nine, and he says the biggest help in addressing your grief is not to forget. It’s common in American society to want to put things behind us, but the first year of grief is just the beginning. Grief can often act like an infant, and it can take just as long as a person to mature. In the first year, grief is an infant that needs to be held and hugged. It can easily take a lifetime to develop.

Some people can stay in trauma their entire lives, he explains. Others may reach autonomy after a few years. Even five years can be new, he says. “You’re a five year old in your grief…I’m a 27 year old in my grief,” he shares. He’s personally reached “college age” as a griever, and at this stage wants to help people. People, especially in grief, can relate to Winnie the Pooh characters. Those personality profiles make it a little simpler to work with and help those in grief.

The Age of Grief

Identifying who you are in terms of Winnie the Pooh can also help those in grief figure out what will aid them best. “We have to educate the Tiggers in the world,” he says. He’s a strong advocate of The Compassionate Friends as well as Bereaved Parents USA or your local church. Seek out groups that provide support and resources, no matter how fresh your grief.

There’s no way to understand how someone in grief feels, but sympathy is key. Finding a supportive network can help “mature” your grief, understand it, and learn how to handle it on a day to day basis in a healthier manner.

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Mitch Carmody works with Heartlight Studios, has his own ministry, works with The Compassionate Friends as well as TAPS. As a leader in the grief industry, his passion comes from personal experience: Carmody’s son died at just nine years old. Carmody spoke with Dr. Heidi Horsley of The Open to Hope Foundation during the 2015 Association of Death Education and Counseling conference about self-care after a loss. Dubbed “proactive grieving,” people often need help getting the tools and resources they need to care for themselves (and perhaps others) after the death of a loved one.

Embracing your grief includes looking at what tools are available and choosing the ones that work for you, he explains. There are a lot of options out there. However, each may (or may not) work for different people. “To know who you are as a griever also helps,” he says. You should know your personality profile so you can better know yourself and how you can navigate this journey. Knowing yourself first is paramount.

The Whole Body Grieves

Body, mind, soul and spirit all grieve, and grievers can utilize that fact to help process loss. Listening to your gut feeling, when your body feels worn down, and learning to make your whole body work together can be a great help. Fight or flight responses can lead to holding in emotions so tightly that it results in physical pain.

Stimulating the love hormone with children or pets, and combatting the negative impacts of stress is a great help. A broken heart, or anything that’s broken, must be thrown out, repaired, or repurposed. Grief can’t be “fixed” and a lot of people throw it out. Repurposing for a legacy is key.

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“Put it behind you, buck up and get over it,” is how Carmody explains it. However, as an artist, he just couldn’t do it that way. Instead, Carmody committed to bringing his son Kelley “back” by establishing a new kind of relationship with his son. “That brought my life back,” he says, and proactive grieving is born. If something’s broken, including your heart, there are only a few options: Throw it out, fix it, put it away to forget or repurpose it. Carmody recommends repurposing it.

Claiming Your Grief

It’s possible to “sit on the shelf” and “coast through life.” Others throw their heart away, be it through suicide or simply by not living life. Carmody explains that by handpicking what works for you, and with a lot of work, you can bring the joy back into your life. “We need to get out the tears because they’re toxins,” but don’t forget about the joy. “Turning your loss into a legacy” is what Carmody preaches, and how he recovered himself.

You’ll discover a plethora of things within you to make your life joyful, while still keeping that “lost” life alive and present within you. Many people around you may avoid talking about your lost loved one, but “we crave having the name said,” says Carmody. Encourage those around you to talk with you about your loved one who’s passed. Most people don’t know how to provide comfort, but they want to be told and they want to deliver. “Say the name, keep your loved one present,” he says.

You won’t get over it, but you can learn to live with the loss.

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Carmody points out that in many cases a person may know they’re dying, and they’ll say things before they pass that are foreshadowing of “signs” and it “embraces that there is a continuing connection.” When this happens, people really start looking for signs from pennies on the sidewalk to butterflies visiting. “They (your loved ones) will then come and connect with you,” he says. Carmody dubs this phenomenon “whispers of love.”

Seeing the Signs

Why do some people see signs and others don’t? Carmody suspects it’s because the mind can be so full of grief that signs may be missed. Children under five years old are particularly “good” at seeing loved ones after passing, says Carmody. He hosts a Compassionate Friends evening where participants share stories about connections and ask for signs of their own. In some instances, it’s during those evenings when signs are finally seen. “Once you start getting the signs…then you can connect more,” he says.

Ask for easy signs, suggests Carmody. “Don’t ask for a penguin in Texas”— even though in some circumstances, something that miraculous just may happen. Your passed loved ones are eager to connect according to Carmody. You just have to listen and watch for those signs.

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I believe we live in one sphere of existence, our departed loved one lives in another, but we can meet at the seam where our worlds connect. If our love is strong, and we keep all our senses open, it can and will happen; we need to let go of fear of the unknown and our own preconceived notions of what and what is not real. 

Most people have had some form of experience with communication from a loved one who has died. Many are afraid to tell others fearing that they will be labeled as nuts or gone off the deep end. I think for the most part, people are just still plain afraid of ghosts!  Even the word ghost conjures up thoughts of scary things, so we use the words more palatable to our psyche, such as a presence, a spirit, an angel, a visitation, an entity, or energy field, verbiage that takes away the enigma of darkness that surrounds communication from spirit world. People are scared of things they do not understand and attribute phenomenon like this to some malevolent spirit instead of whispers of love from our loved one. 

Communications from beyond the grave brings to mind nineteenth century séances with unsettled spirits raising tables and blowing out candles, eerie, creepy and fraught with charlatans that prey on the vulnerable and the bereaved.  Twentieth century Hollywood brought us many movies filled with ghost, specters and poltergeists that continue to haunt the lives of innocents. Spirit communications have been mystified and sensationalized  for so long it has become ingrained in our collective psyche as a negative thing, when it merely love trying to shine through the veil of darkness.

Some religions have also helped to perpetuate the urban legends of misanthropic entities that are bent on plaguing humankind. Some religious leaders teach that trying to connect with discarnate spirits as in using an Ouija board or a medium is dangerous, based on arcane/evil practices and one is investing in the dark side.  Yet most religions are based on prophets who hear voices, have spoken with angels, and have communicated with people long dead.

The concept of speaking with the dead goes back to ancient times and is not going away any too soon, because it happens and happens every day. Orbs in photos, lights turning and off, hearing voices, things being misplaced, a cool breeze from nowhere, doors slamming, phones ringing, dogs barking at nothing, the butterfly that does not go away, and on and on. Most people historically attribute these “happenings” to evil spirits or a poltergeist. That the life energies of the departed are somehow stuck on earth and unable to join our creator, they cling to the earth to haunt and to scare those left behind.  Possibly it is just our loved one using what is available to let us know they are around us always.

Spirit can even enter our dreams and speak to us in such a way that cannot be dismissed as “just a dream”. In the dream visitation, it is usually in full color; like watching a movie you can remember it vividly as the day it happened. You can experience smells, emotions, taste the tears, feel the pain and feel the love. Your mind, body and spirit react to is if it was real, you remember the experience as it if was real, you do so because it was not just a dream, it was real.

My son has visited me in dreams and has given me a plethora of signs with the most significant being when I asked him to send me a sign a few months following his death. I asked him for a sign of something growing in our yard. Months later some cornstalks grew up in our lawn, and I let them grow and eventually one bore fruit bearing one ear of corn.  When I inspected the ear of corn I found it was rotted and the mold had stained the back of the husk with one word: DAD.  I asked Kelly to get back to me to let me know he survived death; he did so in a spectacular way that confirmed my belief that there is life after death, and I have no doubts on the validity of that experience.

Our loved ones are with us always, so filter out the noise of life and speak to them from your heart and in prayer. Listen closely with all your senses, for love cannot be denied, it was and is always there…and only a whisper away.

Mitch Carmody 2011  

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As many bereaved know, our grief journey soon becomes a subversive, evocative “it,” an acceptable pronoun to minimize the reality of a condition that no fortunate other can comprehend nor want to imagine; the loss of a child in their family.  So the world and we tend to hush it up, whisper our pain and not talk about “it”. We don our dancing shoes and tap dance for the world to music we have come to loathe.  Joy the World. Yeah, right; hop in my sleigh and go for ride.

It starts, however, long before Christmas and endures through the New Year’s festivities. How do I cook a turkey and baste it with love when my cup is empty? How can I not shop for the loved one that so loved my Christmas presents? How do I feel thankful when I feel so cheated? How do I manufacture Christmas cheer? How do I hold in the agony I experience when other parents hug and snuggle their children? How do we do “it”?

We do it because it is our kids, it is our grief. It is not a condition or a stage we go through; it is picking up our shattered lives. We are in a process of transmogrification as surely as caterpillar creates a cocoon. Sometime in the future that chrysalis  that is wrapped around our injured soul will become clear as does the caterpillar’s and we shall see the world again for what it is, and know it is our time to rejoin it, which takes as long as it takes.

We are changed forever, but we can find joy again… as elusive as it may seem. It, our grief, becomes us. We can choose to become more collateral damage to our loss or we can strive to be an intentional survivor in this world.  A world in which we experience our intended destiny; a journey we were meant to discover despite its dark despair.  Our children have angel wings, we have butterfly wings; together, we can soar as one in our hearts until we too get our angel wings and soar as one into eternity.  They are now our teachers and we are now the students. Its back assward I know, but it is what it is.

I buried my child with his body in those early years; it did not work for me. The world became an emotional desert painted in different tones of gray. I wanted color back, I wanted the beach back, I wanted the smell of spring lilacs back, I wanted my son back. So I returned to the pain, I returned to the facts. I pulled my son back from the grave and started grieving for him all over again.

I dived back into my grief head long, bringing my son’s name back to life in this world, making him an active participant not only in my life but the life of others. Why did no one give me permission to do this? Why did everyone accept the finality of death without compunction, resistance or retort?

Like silent lambs to the slaughter, we sometimes accept society’s dictates in processing loss and we move on as urged and expected. We become complacent because we have no strength or there are seemingly no real alternatives. Life sucks, and we accept the fact it always will and we move on and get over it. That siren of apathy charted my course for many years and life was lusterless and listless.

When I started getting signs from my son Kelly, it broke the siren’s spell and we started a new relationship on non physical level.  I brought Kelly back into my life with my book, my speaking, my everyday living; like the movie Pleasantville, my-black and white world was turning back to color. Wow!  Not only do I discover that there life after death for my son, I realize it is a fact for me as well.

My grief, no longer a noun, has become a verb, an action verb; we live our loss with action, with intent, with anticipation and we celebrate the rest of our lives with our child not without them. We just say NO to those who tell us we must move on, and how we should be over it; there is no getting over it, it is me! Deal with me, what you see is what you get, and it ain’t going away.

Christmases will come and go and you will always have that nagging feeling you have forgotten something, or feel you are waiting for the package that never arrives.  Those feelings do not go away but color can come back to Christmas and into your life someday…if you believe.

Mitch Carmody 2011

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When John F. Kennedy was assassinated, I was 8 years old and I still remember the hysteria on television that took over our country. I saw grown men cry that did not even know him. The next year, in 1964, I saw women on TV screaming and crying while listening to a live performance of The Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show. I even thought to myself back then how weird on both counts for people to react with such high charged emotions for a person they don’t even know.

I saw the nation gripped again in 1968 when Martin Luther King was assassinated, and I witnessed the groundswell of grief and the rage of injustice that his loss created in this country.  In those years and many others we lost Marylyn Monroe, James Dean, Buddy Holly, Elvis, Michael Jackson, Rock Hudson and more. We had the mass tragedies of The Viet Nam War, Oklahoma City bombings, 911, a plethora of school shootings, Hurricane Katrina and many more national and global losses in staggering numbers. Collectively people mourn, yet not having known the person at all, only knowing of them.

In 1997, Mother Teresa and Princess Diana died within days of each other; Princess Diana’s death far overshadowed that of Mother Teresa worldwide. Oddly enough which is what Mother Teresa would have preferred, but clearly shows the how a society acts based upon notoriety as well. We nationally and globally mourn as a school of fish who together turn abruptly or as the flock of geese change formation together, we do it from a deep common bond. We recognize the pain in each other at a deep level and it amplifies our energy  in a way that we are synergized; symbiotically, we nurture one another, we  kiss the boo-boo that hurts our each other’s soul without  thought or intent; it is pure action on a heart level.

Elizabeth Edwards lost her 16-year-old son from something she beyond her means to control; years later, she loses her marriage as well.  Her life, her book …has inspired the bereaved American people, especially the bereaved parent. She has credibility as one who speaks her mind, and has been to depths of despair that one should never know.

This woman fought the fight, but did not survive, and she now joins her son.  Of course, reticent to leave her other children, she believed in a reunion with her son, a belief which nurtures peaceful acceptance.  Elizabeth did a lot to give recognition to the bereaved parent/family and the complexity of their journey.  Her experience, her love, has helped countless others on their journey. 

I am so glad as a country that we grieve for her loss publicly and collectively, not only because of her notoriety but because of her heart. Her husband’s name may fade from people’s memories but hers will not. 

Namaste, Elizabeth.

Mitch Carmody 2010

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Halloween has its roots in pagan and deeply religious beliefs simultaneously.  In ancient Celtic tradition they celebrated “Samhain” which is Gaelic for “summers end” and the beginning of darker half of the year. It was at this time that it was believed the veil between our world and the next is the thinnest and spirits cross easily between the two worlds.  Dead relatives were invited to visit, but to ward off the harmful spirits costumes of evil scary spirits were donned to keep the unwanted spirits at bay.

In the Christian tradition the last night of October was known as “All Hallows Eve” or the night before All Souls Day where children and the poor would travel door to door to sing a song or say a prayer for the dead or perform a trick for money or for food, usually a treat like a soul cake and from where trick for a treat evolved. The tradition was called souling and was soon blended with the pagan tradition of guising, the wearing of costumes on Samhain the same date as All Hallows Eve and thusly creating our modern day holiday known as Halloween.

We were one of those families that looked forward to Halloween all year. We scoured second hand stores for clothing of all sorts and made our own Paper Mache masks or used creative make-up. Our house was turn of the century gothic and was surrounded by scary things, lit jack- o- lanterns and eerie music playing. In the upper Midwest, the leaves are mostly gone from the trees and they look like sinister bones stretching out against the darkening sky only adding to the creepy atmosphere we were trying to create. Kids loved to come to our house.

1987 was my 9-year-old son Kelly’s last Halloween, and only 30 days before his untimely death. Kelly loved Halloween and although very, very sick with the end stages of cancer he insisted on going trick or treating. We did not decorate our house that year as we had sold our home to move to Mexico for alternative therapies and we were living in a rented townhome serving as a hospice.

At that time I was still closing up our affairs in Mexico and my wife took Kelly to our old neighborhood to go trick or treating. As happens sometimes in Minnesota it was cold, wet and windy and Kelly was bundled up warmly and for the first time in his life only wore a simple mask bought at the drugstore.

After the third house on the block Kelly could barely walk and he crawled up the last set of front porch stair to get the candy, something he could not even enjoy.  I am glad I was not there, the memory of the event is painful enough, and Halloween has never been the same ever since.

Kelly’s little sister Meagan continued to trick or treat through the years without her brother, but our passion for the day and the weeks that preceded it died with my son.  For me the cold winds of November come early and Halloween only a harbinger of more painful memories and unrealized dreams.

Kelly’s birthday followed on November 16^th and we had his last birthday party for him, where all his friends came to say goodbye; not an easy thing to do holding a living wake for a nine year old.  Soon to follow on November 26^th was Thanksgiving day; so difficult to be thankful when you child is dying and the smell of roasting turkey only made him nauseous, but we were with family and for that I was thankful.  Four days later Kelly was dead and we looked ahead to Christmas and the rest of our shattered lives.

We did not decorate for Christmas that year; our families shopped for us and we celebrated (poor word) Christmas Eve at my in-laws’ neighbor’s house who were out of town for Christmas. Their home was nicely decorated and festive but it still felt empty as our hearts did. Today those memories still feel like a dream as did most of that first year. We were not very willing holiday participants, but stoically did our best for our daughter’s sake that deserved to enjoy the holidays.

We faced each ensuing holiday, wedding, party or for that matter any social event with the same numbness and lachrymosity as we did that first Christmas without Kelly.  That first Halloween after his death, our daughter stayed at friends and trick or treated.  My wife and I did not celebrate Halloween that first year, but we continued to wear a mask for many years to come.

No holiday is ever easy with an empty chair at the table but through the years the pain does soften and we can find joy again. In the early years is does seem even seem possible that we could ever enjoy a holiday again, but we can. However time does not heal, it’s our need to love that does; others need us in their life. They need our love as much as we need theirs. It is that cosmic synergy that heals our heart, not time.

Blessings to all of you as you approach the holidays… take them in stride.

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From spending 4 or 5 days on “planet grief,” we return home to the mundane realities of the real world and try to blend in with its preoccupied inhabitants who for the most part know nothing of our secret planet. They don’t wear buttons of a dead child pinned to their clothing; they don’t wear name tags around their neck identifying their loss; and for most part they don’t wear butterfly clothing or TCF T-shirts with a broken red heart.

When I return to work, I get surprised looks from people who are caught off guard when I hug them good morning without thinking.  I feel a deep separation anxiety for my fellow travelers to planet grief with its honest hugs, cathartic kisses, and deep seated dialogues.  The heart I wore on my sleeve now feels vulnerable and exposed to the harsh elements of the daily routine and the machine of the workaday world.

I am jonesing for my friends, my family of wounded survivors who succor my soul and I theirs in our dance of recovery.  In a word, I feel drifty and lost for a few days; like getting your land legs back slowly after a week at sea I feel unsteady and unbalanced and I weep easily.  I miss my family from planet grief and feel the impact of its loss for another year.

Today, I am decompressing, degriefing so to speak, remembering and cherishing the magic moments of the weekend and thanking God for the privilege to be there and serve the bereaved with every quark of my being. I help facilitate healing in the most sacred of places, the human heart and soul and I’m always humbled and healed myself by the experience.

We all come to planet grief from many different worlds. Worlds of all kinds; a plethora of differences in race, age, religion, occupation, economic class, intellect and political views, yet we congregate as one family and find a common ground in compassion; finding common ground in love. It is in helping to heal that we are healed ourselves, like one beggar sharing his bread with another beggar both are sustained for another day.

On the walk on Sunday, it was revealed to us that TCF had to register our Sunday TCF walk as a protest if we were to walk the streets of Washington D.C. That’s all right; we are protestors. We have our signs, our banners, our bibs, our T-shirts, our name tags and buttons. We are the compassionate friends, we need not walk alone and we don’t — we walk in unison.  We all arrived from a network of paths and losses as varied as the stars and together on common ground we protest to the world society’s ignorance of our forever journey and the injustice to our hearts.

We are changing the world views of grief and loss. We are educating the fortunate others of our journey and how we survive. We are intentional survivors who are working on our grief proactively, living our loss, not letting go, not get over, not becoming bitter, but becoming better. We are the compassionate friends.

God bless you all and until we meet again when like Brigadoon, dear planet grief appears for a few days in the summer and for a short time we find  the camaraderie of hope to sustain us for another year.

Peace, love and light

Mitch Carmody

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My dad had died.

A few days prior, he had gone in to hospital for a relatively new operation for clogged arteries to the heart. At that time, it was then a very risky operation.  My father had complications following surgery and later died.

Our neighbors brought my mother home to support her in breaking the news to me and my sisters. My mother reached out to me and embracing each shoulder with her shaking hands she said, “You are the man of the family now, son; you need to take care of your sisters, and the farm. Your father has died.”

I hugged her without a tear, without fear and just said, “Okay, I love you, Mom.”

I never really did grieve or publicly lament my father’s passing.  I was the kid whose old man kicked the bucket over summer break. I was embarrassed by the quiet looks of consternation and so I became the clown, to laugh it off preemptively and avoid the glares. I put away the grief, the pain, and did not lament, or mourn, my loss.

It seemed almost too easy to pack away.  My mother soon remarried, then feeling somewhat abandoned, compounded with the strong feelings to stretch my own wings, I moved away from home.

Now years pass by, I get married and have a child, our first-born, our only son. Soon, we were blessed with the birth of his darling sister; life seemed again to be joyful and the fulfillment of a dream.

Then, the dark clouds returned with death of my son. Nothing could have ever prepared me for the depth of pain that one experiences in losing a child. Nothing!

The world stopped and everything I ever knew had now changed forever. I was lost in hopeless pain for many years. Father’s Day mocked my existence. Both my past and my future in fatal swoops were whisked away, and I was left here in the present alone in so much pain. Why me?

I lost my father, then my son. I felt so violated, so cheated, earmarked by God for misfortune; it felt like I was playing a role in some Thomas Hardy tragedy novel where I played the main character whose life was built on misfortune.

I soon cracked under its weight; it broke my spirit, and I felt hapless, hopeless, innocuous and miserable. I wanted to die.  I had my daughter to care for and a wife who spoons my soul, but I had no zest for life, no passion, no feeling, no goal.  I struggled hard to free myself from the web of self pity, and I dug deep into my inner soul; from attic to basement, I looked within myself to find a way out.

In my head with angels’ help, I went back to the day my father died. I literally went back and relived the moment. I screamed and I cried. I finally lamented for my father and let out the buried angst hidden for so long.  When that dam burst, I could then make room for the lamenting of my son.  Only then did my road to acceptance begin.  Acceptance is not selling out, or letting go of their love; it is just accepting that they are dead and giving ourselves permission to rebuild our lives the best that we can.

I finally grieved for my father and I am still grieving for my son. Accepting their death is not the end of the bereavement journey; it’s only the beginning.  We shall continue to grieve for associated losses from their deaths the rest of our life.  Father and son banquets, hunting trips with the boys, working on cars together, sharing a beer or two, having a pair of strong shoulders to hug, so many potential moments that we shall grieve forever. No grandchildren, or great grandchildren, no retirement party, birthday parties or graduation celebration, no parties of any sort.  We are always reminded that their lives were cut short, and we grieve anew for what should have been.

Through the loss of my son, and other family members, I have learned much on the journey.  I found that I love deeper, I smell flowers longer, and I savor the sunsets more.  I feel the best when helping others, and I thank God for my every breath.  These are all good things to have come to me in the midst and aftermath of horrific pain. How sad it would be if we were not compensated in some way for our tragic loss, for life would then truly seem meaningless would it not?

Through the loss of my father and my son, I discovered the randomness of death. Death can hit anyone, anytime, regardless of genes, the environment, or the best of efforts to stave off the sting of its reality. There is nothing we can do that can adequately prepare us for a loss of our loved one.

Do I feel sad on Father’s day?  You bet I do.  Do I celebrate it?  Yes I do. I am proud to have been my father’s son for 15 years and proud to have been a father to my son for 9 years. I am proud to be a father for my surviving daughter for 26 years. I am proud to be a grandfather.

Everyday is Father’s Day when you find yourself surrounded in love from this world and from the next.

Feel the sadness of your Father’s day; feel the pain, feel, the joy, feel the love that alone makes it possible to feel the pain.

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The island is only 35 miles wide by 100 miles long yet is home to over 4 million people, a country approximately the size and population of Connecticut.  Although predominantly middle class, there are some caches of illegal aliens and drug lords spurred by our recession which contributes to nearly 1000 murders per year, mostly of young adults.  With the high per capita of cars on the small island, there are also many deaths as the result of car accidents.

I am a bereaved father and a member of The Compassionate Friends (TCF), and I have dedicated my life to serving the bereaved parents, grandparents, and siblings of children who have died too soon. I now travel the country conducting workshops for TCF and other groups and organizations that help the bereaved process their loss. Losing a child at any age at anytime in your life is a devastating reality to bear and a life long journey of struggling to survive the unimaginable.

In 2002, I published my first book “Letters to My Son, a journey through grief.” It was at that time I started speaking and presenting workshops for the bereaved.

The first TCF national conference I attended was in Hollywood CA in 2004. It was there that I met Janette who had lost her son Carlos as I had also lost to death my son Kelly. She attended the conference with other members of “El Amigos Campaciones,” who came all the way from Puerto Rico.

Janette attended my first workshop and we became fast friends. I walked with her on the annual walk to remember held on Sunday, the last day of the conference. On the walk, I helped to hold the banner of deceased children of Puerto Rico, with chapter leader Nivia, her dear friend Mercedes and others, and a bond was made forever. Since that time whenever I have attended a conference, I look forward to seeing my friends from Puerto Rico, brought together by the most unlikely and most feared of life’s tragedies, the death of a child.

It has now been 6 years since that first workshop in California and I decided to travel to Puerto Rico with my wife to conduct a volunteer workshop entitled the “20 Faces of Grief,” visit my friends, and relax a little in paradise.  Eileen and her husband Amaury are local members of the group who invited us to stay in their home while we were on the island and were the most gracious and congenial of hosts. We got to know their beautiful daughter Etline and their son in heaven, Jose, who had been murdered.

Only knowing three years of high school Spanish, I attempted to present a workshop to some 60 Latinos who had lost a child in their lives, most of them who did not speak English. With the help of Nivia, Eileen, Amaury and Janette who translated what I could not to the crowd and then in reverse translation back to me, it was a tremendous success.

We danced in spirit. We spoke from our wounded hearts and our struggling souls. We communicated well despite any so called language barriers and some powerful magic happened in that room. I am happy to say “The Faces of Grief ,” the portraits in pencil that I created, helped in that process.

The pain of the loss of a loved one crosses all barriers of religion, language and politics. If we allow ourselves to feel the loss, ours and that of those whom we connect with who have experienced a similar loss, we form a deep emotional bond of empathy; we are on the same page.

Seeing that our mutual grief extends far beyond the routinely accepted, simplistic and misapplied 5 stages of grief, we find strength and camaraderie in knowing it is much more complex than that.  When we lose a child in our lives, we are changed forever and we find ourselves on a life long journey of discovery, one we could never have envisioned but one we have to learn to accept.

I believe there are no predictable linear stages in processing the death of loved one. It is a series of steps negotiated one at a time, each one taking as long as it takes to reach the next; no timetable; no shortcuts; no false expectations; no failures; just one step at a time.

As in climbing stairs (S.T.A.I.R.S.), we take each step one at a time, moving on to the next when we are ready, willing, and able.  Each step takes a long as it takes and is different for everyone. Whether is a long term illness that took our loved one’s life, a sudden horrible unexpected accident, or some other tragedy, we who are left behind will have to climb this stairway.

I have experienced sudden death when my twin sister and her two boys were killed in an auto accident and I was propelled into instant shock and grief.  My son battled cancer for two years. I witnessed him endure a lot of pain much of that time, that did not prepare me for his death. When he died, I was swept into shock and grief as well.

Anticipatory grief is a myth; there is no such thing.  When we maintain hope, we never accept or prepare for death when it strikes. We cannot anticipate the pain of separation no matter how it happens.  Sudden death and long term illness are two side roads that merge onto the same main road of survival to accept the unacceptable. You love hard, you grieve hard, period; your own grief is the hardest to bear.

The 1^st step is Shock. Our loved one dies; we are in reactionary disbelief and we are numb head to soul. This is how we are able to choose a casket, sign papers, read sympathy cards and publicly share our grief with so many.  We are in a primal stage of survival, we function as an automaton and we accomplish the impossible: We bury or cremate the body of our loved one.

The 2^nd step is Trauma. This is the ensuing reality of our loss and our struggle to comprehend it and weave it into the fabric that is our daily life. This may be the step where the bereaved linger the longest. When we return to work, by rote go through the holidays and struggle everyday to cope. Every morning when we open our eyes after our fitful night’s sleep and we again sword fight with denial and disbelief. The light of a new day beckons us to rejoin the world that we are reticent to embrace.  Moving forward, functioning at all seems we are dishonoring our loved one. We know there is no going back; we do not want to move forward so we stay where we are for as long as it takes.

The 3^rd step is Acceptance. This is the most powerful step in moving forward in processing our loss; when we accept the loss has taken place we can then make plans for the future as nebulous as it may seem; this is not an easy admission to make but a crucial one for our survival.  Accepting the reality of the loss is not forgetting or letting go, its living with the loss and accepting its collateral damage to our future.

The 4^th step is Introspection/Insight. This is where we look deep within ourselves to try and find ourselves. We question our faith and seek to find the “meaning of life” in the depths of our sorrow. We use the tools of intuition, gut feelings and prayer to access the world inside and out in a different light of perception. The more we know, the more we know what we don’t know. We look to find answers to the whys and the cries of our wounded soul… and are finally willing to hear the answers.

The 5^th step is Reinvestment/Rebuilding. This is where we take charge of our journey and find creative ways, and healthy ways to process our loss. This is what I call “Proactive Grieving,” where in earnest we attempt to reconstruct the foundation of a life that has been shattered and try to regain the joy back which is our birthright.

We become Intentional Survivors. This is where we can make a difference in the world and fulfill our personal destiny. When we honor our loved ones life by creating a legacy in their name the world is then enriched instead of diminished.

The 6^th step is Serenity and true peace. This is not always possible in this world, loss or no loss in our lives, but yet it is attainable. It may take years, even decades to reach or it creeps into our lives on the journey itself…when we are caught by surprise to see the face in the mirror is smiling. Miracles do happen…believe.

Peace, love n light

Mitch

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I love everything about the film — its characters, the music, the majesty, the change from black and white to color, and of course Judy Garland.  The story taught me so much about how important the journey is in achieving a goal; to dare to take a risk; to dare to trust friends and trust the serendipity of life itself.

My favorite character was the Tin Man.  He was so tender, gentle and sweet yet so sad and forlorn.  He could not feel the beating of his own heart yet bore the qualities of one who truly has a capacity for love. Life is about finding our own heart; seeing how it reflects back to us from the others that we love.  We find that on the journey of searching to find what we think is important in life, we find by default what is truly important, and it’s all about heart.

I enjoy watching movies of all kinds. One of my favorites is a fictitious story about a young boy, the best little league picture in his small Montana town who walked off the pitching mound and quit playing baseball.  The boy’s name was Chuck, the movie: “Amazing Grace and Chuck”. When Chuck is asked why he walked off the field, he responded “I have to give up something I love until the madness of nuclear arms across the world is halted.”

Word spread, and soon, major sport figures are giving up their positions on their respective teams to join this young idealist in his unique protest.  The movement soon spread to children in schools across U.S. and the world.  All the children began protesting nuclear arms by not speaking. To persuade the world’s children to start speaking again, the U.S. president (Gregory Peck) and the Russian leader started to disarm respective missile sites.

One person with integrity, the willingness to sacrifice, and has true compassion for the common good, no matter what their age is, can truly change the world.  We should all follow what our heart tells us and make the world a little better place then when we found it.

The movie “The Never Ending Story,” which was a partially animated children’s feature (from the eighties) had a great message for us. In the  movie, the world is slowly disappearing because of “ the nothing.”  When people stop believing in magic and the beauty and  mystery of life, the  world will fade away to nothing.  Experience is our greatest gift, apathy our greatest sin.

In our grief, we may feel like fading away into the nothing and feel nothing, but then two lives are lost and the world diminished twofold. We love hard, we grieve hard; we cannot feel nothing; If we do, we lose ourselves and that connection with our loved one in the bargain. We can use the experience of our grief to build our new future, a future that will have joy in it again sometime down the road. It is a life long journey down this road, but you if you feel love again you will feel joy again.  Feeling joy again is the great legacy of our continuing love for our loved ones who have died.

Pay it Forward. Now there is a movie with a message!  After experiencing several tragedies in my life, including the death of my son, I soon found the only way I was able to navigate through the dark shadows of my despair was by reaching out to other people in need.  The more I helped others, the better I felt; the better I felt, the more connected I felt to the world and my son. It’s all about heart.  I finally had a name for how I felt!  From a movie I found a name, a phrase if you will, to explain the modality of healing that worked and is working for me.  Pay it forward.

On this journey through life ,we will face many challenges; one of those toughest challenges is surviving the loss of a loved one.  Healing from a significant familial loss takes years to reach some acceptable level of recovery. It takes years, not months, to accept the death of a child. Helping others is one way to face those challenges, but one cannot fill another’s cup if our own cup is not full.

In the beginning, we are forced to accept the compassion of others to fill our own cup; prime it so to speak until our cup is full and capable of filling others. This initial process of filling takes as long as it takes and is different for everyone. When your cup is again full, you can start to fill the cups of others.   When you reach out to others and in the process you will find your soul is refreshed, your pain diminished and your will to live restored.

A small act of kindness is like a pebble thrown into a pond; its ripples reach every shore. Let your heart be that pebble that sends ripples of compassion to many different shores. In reaching out to others in this way, our loss turns to legacy, our despair turns into hope, and our future is reclaimed. At some point in this process you may even feel true joy again.  Take the risk of being as good as one can be. Tip the balance. Pay it forward. It’s all about heart. It’s all about love.

I use these movies as metaphors of the grief journey for myself; you may have your own. No matter what movie, story, book or song that you may see, read or hear, if it is all about heart, there will be triggers that call their name. You will be reminded of your love one, in a way bittersweet and melancholy and your hearts will swell and eyes may well.

We will feel the pain again, and we may cry again, but we do not manufacture tears, they are just waiting to come out. Tears of remembrance are much sweeter than those of early pain, and they bring comfort, not fear.  Home is where the heart is…There’s no place like home.

“You must give some time to your fellow man. Even if it’s a little thing, do something for others…something for which you get no pay but the privilege of doing it.” -Albert Schweitzer

“It is in giving that we receive, it is in healing that we are healed.” -St. Francis of Assisi

The post Great Movies Send Message that Joy Returns appeared first on Open to Hope.

In both books, I found many similarities in processing the loss of a child. Both books reflect the belief that there truly is life after death on both sides of the equation; for the departed and for those left behind. The fiction book is called The Lovely Bones and is now a major motion picture; the true story is my story and is called Letters to My Son.

In 2002, I  routed my book to many book stores excited to share my first book, the magnum opus of my life, the story of my son’s death and that of  a family’s long road to healing and recovery from that devastating loss. My book was a best-seller in our small town bookstore of Hastings, and was 2^nd in sales only to Harry Potter!  I did some readings and many signings at the bookstore that first year, and I got to know to know Grace, the owner of The Hungry Mind Bookstore, fairly well.

One day, following an event Grace pulled me aside and handed me a book. She said “this just came out recently and it’s not for sale yet, but I was sent this preview copy. Would you like it?”  She also stated that she had started the book, but that it was pretty graphic in places and she thought it was downright weird but according to her “right up my alley” with my talk of signs that I believe that we can receive from our loved ones who has passed (whispers of love).

She was correct that it was right up my alley; I loved the book. She was also correct it was violent and graphic in the sense its opening pages began with the descriptive murder of 14-year-old girl.

I read the book back then and have now recently seen the movie. I liked them both and recommend either for anyone who has lost a child. It will bring tears but what does not? There will be tears of horror, tears of empathy, tears of remembrance, tears of revived pain, tears of the joy of discovery, tears of recognition, and tears of relief that we are not crazy.  Although this book/movie is fictional, the reality of our children’s spirit connecting with us left behind is not.  It happens and it happens a lot.

In 1979, the movie “The Amityville Horror” was released, and was soon be followed by the movie “Poltergeist” in 1982 and “Ghostbusters” in 1984. All three of these films did damage to our cultures view of life after death as the afterlife was conveyed as one of great horror, fear and unrest. It wasn’t until 1990, with the release of the movie “Ghost,” did we find a movie depicting ghosts as loving spirits. “Ghost” stirred quite an awareness and curiosity about the very real possibility of life after death and even the validity of mediums. By 1995, three mediums emerged nationally and word wide that took the nation’s media by storm: Sylvia Brown, James Van Praagh and John Edward. Their books and appearances fueling even more interest in the afterlife.

In 1998 the movie “What Dreams May Come” was released with Robin Williams, then in 2004 “The Five People You Meet In Heaven” was released both movies similar in the fact they were trying to convey a vivid imagery of the afterlife.  The movies also raised some heated religious controversy as well.

A few years later in 2007 the release of the book “The Shack” stirred the country’s curiosity again once again about the reality of life after death, as well as a very real glimpse into the horror and pain of losing a child in one’s life.

I think the movie/book “The Lovely Bones” is the most compelling for the bereaved parent and sibling, as it dramatically illustrates the different journeys the loss of child can take the parent on as they together and individually try to process the unspeakable, the death of their child. They experience complicated grief with their daughter’s death being an unsolved murder involving police activity, media coverage and endless court dates.

It shows a dad’s obsession to find the killer, a mom’s struggle to accept the reality of their daughter’s absence in their lives, and the forgotten mourners, the siblings, floundering in the middle.   They eventually discover that by NOT letting go and in reality embracing the spirit of their child and sibling, they found true healing in their lives. The happy American family was ripped apart, never to be the same again. But they discovered hope in the truth that life is eternal and that every end is a new beginning.

The novel’s title stems from a line toward the end of the novel, in which Susie (the child murdered) ponders her friends’ and family’s newfound strength after her death: “These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence: the connections — sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent — that happened after I was gone.”

The title The Lovely Bones sounds at first like a disturbing  oxymoron, but the author does describe well her meaning in metaphor, and  I do find it concus with my own thoughts about the death of a loved one.  In has been 22 years since my son died and some magnificent things have happened in my life and countless other lives that are directly related to his passing and the all-consuming grief for our great loss.

We cannot change what has transpired but we can change the world that we have left as we live our loss, embrace our loved one’s spirit and process our grief proactively. Changing the world in a positive way, keeping my son’s legacy alive with my actions, embracing the moment, speaking from my heart and showing compassion to all in need are the lovely bones in my grief journey. What are yours?

“The most difficult thing, but an essential one is to love life. To love it even while one suffers, because life is all…” –Leo Tolstoy

Mitch Carmody

The post Film Review: The Lovely Bones appeared first on Open to Hope.

I was going to name you Connor but decided on Kelly, another good Irish name… gosh that was 31 years ago…wow…now we are thinking about baby names again. We had named your sister Meagan, who is now due to have her second child at any moment.

You left us, my son, when that veil between our worlds separated briefly and you stepped through. December 1^st is always a grim reminder of that calendar day. It is approaching fast, like fierce storm clouds gathering on the far horizon; a dog howling deep down and fearful of a storm he can only sense; I feel an uneasiness within my soul; a bone itch I cannot scratch.

When the November winds blow hard and scatter the summer’s debris into the steel gray dulling skies I remember you. When the pure white hoar frost covers the ground in the brilliant white of angel wings I think about you. When the branches of every tree, every shrub every twig glisten with frozen drops of early dew I think about you. When the wood fire smoke from a cozy home far off in the distance drifts enchantingly into my chilled nostrils, I think about you.

When I hear distant gunfire far off beyond the woods, and I imagine so many deer running and geese flying for their lives and I think about you. When I see that wild turkey on the side of the road I think about you. When I smell pumpkin pie cooking in the kitchen I think about you. When I see those first couple of snowflakes appearing like a few small feathers on the wind I think of you. For most of November you were dying, my son, and when the annual return of autumn’s portents are on the wind, I again feel that bone itch that I cannot scratch and I think about you.

Those last days of November were your last days on earth; while we lived them I did not think of them that way; only that each minute was today. I surely knew that you were going to die but hopefully we had more weeks or more months before we would say goodbye. We had food stacked up, friends, family and doctors on call and we had rented movies stacked to the ceiling.

I know you were in lots of pain, but you did always tell us how you were feeling. Occasionally we would go for walks, looking like two  ancient old men holding on to each other coming back late from the country pub. It was hard and painful for you but we did it, the autumn air seemed to calm your anxious soul and I could hold you tightly and bury my nose in your scruffy hair, a memory that is still intoxicating to my soul. Everything about November brings memories of you.

My heart still aches missing your embrace, but am so grateful for your many signs and visits you have gifted to us through these many years. I have been told by a psychic you are coming back to our family as this baby about to be born to your sister. If that is true and even possible at all, I rejoice in that miracle, if you are not back as this child, and only the guardian angel of our grandchild I rejoice in that miracle, if you are just a messenger with the good news of that baby that is too bless our lives, I rejoice in that miracle.  If this means we will no longer get signs from you, I am thankful for ones we have received and I rejoice in those miracles.

This Thanksgiving I rejoice in the miracle that is you.  I know before you left us in spirit, you and your mother created a code word so you could get back to us. I know you have used it many times to lift our spirits through the years, but I think never as significant as this year.  The word you chose and now the world knows, was “turkey”. Thank you, Kelly, for being such a good son. I will be your dad for eternity.

I love you,

Dad

To my readers: Now this November my daughter is about ready to birth, to bring another gift from God to grace this planet earth. I find myself waiting with joy, fear, trepidation, excitement yet with an inner feeling of an anticipation and angst I cannot describe. The parallel of waiting for my child to die and enter a whole new sphere of existence and that of my grandchild who is doing the same I guess may be “the meaning in life” we all search for. That little soul within my daughter’s womb is frightened of the unknown but yet anxious to get there. I am sure that is how my son Kelly felt; fearful to leave all he has known but curious to go to the light that gently called his name.

Laughter and tears are shed when a child is born, laughter and tears also usher us out when we are gone.  The meaning in life simply one transition waiting for the next transition. In between we dance.

Peace Love and Light
Mitch

The post Letter to a Son, Decades After His Death appeared first on Open to Hope.

During the course of my 8-year-old son’s battle with cancer, I attended a holistic college to learn massage. I wanted to be able to help rid toxins from Kelly’s chemo-ridden body and to give relief to the pains that ravaged him so much of the time. It seemed to help a lot… and I learned a new skill.

Months following Kelly’s death in the latter part of 1987, I saw an ad looking for massage therapists to do volunteer therapy for people stricken with AIDS. I signed up.  Maybe I could use my new skill and help many souls faced with almost certain death.

I worked with many different people, some on a regular basis for quite a few years, after which one by one they died. What had helped initially in my grief now became grief overload and I had to stop that form of giving. For awhile, however, it was a synergy that saved my life.

Following Kelly’s death, I also started giving blood monthly with the American Red Cross; I have now donated close to 35 gallons of blood which equates to extending or saving the lives of close to 600 people. I have to admit I was selfish in my motives because each time I gave blood, I felt better from the pain of my loss. Now that is a win/win in my book!

I believe at some deep quantum-level healings take place within our body and minds from our interaction with others when love is the common denominator.  It is how healing works, it is how prayer works. Like vibrations seek like vibrations to harmonize with, it is that harmony at the quantum level thatcan heal body, mind and spirit momentarily or for the rest of our lives.

We should strive to open doors for people physically and metaphorically as a matter of our daily Modus Operandi.  It makes us feel good, it makes others feel good ,and its benefits spread faster than a virus. In helping others, we help ourselves and in the bargain hopefully tip the quantum balance on this tiny blue planet in the right direction.  John Lennon said it very clearly… All you need is love.

Give however you can, with time, blood, skills, money. If it is from the heart it will help to heal yours.

Be the light you seek.

The post The Quantum Physics of Giving appeared first on Open to Hope.

And nothing worthwhile is ever lost

Then what is the value of memories

For those who paid the highest cost?

When a parent loses a child

Words become a useless tool

There is nothing to be said to undo the hurt

And feeble attempts are only cruel.

A hug heart to heart in warm embrace

Surpasses any useless phrase

Shared tears and shared memories

More healing than funeral sprays.

A photograph is a moment in time

And sometimes it can capture our soul

A place we can find solace in memories

To fill an empty hole.

The triggered memories are priceless

For in a flood of tears we cannot see

And we must travel inward

to seek one’s own empathy.

To empathize with ourselves

For the heart can heal all things

We all have what it takes…

A song bird is meant to sing.

Our hearts are the greatest gift

That lies within our grasp

To endure the clinging agony

And find some peace at last.

We must make new memories

That can only glorify the old

We can use our heart to heal ourselves

Our story must be told.

Our grief should not be a secret

Death is not a curse

Living life without Joy

Is an existence so much worse.

Brighten up someone else’s day

It will illuminate you own

And plant the seeds of destiny

That has a purpose and should be sown.

Yes a picture is worth a thousand words

So share those pictures from your heart

Filibuster your child’s life to one and all

They are God’s greatest work of art.

–  MC/9/09

The post Poem: God’s Greatest Work of Art appeared first on Open to Hope.

From the Viet Nam war to the Oklahoma bombing, the shootings at Columbine, the 9/11 terrorist attack on New York City, murders in Rwanda, Northern Ireland, South Africa, the wars in Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Palestine, Israel, in the countless other countries around the world and on the streets of our cities across the nation bereaved moms, dads and siblings are created every day.  Baby boomers are hopping on the Polar Express to heaven in droves as our bodies, minds and spirits wear out.  Now in the throes of a deep recession and all of its related losses, we as a country are going headlong into grief overload.

Paradoxically, I also believe that we are in the midst of a wave of new consciousness that is  emerging in our society (relative to the bereavement process) in a  paradigm shift  which I call proactive grieving ®. People of all walks of life in this country and across the world are questioning for the first time what they have been taught to believe about death, dying and the ideologies of life after death.  People are now speaking out loudly about their grief and taking control of their own journey.

With the advent of such groups such as The Compassionate Friends, Bereaved Parents USA, and a plethora of splinter groups dealing with child loss, we as bereaved parents have unified in a very large community of likeminded individuals who bring many colors and textures to the tapestry of honorable survival that we find ourselves weaving together.

In growing numbers, we are redefining and personifying our grief journey as a life-long one, an implacable one, one filled with pain and sorrow but yet rich with compassion and the magic of life. At the risk of being hubristic in my attempt to recognize this obvious paradigm shift, I think you will agree that it is happening. We are stirring up the heavens and opening up a star gate of cosmic understanding, a portal between two worlds, this and the next.

In the 1970s, Ken Kesey popularized the story of The Hundredth Monkey, which had origins in a real scientific experiment done in 1952. The original story describes research on Japanese macaque monkeys, which have been studied intensively for more than four decades in a number of wild colonies. They first provided monkeys in one colony on the island of Koshima with sweet potatoes, which were thrown onto the beach and hence were covered with sand. One of the monkeys, an 18-month old female, called Imo, solved the problem of the sand on the potatoes by carrying them down to a stream and washing them before feeding. This new form of behavior spread through the colony. By 1958 all the juveniles were washing dirty food and some of the adults learned to do so by imitating their children.

Then something extraordinary took place.  In the autumn of that year, 1958, an unspecified number of monkeys on Koshima were washing sweet potatoes in the sea, because Imo had made the further discovery that salt water not only cleaned the food but gave it an interesting new flavor.

Let us say, for argument’s sake, that the number was 99 and that at eleven o’clock on the Tuesday morning, one further convert was added to the fold in the usual way. But the addition of the 100th monkey apparently carried the number across some sort of threshold of consciousness because by that evening almost everyone in the colony even though not having observed it, started to do it. Not only that, but the habit seems to have jumped natural barriers, appearing spontaneously in colonies in other islands where the colonies were being observed.

I postulate this is happening in our society with our understanding of the bereavement process.  Worldwide the bereaved are experiencing phenomenon that supports that the spirit of our loved ones who have died live in another sphere of existence that is still connected to our own.  And although the 100 hundredth monkey principle works at the unconscious level or soul level, the media does it at a conscious level and is also exploding.

Twenty years ago, from my own personal experience, I started exploring the phenomenon of what I call “’ soul speak”   or instances that give credibility to the fact that personality survives physical death.  I believe in the notion that at our loved ones’ life force exists on a current, pre-current and post-current simultaneous time continuum or parallel world with our own.  Although this has been and is a contentious subject on many fronts, Einstein’s theory of relativity only supports it.

At one time I was stepping out on limb, braving the slings and arrows of ridicule, but now I find strength in great numbers from not only the fellow bereaved, but scientists, physicists, psychologists, medical doctors and even religious leaders. I believe that all of our souls are connected at a cosmic molecular level which not only provides us with insight, genius, instinct, cosmic awareness, prophecy, deity connection, avenue for prayer and conduit for love, but also a very real  soul to soul connection that provides for communication with our loved ones who have died.

I have had many experiences that illustrate this fact and personally I have heard thousands upon thousands of correlative stories from the bereaved who will also attest to similar experiences that they have had.  The more we unabashedly speak of our experiences and share phenomenon, the more we stir up the heavens. If you have never seen an orb in a photograph as a sign from your dead child or loved one, or have had a butterfly dance in your presence, you more than likely will after reading this article.

Take off the dark colored glasses; take off the rose colored glasses; see what is about us always. When we know, our loved ones know we know, and they have one more tool, one more way to say I love you and miss you.  They are whispers of love and they are real.

Open your minds, open your hearts, open your soul…connect with the all, the what is, the what was, the what will be, the alpha and the omega and all in-between.  In the water of life ,we are all buckets of God; drink deep, the well is self-sustaining and forever. Stir up the heavens, shake up the stars, awaken the birthright of your soul and find peace in knowing love never dies.

The post A Stir in the Heavens: Just Say No to Letting Go appeared first on Open to Hope.

If a picture is worth a thousand words

And nothing worthwhile is ever lost

Then what is the value of memories

For those who paid the highest cost?

When a parent loses a child

Words become a useless tool

There is nothing to be said to undo the hurt

And feeble attempts are only cruel

A hug heart to heart in warm embrace

Surpasses any useless phrase

Shared tears and shared memories

More healing than funeral sprays

A photograph is a moment in time

And sometimes it can capture our soul

A place we can find solace in memories

To fill an empty hole

The triggered memories are priceless

For in a flood of tears we cannot see

And we must travel inward

to seek one’s own empathy

To empathize with ourselves

For the heart can heal all things

We all have what it takes…

A song bird is meant to sing

Our hearts are the greatest gift

That lies within our grasp

To endure the clinging agony

And find some peace at last

We must make new memories

That can only glorify the old

We can use our heart to heal ourselves

Our story must be told

Our grief should not be a secret

Death is not a curse

Living life without Joy

Is an existence so much worse

Brighten up someone else’s day

It will illuminate you own

And plant the seeds of destiny

That has a purpose and should be sown

Yes a picture is worth a thousand words

So share those pictures from your heart

Filibuster your child’s life to one and all

They are God’s greatest work of art.                     MC/9/09

The post Poem: God’s Greatest Work of Art appeared first on Open to Hope.

When I hear of the death of a high profile individual, it always turns my head. But do I mourn?? Do I lament? Do I cry in public?? In most cases, I do not. I am far enough detached from the individual that I do not personally lament the loss.  The loss does not profoundly affect my life; I can deal with it intellectually and move on with my day. How else could one read the paper or watch the evening news and not be heartbroken every night? Every day is so full of death and sorrow.

The death of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett hits the headlines and we are shocked, totally caught by surprise. Public lamentations begin almost immediately across the world.  Some people react to the death at almost inconsable levels and yet never met the person. How does that happen?

When JFK was assassinated, it did not affect me profoundly except for the fact I could not watch most of my favorite TV shows for awhile.  I was only 8 years old.  Five years later, in 1968, when Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, my spirit took a hard hit; how could someone who stood for so much goodness be gunned down like that? How could someone responsible for so much positive change for humanity and our country be so easily slaughtered?

When John Lennon was murdered, it hit me hard. Why? Why do the good people have to die? He stood for peace on earth, brotherhood, love. How could this happen? I mourned his loss because of what he accomplished, what he stood for and how he changed my life.

On September 11^th, 2001, America and the world at large experienced what I call spectacular grief.  Whether it’s genocide in Rwanda, a cult massacre in Jones Town Guyana, or a school massacre as was witnessed at Columbine, we as a country experience the loss together as a group.

This togetherness of spirit becomes an immediate synergistic phenomenon that seems to amplify and personify the experience as if it were our own personal loss, and we feel it deeply. We experience high levels of lamentations and grief emotions for someone we have never met.  For those with previous loss, it may bring back many emotions still roiling beneath the surface.  Those that have never experienced a close personal loss can get a glimpse the horror.

Here’s what’s important: the grief we feel is real.

After suffering many familial losses from a young age and ultimately with the death of his nine year old son of cancer in 1987 Mitch Carmody, has struggled with the grief journey and how grief is processed and perceived in this country.? He published a book in 2002 called  Letters To My Son, a journey through grief. The book has now reached the bereaved in every state and 7 other countries.  From the book’s success he now travels locally and around the country lecturing on the grief process and/or conducting workshops on surviving the loss of a loved one. He has also conducted a variety of workshops with The Compassionate Friends and Bereaved Parents USA as well as a sought after speaker for many keynote presentations. As a trained hospice volunteer, he has also helped many loved ones and their families through the dying process. Mitch has published several articles in national bereavement periodicals, is a frequent contributor to TCF Atlanta On-line and currently a staff writer for Living with Loss Magazine.  Through email correspondence on his website he counsels the bereaved on a daily basis.

The post Celebrity Deaths Create ‘Spectacular’ Grief appeared first on Open to Hope.

Something shifted within my soul that day that has never shifted back. I became a different me. One door closed; a new one, at least in that moment, did not swing open. Like a newborn baby, I cried to be held and rocked, hoping sleep would come forever. When I first awoke at the next day’s dawning, I knew there was no death watch today…only the gray.

Everything was muffled. How could this have happened? How can I possibly live without my son? Many of us in this life will be faced with these same questions that have no answers, and we struggle to survive. How we survive is different for us all.  Not surviving sounds like an attractive option, but not a rational one.  We have to learn to live all over again.

I am now more than two decades into my grief as a bereaved parent, and I feel compelled to tell you a little more of that journey that has this many years later brought me much peace. After my son died following a two-year battle with cancer, I fell into an abyss of despair. We had fought for so long to save his life with everything in our power. We had great physicians, surgeons, oncologists, a great children’s hospital and insurance.

But they were not enough. They still could not save our son from his ultimate death to cancer. I detail the events in my book “Letters To My Son, a journey through grief.” Publishing that book and making my grief 3-dimensional was a huge milestone in processing my grief and subsequently a springboard to a future I had never conceived of or envisioned.

I had remortgaged our house to publish the book of my son’s life, his death, his healing, our miracle, our journey.  I transformed the most intimate details of a family’s worst tragedy into an inspirational source of healing for the bereaved. Of the 2,500 copies that were printed, I have 250 left. It was my first attempt at writing a book, and I am ready to fill another with the miracles and healing that have been brought into my life because of it.

When we knew our son was truly going to die, the Make-a-wish organization agreed to send us to Hawaii for two weeks, and then return home for more palliative radiation. On our return from the Islands, we traveled to Mexico for a day on the advice of a relative that we could locate some healing herbs to help our son’s recovery from the assaults of chemotherapy.  My nephew lived in San Diego, which is not far from the Mexican border.

His family rented a beach house in a small fishing village called Maniadera, just south of Ensenada near the famous landmark “La Bufadora”  a natural seawater blowhole on the Pacific side of the Baja. Their beach house was owned by local landlord who lived close by.  She was in her mid-seventies, and held in high esteem in the village.

It was she who collected the healing herb high in the mountains. When we met her, she said she had a vision of our son coming to her for a healing and she asked us to come to a healing service held in a small chapel built behind her home.  We decided to attend. We did not return home for almost two months and our son’s grapefruit size tumor completely disappeared.  God had given us a second chance, we sold everything we had and moved to San Diego.

Months after living in California, the cancer returned and, our spirits broken, we moved back to Minnesota where our son died in our arms in an almost empty rented apartment near our home and family. Our only other child, our daughter Meagan, was 6 years old when we lived in Mexico.

Through the years, I have always told her that when the time was right, I would take her back to Ensenada, back to that that little fishing village, to the little chapel where the miracle occurred so long ago. Boyfriends came and went, but the significant other in her life that would warrant the journey, that felt right, never appeared in her life until just a few years ago.  She fell in love with a wonderful young man, the real deal, a genuine man with tenderness and depth of character. They had a child together, our grandchild.

It now felt like the right time to make our pilgrimage back to Mexico. We started to make plans. To drive to Ensenada, you have to drive through Tijuana and navigate the long coastal road several hours to get to Ensenada and then again an hour to Maniedera if we could even find it after 21 years.

Driving your own car or a rental both are considered risky with the current instances of Banditos accosting tourists who attempt to make the drive. We saw an ad for a cruise ship that sailed to Ensenada, we booked it for the four of us early this spring for an October cruise that would at least bring us to Ensenada.

Before we left Minnesota, I envisioned what I wanted to happen once we were in Ensenada. I prayed that we would just get off the boat, walk up to a trustworthy English-speaking taxi driver, and I would offer him a hundred bucks for four hours to take us to La Bufadora and on the way see if he could help us find the little chapel near Manieadera.

I carefully tucked a crisp new one hundred dollar bill in the back of my wallet just for this purpose. While on board the ship I asked about hiring a driver once we arrived in Ensenada. They did not recommend doing any touring that was not offered through their itinerary. If we wanted to pursue it on our own, we were free to do so, but they were not responsible for our safety and we would have make the twenty-minute walk into town to inquire.

We got off the boat prepared to walk into the center of town.  We passed the many Carnival Cruise Line tour buses that people were lining up to take the hour or to drive to see the famous La Bufadora.  We only had about a 5-hour window to find our chapel, so we started to walk quickly.

Just past the last of the big tour buses sat a lonely white van with a small sign in the window, which simply stated :” Shuttle Service For Hire”. It appeared to be a brand new van despite the very faded “Tips accepted” sign (which was the reverse side of the shuttle for hire sign).

I had walked by the van at first and then I retraced my steps to see if there was a driver inside, as I approached he got out of his van and asked me if I was looking to hire a taxi. I said that I was and that I wanted to go La Bufadora with my family, but want to do several hours of  more personal sightseeing on the way.

He smiled broadly and with a knowing wink in his eye and in perfect English said “how about four hours for a hundred bucks?? I about fell over, but calmly said that would be fine, let’s do it.  He brought out a little step stool to help us into the van, shut the double doors, sat back in the driver’s seat and he announced: Hi my name is Gilbert, where to first?

I explained that although we did want to travel to La Bufadora, as it is well worth the visit and a part of our nostalgic tour, but we really wanted to find the village of Maniadera above all else.  Did he know of the village? He responded that although he was from Ensenada, he had gone to school in Manieadara and knew how to get there.

We talked more and I told him a little of our experience of 21 years before, and why we wanted to find the chapel and possibly find and walk the beach we had lived so long ago.  He said much has changed in those many years and Maniadera has spread out in all directions but he thought he could get us near the beach area that we hoped to see.  I told him about the miracle healing that we had experienced and I had recalled the gentile older woman who owned the chapel and that her name was Dona Nieves but she was also known as Senora Fisher.

His eyes lit up immediately and said, “I went to school with her son, I know where her house is and even possibly the chapel of which you speak, I heard she died about 8 years but her son may live there now. I am certain we can find it.” Soon the smells, the geography started to take on a familiar quality, like glimpses of a recurring dream teasing at your body, mind, and soul.  The olfactory senses being the strongest trigger see, to retrieve the deepest of memories, even those gained as a child, and my daughter was experiencing it big time.

Every place on earth seems to have its own smell and flavor. Fishing docks, dead seaweed, ocean breeze, hints of raw sewage and blooming cacti brought us back to those long forgotten days almost immediately. My daughter’s hands clutched an old shirt her brother had last worn when last we lived here and he was alive. She had surprised us by packing it in her purse for this purpose, if and when we found the chapel.

A few wrong turns and a closed road later, we found ourselves parked in front of the chapel that changed our life so many years before. We all got out of the van stunned that we had found it and it still looked the same. Soon a woman came out of the main house and I am sure was wondering why these four American tourists were standing so reverently and speechless in front her husband’s machine shed.

St. Gilbert to the rescue again…through his interpretation he explained the story and why we were there. The kind lady was the daughter-in-law of the late Senora Fisher and she confirmed that the old woman had died. She also said that although the building was now her husband’s machine shed (with a very visible cross still on the peak of the roof ) it was indeed the little chapel that Senora Fisher had built for healing.

We could not go inside but we were allowed to take some photos in front of the chapel. When through, we graciously thanked her and left. We took a short walk to the beach and soon lost ourselves in quiet gratefulness, savoring so many memories that were flooding our being. We looked for the beach house where he had lived those few months, now more than two decades later. We knew from relatives that the house itself had burned to the ground less than a year after we had stayed there and had been built over again.

It was difficult to ascertain where the exact spot was, but it made no difference we were there. We felt it. We then took a very quiet ride to La Bufadora, and ate some delicious fish and shrimp tacos, sipped a cold Corona and we pondered our miracle as it was happening. Our angel, our friend St.Gilbert of Ensenada had certainly come through. We walked back to our van after our light repast and asked Gilbert to take us back to the town of Ensenada itself to seek its memories yet to be revealed.

On the drive back I told Gilbert I used to frequent a place back when we were here last, it was only a street vendor but they had the best tacitos I have ever had in my life, it was on the corner of Seis and Ruiz in a non-tourist part of town.  Gilbert exclaimed with excitement, “I was just there yesterday!!”

He took us right there. Nothing had changed at all; my God, it looked like the same place I had walked up to 21 years ago, and had the best taste treat of a lifetime. El Norteno was still open for business. The store front was just a cubby hole with green and a white tiled counter housing the cook, the grill, a white chest refrigerator, a soda cooler, and the lady whom you paid.

You ordered how many you wanted and when you were full you gave her the count of how many eaten and you paid up.  It had not changed one iota in 21 twenty years.  There just happened to be a local musician, leaning against his pick up serenading all who ordering and those who were eating. No place to sit, you stand and enjoy.

The first bite of that little taco gave me a jolt of true reality. For a brief moment, I was back to a life lived so long ago. I was swept away. Paying for our nine tacos, one torta, and two Coke lights we left to find Gilbert waiting silently in the alley.  I pulled that crisp one hundred dollar bill from my wallet, along with a few hundred pesos that we had left to give as a tip.

I almost had to push it in his hands, as he seemed reluctant and embarrassed to even take it. We hugged warmly as I placed it in his hands, cupping them tightly and simply said, “Thank you, Gilbert, thank you so very much.”

He modestly responded:  “Good memories, I am sure you had, as well as some sad ones, Va con Dios, my friends.  He nodded his head with that same knowing wink he gave me four hours earlier on the pier. He then disappeared from our lives as quickly as it had entered it.

We had been touched by an angel, St. Gilbert of Ensenada. We returned home to Minnesota, bodies tanned, spirits filled.  I walked through my gardens around the farm, which had obviously experienced a recent hard October frost in our absence. Most of the leaves on the plants and flowers were a dark cucumber green and drooping loosely.

Soon, I was surprised to find a batch of forget-me-nots seemingly unscathed. they stood defiant amongst the other browning flora and scattered leaves.  I had planted these plants as seedlings in the spring, and although a spring blooming plant, they had thrived but did not bloom this spring or summer, not at all…until now.

In the center of the patch was one tall stem with the most brilliant tiny blue flowers I have ever seen, like staring into my son’s eyes. I felt warm all over, and I heard Kelly clearly say to me, “You have not forgotten me, I will forget you not.”

Copyright 2008 by Mitch Carmody.

After suffering many familial losses from a young age and ultimately with the death of his nine year old son of cancer in 1987 Mitch Carmody, has struggled with the grief journey and how grief is processed and perceived in this country.  He published a book in 2002 called  Letters To My Son, a journey through grief. To learn more about Mitch and his work, go to: www.HeartlightStudios.net.

The post Return to Ensenada: A Father’s Journey Two Decades Later appeared first on Open to Hope.

Do not bring flowers to my grave
and weep
I did not die
I do not sleep

Lament not at my passing
with tears upon my stone
I do not lay beneath the sod
and you are not alone

Bouquets of flowers will not bring me back
my voice cannot be heard
look for me upon the wind
in the song of a singing bird

I now reside within your heart
you must live my life for me
your head, your heart, your hands
have now become my legacy

Allow my heart to beat
in concert with your own
and continue to plant the seeds
of my life that should be sown

You substantiate my life
by the way that you live yours
my physical life has ended
but it opened a special door

The doorway to my soul
is wide open with no hasp or lock
I am there when you need me
when your heart needs to talk.

Energy never dies
your combined energies created me
now I live within you
no pain, no tears, I’m free

Make me proud Mom and Dad
and still share my life with all
although I did not want to go
I responded to my call.

It was time for me to go
for God has a bigger plan
the same for every one of us
every child, every woman, every man.

Grieve not with anger,
hopelessness and doubt
but grieve your pain openly
you have to let it out.

Let out the rage of injustice
of guilt, pain and fear
and plan your new tomorrows
knowing I’m always near.

Do not bring flowers to my grave
bring sunshine to my heart
and together hearts beating as one
we make a brand new start.

If you do bring flowers

or a memorial wreath

know it’s only my body

that lies beneath.

My body has returned to dust

And my soul is flying free

But I will be there next to you

Whenever… you remember me.

Mitch Carmody 2008

The post Poem: This Memorial Day appeared first on Open to Hope.

In December of 1987, our 9-year-old son, Kelly James, died following two arduous years of fighting brain cancer. That ensuing Christmas, we were so numb in our grief that much of it is now a faded memory. But that following Easter, we received a gift, a gift that I share it with you now.

When Kelly died, his sister Meagan was 6 years old; our only child now, she was left with two grieving parents who were in a deep funk for the most of a long Minnesota winter. We had fought so long to save her brother, tried so hard with everything we had at our disposal. We won many battles but ultimately we lost the war. We were wiped out, apathetic and at the lowest ebb in our lives. Thoughts of spring could not even penetrate the thick penumbra of grief that covered our souls.

Then our darling daughter gave us a gift, a homemade Easter card on Easter morning that not only penetrated that cocoon of sorrow but brought sunshine to our hearts.  It was one of the first indications that Kelly had survived his physical death and reached out to us in our pain. And he did it through his sister Meagan.

Easter morning, Meagan was busy in the kitchen making us a breakfast that only a 6-year-old could make, while we waited patiently and tried not to intervene. On the table, she had a homemade card made from the stapled pages she had ripped out of a 3″x5″ spiral notebook.  On the front page, she had a crayon drawing of an angel underneath a rainbow that said “Happy Easter Mom & Dad.”  The text in blue crayon scrawled on the next pages read thusly:

“To Mom and Dad, Please don’t be sad just for me, I hope you are happy, I love you and I am glad up in heaven, but I miss you… and Kelly said Happy Easter Mom and Dad, I make Meagan do it, but I put it in her brain. Love Kelly.”

As you can see, Meagan was a very thoughtful and talented 6-year-old with keen insights into helping her very sad parents smile again. Or perhaps it was the power of her brother Kelly’s undying spirit using her to communicate to us that life and love is eternal. I believe both happened. This first whisper of love penetrated our darkness and we again saw hope at Easter time.

Reach Mitch Carmody through his websites, www.proactivegrieving.com and www.heartlightstudios.net.

The post Surviving Child Demonstrates Meaning of Easter appeared first on Open to Hope.

If I were to recommend a movie to someone who is processing their loss, I would suggest “Rumors of Angels” with Vanessa Redgrave. This movie is based on the book, “Thy Son Liveth: Message From a Soldier to His Mother,” by Grace Duffie Boylan.

The story revolves around a young boy who two years prior had lost his mother in a car accident. He was with her in the car and she died in his arms at the scene. His father quickly remarried and they live in a small fishing village in New England. The father is gone a lot and the boy, who never accepted the stepmother, is angry with his father for getting married again.

The boy accidently breaks a fence belonging to neighbor, an old woman regarded as by the townsfolk as an eccentric. The two soon become friends. The old woman had lost her son in WW I. She shares the story of how her son and she used to communicate with flashing ship lights using Morse Code.

One night while her son was off in the North Pacific fighting the war, see saw some light signals coming from the rock where her son would flash light messages when he was home. She felt compelled to write them down and soon discovered it was message from her son. The message said: “The soul leaves the body like a school boy jumping out of the school room door with great joy and abandon.” A week later, she found out her son had been killed at the same time that she had received the message.

She shares with the boy a whole book of messages that she had received over the years from her son. When the boy’s father discovers the book, he forbids his son to see her again.
This further traumatizes this boy and breaks open the silence of unresolved grief that both father and son share.

Much healing then transpires with the boy and his father, leading to an inspirational ending. This is a powerful movie that validates that notion that the soul lives on beyond mortal death, that there is life after death on both sides of the veil.

Mitch Carmody lives in rural Minnesota with his wife of thirty years; he enjoys riding horses, gardening, writing, helping others, giving blood monthly and creating works of art. He is also a proud first-time grandfather to the daughter of their surviving daughter Meagan. To learn more about Mitch and his work, go to: www.HeartlightStudios.net.

The post Film Review: Rumors of Angels appeared first on Open to Hope.

Our son Kelly James was diagnosed with a brain tumor in February of 1986, and our world changed forever. We did everything we could do medically, holistically and spiritually to save our son. Although we experienced a healing, we learned a healing is not always a cure. He died 12-1-1987, two months later I wrote this poem to my wife on Valentine’s day.

February 14th, 1988

For Barbara

My darling I am not sure what to say

nor even what to do

to make this very special day

unique and true to you.

We have gone through so many things

from last year at this time

traveled our country over

from frigid to tropical clime.

Experiencing great joy and loss

alternating and together

clinging desperately to our faith

bound to a cancerous tether.

No one can truly be ready

to do what we had to do

be prepared to battle

and yet to each other remain so true.

True to our own identity

and true to us as a whole

putting all our strength together

to fight a common goal.

Cancer had declared war on us

we dared to fight back

examining life’s priorities

and picking up the slack.

A battle plan was made

our enemy defined

we geared up with ammunition

a declaration of war was signed.

Sacrifices had to be made

we were motivated to win

no obstacles were ever too large

no ice ever too thin.

We forged weapons of pure energy

that were smelted in our hearts

with guidance from our God

and the knowledge that He imparts.

He informed us where to go

told us what to do

with us every step of the way

in places old and new.

We had many victories

but also suffered loss

their outcomes as flippant

as a coin in mid-air toss.

Though many battles were won

we lost the two-year war

as cancer beat the victim

and claimed the final score.

The scars of war are very deep

and takes time to heal

as any survivor of any war

can tell you how we feel.

Everything has to be rebuilt

future plans made anew

many things to overcome

before our healing is through.

Post-war years can be very hard

with flashbacks of hurt and pain

the causalities find a better life

it’s hard work for those who remain.

But hard work we are used to

as together we can fight

the hassles of the present

to make the future bright.

We have always had each other

though differences there may be

communications can break down

setting trouble free.

I know that we can handle it

our love is very strong

our souls are bonded together

to last a lifetime long.

That lifetime is here and now

I have never loved you more

and someday as a family

on eagle’s wings we’ll soar.

Until that glorious day

when we reunite with our son

we’ll live each day the best we can

praising God when the day is done.

I Love you,

Mitch

The post Poem: For Barbara, On Valentine’s Day, After the Death of Our Son appeared first on Open to Hope.

My resolution for the year ahead is to practice one element of what I call Proactive Grieving. That element is being intentional; to reach out with some sort of communication that recognizes a special day for someone who has suffered a loss.

Certain calendar days throughout the year are very significant to those who grieve the loss of a loved one: death days, birthdays, diagnosis days, anniversaries, day of the accident, day of surgery, religious observations, holidays, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, family annual event days and more.

In the first year of loss, even the day of the week that a person died is significant to the survivors, as is the exact time on the clock that our loved one died. For example, my son died on Tuesday. Dec. 1, 1987 at 6:32 p.m. After that, each Tuesday at 6:32 punched me in the gut. For many, many years I dreaded each rollover of the month as another 1st of the month emerged that reminded me of the day he died, as well as marking the day as another month completed in survival.

In the coming year, I plan to create a dedicated calendar marked with those significant days of those whom I know are grieving the loss of their loved one. This will remind me to send a card, send some flowers, send an email, make a phone call or a personal visit. Reach out and touch someone, it heals both ways.

Mitch Carmody is a writer and workshop leader. Reach him through his website, www.HeartlightStudios.net.

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We are now closing in on the end of the first decade of the new millennium.  Growing up, most of us baby boomers remember reading about Haley’s Comet, and we hoped to see it zoom across the night sky as an adult. When we were kids, we hadn’t seen a man land on the moon; we had only a couple of stations on our black-and-white televisions; we had telephones with party lines that you shared with neighbors; one computer filled an enormous room, and water was not sold in bottles.

Boy, has the world changed. But where have we come in terms of processing our grief for the loss of a loved one?

In the early 1800s, grief was still puritanical in approach, and death was perceived to be some form of punishment from God for sins, and the wicked were punished accordingly. Death within the nuclear family was treated as if was an embarrassment and kept hidden from view; handled privately and quietly.  Stillborns, premature births and suicides were not even recognized with a mourning period and in some cases, not even allowed to be buried in hallowed ground.

In the early 1900s, a more proactive approach developed toward understanding grief. Mourning mementos such as gloves, scarves, and rings proliferated. Burials began to be attended by large-scale public processions and funerals at the gravesite, and funerary speech began to take on a sentimental or eulogistic quality instead of damnation.  Life after death was hoped for, and the belief that the spirit survived death became the norm. This also gave rise to the Spiritualism movement/religion that brought forth a plethora of mediums, seances, and Ouija board encounters that supported life after death.

In the latter part of the 20^th century, we seemed to have reached a point in bereavement processing that had moved from that ecstatic era of extended and ritualized mourning to our current paradigm shift to a “drive-thru” mentality to “get this all over done with.” Three days off from work. Get over it, move on.

In this latter transmogrification of the bereavement process, we find a more sanitized, streamlined approach that has adapted to our fast moving culture. Wake periods are kept short and sweet or even non-existent; funeral plans are made quickly without elaborate preparations; mementos of mourning are seldom worn or displayed; even the wearing of black is seen less and less.  This lack of a very personal and public display of mourning has created an environment that can delay or circumvent the critical lamentation period that must take place.

The loss must be expressed, the bereaved need to lament their loss and express their pain.  I believe our society is ready for a paradigm shift in the bereavement process, a shift that will allow the bereaved to be able to grieve naturally and openly, be given permission to express the full depth of their loss. We need a shift where the bereaved can lament and to mourn as long as is needed, and without guilt, without shame and without fear of ridicule. We need to be free to live the loss, live the pain and regain the joy.

We live; we love; we grieve; we remember; we accept change; we survive.

By Mitch Carmody

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