Journaling

“Good morning Finn” is how I start almost everyday.  

I am in my 3rd year of journaling. My journal is a daily note to my. I started writing to Finn on my first day back to work after he died.    

I have no idea if Finn can read or know what I am typing.  Of course, I would love if he could!  But I honestly don’t know that I would be disappointed if he didn’t.  Just the exercise of communicating with Finn brings me peace.  

The shadows of grief can be so paralyzing.  There have been countless days that I wake up in the morning with no energy or ambition or hope.  But, most days I make myself write to Finn.  This feels like an accomplishment.  I can actually know that when I go to bed I can say “at least I wrote Finn a note.”  

It is twisted, but even if he can’t know what I wrote, journaling is good for me.  I know Finn would be happy to know that I am trying to take care of myself.  So writing to Finn is a silly way to take care of myself.  On the days that I don’t journal, which are rarer and rarer as time goes by, I feel very guilty.  I feel like I let Finn down and I also feel like I miss opportunities to be with him.

Most thoughts in most notes are just trivial accounts of the morning or the previous day.  I almost always start with how I am feeling right then.  Lots of notes start with “I am so tired” or “life is so hard”. Many times I have conversations with Finn and ask him questions.  At times profound thoughts and memories and ideas come to mind.  When this happens, I copy these to a “things to write about later” file.  This document got very long and lead me into flushing out these ideas which has turned into attempting to write a blog.  

I have never gone back to reread any of my notes to Finn.  I can’t think of any tangible reason why I don’t reread these.  But I haven’t done it.  I suspect that there is some unknown reason that is holding me back.  I doubt it is avoiding grief since I tend to take every opportunity to “grieve”.  I probably don’t reread them because it isn’t the time yet.  I trust if and when a time comes to read these, then I will be given a gift.  My ego believes that there is a wealth of first hand knowledge of what grief is like at least for me.  Perhaps a valuable tool in blogging about grief :)

Grief and missing my beautiful son is one of the cores of who I am.  Parents never stop thinking about their kids whether they are alive or dead or living at home or apart.  Writing to Finn every day is a powerful way for me to ground myself in this part of me.  When I hide or bury grief, it comes back to kick me and at unexpected and often less than ideal times.  The more separated I am from the grief the more it hurts and the further it knocks me down when it kicks me in the gut.  So writing to Finn is a daily way to stay grounded to my grief in a place that is safe.

I’m not sure if blogging will stick, but journaling is a permanent rock in my life.  It has directly lead into many positive gifts.  My morning routine now includes stretching, meditating, and making the bed as well as journaling.  Journaling has lead to ideas that I have found worth expanding and sharing.  Most importantly, writing a letter to Finn gives me a daily chance to visit with my beautiful son.

Grief in the holidays year 3

This is something that I shared during a church service. It was a service about grief where myself and three other members talked about our grief in the holidays and how it changes over time. It was in the middle of my 3rd year of grief.


Good morning.  

[I hang up  Finn’s stocking]

We have a second son named Finn and this is his stocking.  He died before his first Christmas as his life only lasted from March through August 2010.  He never saw his stocking or the Christmas lights which he would have loved.

How can I look at this stocking on Christmas morning and find joy?

Impossible.  It will be a knee bending kick in the gut.  I will be flattened.  How does a family celebrate a child’s birth while missing their own baby?

This is my third holiday season since Finn’s death. This year there seems like less fog and I have enough space to at least start thinking about the holidays and what they mean to me and my family.  

Do I invite Finn into my holidays or should I try to set my grief aside?  This doesn’t take much thought.  Generations of sad people before me have learned that burying grief is dangerous.  I am permanently Finn’s dad and I think about him just as much as I think about his brother.  I need Finn to have a stocking.

If I can’t remove grief from holidays, perhaps I can stop participating in them.  Two days off of work at the end of November, then more vacation at the end of December through the beginning of January with no celebrations or obligations.  Now this could bring joy.  But, the appeal disappears when I think of my living son, when I think family and friends, and my community like here at church. I choose to live in a family.  I choose to live in a community.  You folks celebrate a lot of holidays between October and January.

So I am destined to painfully participate in holidays with Finn.   Well, not exactly with Finn....  Grief gets so twisted.

Well, I do have some choices.  

One choice seems obvious but takes some effort.  I can recognize that I am grieving and be mindful of what grief brings to me: rapid and frequent mood swings, no energy, compromised mental and physical capacity, and heightened sensitivity, among other crud.

I can also choose to do things for myself.  I can take slow quiet walks.  I can sit still and breathe and meditate, or write, or read, or just stare out the window.  

I can choose to spend more time with my wife and son and less time with life’s clutter.  

I can choose to go to yoga or sweat heavily in a sauna.  

I can choose to listen to music in the dark.  

I can choose to accept the times where my destiny doesn’t lead me far from the couch with a bag of potato chips.

I can choose to go through the pain and work of finding gratitude despite the sorrow and desperation.

And when I do chose to do these activities, then I will be living and I will find some peace.

So how have my holidays changed though grief?

Well I remember soon after Finn’s death I was trying to hurry up and get through grief in time to enjoy the holidays.  And I thought this was rock bottom.

But as the holidays rolled on that first year, I remember I felt very angry and in lots of physical pain.  At times, I could hardly get out of bed.

Unfortunately year 2 was a lot harder for me than year 1, and I started to lose hope that things would get better.  

Now that I am in the middle of holiday season year 3, I know that grief is permanent and the pain feels the same.  

But, I have changed.  I have adjusted. I have learned to acknowledge grief and respect it and to do my best to be patient.  

Also, I am much more resilient.  The kicks in the gut still hurt the same and I still get flattened, but I am quicker to get back on my feet.

Our family fills Finn’s stocking.  We fill it with gifts like toys he should be playing with or clothes he should be wearing, and when we are ready, we donate them. There are too many families living in desperate need and a couple of kids will now get some clothes, toys, and food.  This doesn’t bring joy or remove the pain, but it connects us to Finn and that brings some peace to the holidays.

Living Through Grief

I know what it is like to go to bed night after night wanting to die and not wake up.  I know the yearning for my ashes to sit next to my son’s ashes under the same stone.  I know anticipating the roll of the dice to see if there is an afterlife and do I get to hug Finn when I die.  

It is a blessing that I don’t know what it is like to plan or even desire to take my own life.  Yes, I have thought many times about the best way to die.  Yes I have hoped that I would die soon.  But never have I taken action or planned this out.  

For me choosing not to live is an addictive destructive cycle of abusing myself.  It is staying up too late, eating too much, drinking too much, lustfully dreaming, eroding relationships.  It is running away from the things that bring me joy.  It is the disgusting habit of telling myself I have no worth and scraping away my own dignity.  Really it is not any different from the bad habits and activities that I have always carried with me, but grief takes it to a whole ‘nother level.  One that takes me to very dark and scary places.  Not the more normal “that was dumb and I will never do that again” or “tomorrow I’ll start take care of myself.”  

Not living is not the same as dying.  Not living is running away from the things that make life beautiful and worth living.   

Too many times, I watched my son fight to live.  Parents shouldn't have to watch their kids grasping to breath and fighting to keep their hearts pumping.  Several times, I watched Finn show herculean strength to keep life.  Each and every time, with the help of teams of doctors and nurses, he won and kept living.  His death was not his choice and it was peaceful.  My son inspires me to fight to live.

Choosing to live with the weight of grief and inspiration of my son is beautiful.  Living after these dark journeys is thrilling.  I have never noticed sunsets like I do now or big bright moons.  My living son is so much fun.  My wife’s smell and touch and smile melt my heart like never before.  There is no question about what is important.  Living through grief has brought me to journaling, meditating, flossing, loving with my whole heart, new levels of yoga, writing, and the same light that I felt when holding Finn.  These tasks and blessings and many more have started and become habit AFTER Finn died. This is a personal sign that I can live and thrive through grief. In fact, my health 2 years and 6 weeks after Finn died is better than it was before he was born.

I have tasted food with each and every bite and been inspired by the miracle of a seed growing into a plant and being cooked into food that makes my taste buds dance and felt the energy that brings to my body.  Yes living through grief can be beautiful.

There is no escaping the Shadows of Grief.  Living through grief is still a very difficult choice with huge barriers.  But grief does bring the inspiration and purpose to chose life and to strive to live life to the fullest.  Since my son’s death, I have felt, heard, seen, and tasted gifts that are unimaginable.  Living through grief is beautiful.

Ocean Phase

I don’t believe grief is experienced in a predetermined set of stages like a lot of people write about.  But I found that I have lived through many phases of grief.  This is my first post about a phase I lived through.

My feet were stuck in the sand.  Buried over my ankles.  I could barely wiggle my toes.  The ocean ebbed and flowed from below my knees to above my waist.  Most of the time was spent underwater in a fetal position.  Grasping for breath.  Eyes stung from the saltwater tears.  The ocean floor slicing my skin and the wounds burned from the cold salt water. Then briefly, the tides would shift and I stood up and saw the most beautiful view of the sun setting over the ocean.  The pure white sands unfolding endlessly in both directions.  Life could be beautiful and I saw it and I appreciated it.  Slam, I was knocked down again with my head beating against the ocean floor gasping for breath with the sting of tears flooding my eyes.  Then I stood again soaking in the beauty of the ocean.

This was my first phase of grieving. This is what I felt the hours, days, and weeks after coming home from the hospital after Finn’s death.  I had no control.  I was scared and hurting deeply.  But, I also could see and feel extreme beauty.  The memories of my beautiful son were fresh.  I could still see his smile and feel him resting in my arms.  Finn’s light shined as brightly as ever.

This phase was defined by the extreme contrast between the beauty of fresh memory and the pain of a parents worst nightmare.  Extreme pain but also profound beauty.

It is interesting in looking back, my senses were fully engaged.  I’m not sure how much my brain was engaged.  I’m not sure my brain could have handled the full implication of the loss.  This was a time of feeling and not thinking.

During this time, I was also wrapped in the arms of community and family.  I later came to realize that there is a lot of numbness during this period.  Numbness from both my brain being shut off but also from the care of family and community.

I felt so much during these few weeks after Finn died.  I so wish I would have written or somehow captured these memories and feelings.  I wish I would have spent more time feeling what is was like to know and then lose such an amazing son as Finn.  I call this my Ocean Phase.   

Grieving through Yin Yoga

Yin Yoga is a passive yoga practice that emphasizes flexibility in joints and connective tissues.  Rather than working muscles, joints and connective are stretched.  This is achieved by holding poses for 3 - 10 minutes in a passive way.  I have found this to be a very powerful but excruciatingly emotional exercise.

Yin Yoga is way for me to actively connect and wrestle and dance with my physical body and emotional being at the same time.  I have always had extremely tight muscles and joints, but the emotional pain of grief has debilitated my life at times and prevented me from doing even most basic activities.  My body is hurting and most all of the poses in Yin Yoga hurt without me having to put forth any effort.  Matter of fact, the pain does not even allow me to to enter into the basic parts of most of the intended pose.  

I set Finn as my intention for yesterday’s practice. My intention was just to breath and bring my focus to him.  This turned out to be a an ideal intention as it was not difficult to lose focus on something as big in my life as him.  Plus his life and death is the root of a lot of my physical pain.

Something spectacular happened during this class. Each pose brought on new stories about Finn.  So many stories and memories from his short 4 month life came to me during these 90 minutes.  I felt joy, sadness, happiness, fear, laughter, tears,  and so much more.  During more intense moments I only had feelings or emotions.  Some of the poses were so painful that I could barely hang on,  In these times, I would just spell out his name over and over.  This session turned out to be a wonderful and powerful journey through his life.  

I left class deep in the Shadows of Grief.  I was completely physically and emotionally wasted.

That night, I had the blessing (remember up is down and down is up while slogging through grief), of twice waking up crying in my sleep with dreams about Finn.  Since most of my crying is in my sleep, I find these times to be sacred.   The next week turned into a very productive one free from the Shadows of Grief.

So, I have found something very powerful here.  Using physical release to work through emotional drama.   Yin Yoga  is an ideal way to work through physical pain to bring of emotional scars and is a new tool for me in learning to live through grief.

Shadows Of Grief

Life since my son Finn died is ugly and dark and at times unbearable. But, I can find grief to be beautiful.  When I am missing Finn the most,  when I am actually crying and when I can feel his body snuggled on my chest, when my entire body aches because he isn’t here, then I am living.  I honor and treasure these moments, because while I do feel pain, I also feel good, I feel alive.  At these moments, Finn without a doubt is real.  Finn is real and I am living.  This is a blessing and it is beautiful.  

After these moments, my body and mind and soul is trashed.  My mind is complete mud.  My body feels totally flattened.  I lose all feeling about almost everything.   I have spent most of my grieving journey thus far in this dark lonely achy place.  This is what makes grief so hard.  At these times, I may not have memories of Finn.  I may be tired of thinking about him. I stop caring about the things that are important.  The biggest being myself.  I don’t like living.  Life is ugly, dark, and lonely.  This is what I call the Shadows of Grief.

It is not the grief that is awful.  It is the dark and lonely shadow that is formed because of the towering grief.  For me, grief is bright and beautiful.  While grief does hurt, I find it inspiring.  It reminds me of what is important.  It is when I feel my sweet son Finn and that is what makes it beautiful.

I have found it extremely helpful to make the distinction between grief and the Shadows of Grief.  I don’t want grief to bring me down.  I strive to learn and grow and be inspired by experiences with and without Finn and to use these to enrich life.  But, I can now recognize that when I am in the Shadows of Grief, I need to lose expectations.  I need to be patient to myself and to those who are important to me.  I need to be kind and gentle to myself. I need to hold with all my might the thread of hope that soon I might find hope.  There are days that I can wake up with hope.  Then I know I am no longer in the Shadows of Grief.

So I continue on my journey of embracing grief and learning tools and practices to not allow the shadows of grief to shut out life.