Running with Grief

"The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start."  -John Bingham 
 

Training for the ½ Marathon

Bounce, pat, bounce, pat, bounce, pat: the sound of his feet against the gravel path.  Pant, pant, pant: the sound of my breath, heavy and shallow.  Every muscle of my body ached and my mind was weakening with every step.  “Can’t you find a path without snow?”  He stopped, looking at his phone. I stopped, my body bent over with my hands on my knees, catching my breath.  

“There is a paved path just around the corner.” He huffed out of his mouth and continued on the next exhale.  “Listen Lindsey, I run for a challenge...” I cut him off before he could finish, “Just go.” 

“Take my headphones.” he offered.

“I don’t want them.” I replied, “Just go.  Go!”  

 

As he jogged ahead of me and off into the distance I made a face consisting of a grin and frown at once.  A haughty sigh brushed through my smiling lips as I made a mental note to myself of how I'm lucky because this is the most Nick and I ever argue.  Then in the same instant, I frown as his word “challenge” reverberated between my ears.  I remember that we are actually the unfortunate ones. As I began jogging behind him I thought to myself, Haven’t we had enough challenges lately?  Why were we out here creating more obstacles by running 6 miles, on a crappy snowy day in April, preparing for a half marathon  in two weeks.  This is stupid.  

With this thought I continued to jog forward.  Placing one foot in front of the other, left behind by my husband.  Alone now with my many enemies of late including my body, exhaustion, frustration, impatience, and grief I tried my hardest to push forward, to find my groove.  It wasn’t coming.

My blood started boiling.  My body fatigued and my feet became heavier with every forward movement.  As my muscles weakened so, too, did my emotional scaffolding.  My whole being was crumbling under the weight of the task at hand; to finish the run. 

It wasn’t an emotional task, or so I had thought.  I had crashed head first into the dreaded “wall” that all true long distance runners talk about.  Except my wall was not brought on by the physical depletion of my body’s energy, it was brought on by the deep, untapped feelings that had been lying dormant from my grief.  These unwelcome emotions decided now was the time to arise and greet me at the door again with the house warming gift of negativity.

With my pace slowing and my legs getting weaker with every new landing, I realized I needed to make a decision in this moment.  I could dig deep and find the strength to move through the physical and emotional pain or I could give up and wait…but wait for what? I was out in the middle of some wooded trail.  My husband couldn’t drive the car back here and pick me up.  No, like with the conception of my daughter, I had made the decision early in life and now I had to follow through with whatever crap life threw my way.  Like my grief, the only way out of this situation was through it.  I decided to continue forward.  I kept running.  Well, I would call it more of a pace little bit faster than a walk, it didn’t really count as a jog.

 

And there I was, pushing through my breaking point.  My madness. My anger.  I used my anger as fuel to keep going.  Pat, bounce, pat, bounce, pat.  My pace evolved, slowly, but it evolved and found its groove again.  And then it sunk into what musicians, sports players, and psychotherapists call “flow.” You, know, that sweet spot in any task in life that you do where you are so engrossed in it that you lose track of time.  Where it’s as effortless as a boat floating on water, you just succumb to the moment, the breath, the meditation of it all.  For a moment I forgot about my pain, be it physical or emotional.  I forgot about my grief and I just flowed with my run.  I melted into it and it into me.

This is how I view the relationship between grief and me.  A battle at times for space within the same bodily vessel.  She tries to push out my feelings of joy and bring in her unwanted gift of negativity, but when I accept her, for all that she is, I learn how to appreciate her and the tools she provides me with like power and fuel for my run, for my passions, and for my life.  Eventually we learn how to live with each other as two happily cohabiting partners in some kind of “flow” that creates a homeostasis for us.  Each needing one another to feel balanced, to flow.

Running the ½ Marathon

This past Saturday.  My husband and I once again started out together, but this time instead of needing to argue before we set our paces we knew it would be best to go our own ways.  This at times is similar to how we both have to deal with our grief.  We are on the same path through grief like on the ½ marathon trail, but we need to take the steps at our own pace and own time.  

Bounce, pat, bounce.  Bounce, pat, bounce.  I had settled into my groove and did so for a good 8 miles, but as the trail continued, with no end in sight, the task of running became grueling.  At this point on the path I was alone, stuck in the place between other runners, where they were either a quarter of a mile ahead or behind.  I truly was on my own, like with my grief.  I was on my own and I needed to figure out how to push through this by myself and the undertaking was growing more difficult with every step. 

My muscles and bones hurt.  I was having a difficult time breathing, grasping for air and there was a throbbing stitch in my left side.  I wanted to give up at mile 9.  This was good enough, I thought to myself, but then I could hear my inner voice yelling, “Lindsey, if you can go through 12 hours of labor knowing you were going to give birth to your dead child, you can do this.”  I decided to keep my pace.

But, half a mile later I was back to walking with negative thoughts flooding my mind and pain shooting up my legs and throughout my body.  It was time to quit.  Then again I heard my inner voice say, “Lindsey, this run is a metaphor for your life since Nora’s death and for every day forward.  You just have to put one foot in front of the other and keep going.  You have done it every day since December 30^th and you will keep doing it.  You can do this! This is nothing compared to the agony you run with every day.”  I pushed forward.

At mile 10 the physical and emotional discomfort had become unbearable.  I decided like this race, life sucked.  It was pointless.  I wasn’t going to finish in any decent time so why bother.  I couldn’t do it. Then the most amazing thing happened.  I don’t know if it was my voice, or Nora’s, but I swear I heard her say, “Mom, I believe in you.  You can do anything! You are the bravest person I know.” Tears started swelling in my eyes and to hold them back I kept jogging. I looked up, and I saw three birds sitting on a branch above me and that was my sign. 

Birds remind me of Nora, and the moment the birds came into view I heard her say, “I’m still here.  I am with you right now.” And in that instant I doubled over in tears.  Relieved I was alone on the trail as sobs came bursting out of my mouth and tears of sorrow from missing her rolled down my checks. Tears of discomfort from physical pain blurred my vision and tears of joy from my immense amount of love for her, and the relief I felt knowing she was still with me, filled my heart with the strength I needed to go forward.

A tenth of a mile before I reached the finish line my faithful husband was waiting there for me to run and complete the race by my side.  He had returned in his own time back to support me through the rest of my journey.  We sprinted together to the end and he cheered me on the whole way.  

I finished the race in two hours and forty three minutes. Not an amazing time but like my grief I took the race at my own pace and made it.  Also like my grief, I was never really alone in my travels.  My husband met me and joined me again when he was ready and my daughter never left me.  She was with me the whole time, showing me the way. Giving me strength and blessing me with her love.  

  

“I run for her because she never got the chance to learn how to walk.

I grasp at air because she never got the chance to breathe.

I suffer for her so she never had to.

I love life for her because she never got the chance to live.”

~Still Breathing…Lindsey

Meditating on Grief

I breathe in grief... I breathe out pain

I breathe in pain... I breathe out tears

I breathe out tears... I breathe in sorrow

I breathe out sorrow... I breathe in the darkness

I breathe in the darkness... I breathe out light

I breathe in light... I breathe out love

I breathe out love ... I breathe in peace

I breathe out peace ...  I breathe in acceptance

I breathe out acceptance... I breathe in grief ...

And that's okay because I can breathe it out again

Sitting With Grief

I sat down in her room on my meditation cushion. I turned on the YouTube guided meditation about grief and closed my eyes.  I don’t remember the words of the meditation, but I do remember the pulsating sound and hypnotic rhythm of the gentle music.  As my eyes closed and I sunk into myself I remembered being told to take three deep breaths.  I breathed in, I breathed out, I breathed in, and I breathed out. Tears started rolling down my face from both closed eyes and it felt as if light was filling my body.  The tears were shear pain and longing.  That is the only way I can describe it, my words fail as I try to capture an image of the overwhelming but comforting emotions.

As I felt the tears fall from the base of my chin down to my chest and roll down and graze my breasts a thought came to mind, “This is where she was supposed to be.  She was supposed to be there, feeding, suckling, living against my breast, but she wasn’t there.”  I let the thought go as I pulled my left hand to my heart and my right over where she used to live, my now empty uterus, her lonely home no longer in use.  I cried more deep silent tears and I inhaled and exhaled as I immersed myself in their wetness, yet warm pain.

Then as I breathed and sat with my grief, I heard a word, “Mom”, I hear it again “Mom” over and over again.  It’s Nora, she is talking to me.  All she is doing is repeating, “Mom, Mom, Mom,” but in such a comforting way that a smile moved across my tortured face.

Then my mind takes me to a beach, where Nora and I are dancing in the sand.  I hear the waves hitting the shore and see our feet in the sand as we walk hand in hand. She is a little girl, probably 4 years old.  She wears a yellow dress and I am in a maxi dress, as we are frolicking together on the beach.  There is no longing in this place, there is no pain.  Her chocolate color hair is pulled back in pig tails and she and I are laughing and giggling.  She points to things and says their name, inquisitively asking me questions.  I smile and laugh in the image, but in my reality I know that I sit on a cushion with my eyes closed, watching all this in my mind’s eye as if I were watching a home video of Nora and me.  At this realization a wail comes out of my mouth as I long for this image to be true.

Then I hear myself asking, “Why?  Why can’t I have you?” and she just responds as a wise old soul would, “No one can have anyone, mommy.”  I wail again as I know she is right, but I also marvel at the brilliant soul she is, so wise, so full of love, so special.  I hear her again when I say, “Why?” and she just repeats, “Mom, Mom, Mom.”  I ask her if I will have other children and she says yes.  I ask if I will have another girl and she says no, and I ache inside.  Then all of the sudden I have this desperate need to open up her urn that is behind me and find her.  I want to see her again, feel her, hold her; a part of me even envisions eating and consuming her ashes so that she is inside me again.  Then I hear her, I hear her child like voice say, “I am not there.  You will not find me there,” and she shows me an image of the breeze in the trees and the stars in the sky and she says I am here and here and here.  I cringe and cry more deeply again because I know this is true.

I ache for her.  But all I hear is my strong little girl say, “I love you mommy," and I can feel her leaving, the mediation music is slowing.  I don't know if she was there or if it was me, but the image is fading now and I feel scared.  I say I don’t want to forget, I don’t want to leave.  And there is no voice this time, but I am reassured from somewhere deep inside that everything is okay.  A part of me knows she is never gone, she is always here. She is always with me.

I begin to allow myself to float back to the here and now. I have one more flash of the scene of us on the beach and then my eyes open and through the puddles of water at their base I see the light of the computer in front of me on her nursery floor where I sit cross-legged on the cushion.

I grab for my computer.  I hurry to write it all down as I don’t want to forget.  I need this memory.  I need this moment.  I write, typing quickly with no attention to spelling or even coherence.  I need her essence I don’t want to lose her again.  The words come flowing out…my fingers move fast…and the tears swell up from a deep lonely place inside and pour out of my eyes and the words flood the page.

I take a deep breath.  A part of me is calmed.  A part of me is reassured.  I take a deep breath again and I sit in peace.

A Place of Refuge - Visualization

In my month of mindfully grieving I have found meditation and visualizations technique very healing.  I often meditate to YouTube guided meditations and visualizations.  However, sometimes I find that the grieving meditations on YouTube don't fit my needs for grieving a child I did not know outside of the womb.  So in the next few weeks I will be starting to make my own guided meditations and put them on YouTube specifically for parents who are grieving over pregnancy and infant loss. 

Today I am sharing my adaptive version of a visualization I use at work with my clients.  I have found this meditation helpful in creating a place of refuge.  When I set out to create a place of refuge this month, I thought I needed to create an actual physical space, but after re-reading The Happiness Project, Gretchen Rubin describes her place of refuge as a place within her mind, that she can create, and always visit.  So today I leave you with a guided meditation called A Place of Refuge.  In a few days I will post an audio version.  Enjoy.

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A Place of Refuge - Visualization    

Sitting in a relaxed comfortable position.  Put both feet firmly on the floor or lie on your back.  Begin by taking a few deep breaths to calm your body and mind.  Focus on your breath and let it fall into it's natural rhythm.  Use your breath to bring you to the present moment.  In this moment, release the tension in your muscles, letting your shoulders drop and your face soften.

Now begin to visualize a place or space where you can be at peace.  You can imagine a familiar place or you can create a new one.  This is your unique space.  A space for healing.  A space for calm.  This place of refuge could be a sandy beach, a path deep within the woods, a quiet library, a large sitting room with a fireplace, or a relaxing bathtub.  Whatever place or space you create is fine, as long as it is a healing place.  A place for relaxation and rejuvenation.  This is your safe place.  Your place of refuge.  Your sancutuary.

As you imagine your place of refuge, enter into your sanctuary with your entire being.  Choose to take a seat in your space, or stand there, or explore it.  Look around and take in every detail.  You do not need to create the details of this place.  They are already there: allow them to come into focus in your mind.

Notice the sites (the trees, the sand, the books, the flames, the bubbles).  Begin to notice the sounds (the waves crashing against the shore, the wind rustling the leaves of the trees, the crackling of the fire, the rushing sound of the water from the faucet in the bathtub).  Notice the smells (the salt of the ocean, the rustic smoke of the fire, the fragrance of the flowers, the aroma of the soap, the crisp smell of old books).  Imagine touching the objects in this space.  Feel (the sand between your toes, the water soaking into your skin, the softness of the couch, or the feel of the grass under your feet).  Simply enjoy your place of refuge as long as you want allowing it to become more tangible and develop beyond what you initially noticed.

If you would like, invite your loved one you are missing into this space with you.  Spend time with them here if you like or use this space to be alone.  Remember you carry this place of refuge inside of you.  You carry it wherever you go.  Your sanctuary is unique and personal.  It will reflect who you are as a person.  This is your place.  Your safe space.  Your place of refuge.  This is your place to heal.

Adapted from www.mindfulnessinfo.com/exercise-6-visualization   

            

Grief Project April - Sitting With Grief

"Have you tired relaxation techniques?" is what my doctor said as I sat on the crinkly paper spread over the exam table.  As she said this I smiled, while giving a her a look of, "Are you kidding?"  I had come in to see her that day due to the headaches I was having ever since I started back to work six weeks after Nora died.  I couldn't believe relaxation techniques were her answer as I was there expecting some more bad news like a brain tumor or something else tragic; since such had been my life lately.

When I asked her, "Are you sure I don't have a brain tumor?" in a humorous yet completely serious way (I am a hypochondriac, self-diagnosed of course, like all hypochondriacs).  She replied with, "You have been through a lot.  This is anxiety and stress."  I breathed a sigh of relief and agreed with her completely.  I mean, I do clench my jaw at night while I am stressed, and during graduate school my dentist suggested a mouth guard at night, but after wearing head gear in high school, I have had enough of that silly stuff.  I decided I would just manage my stress, anxiety, and headaches on my own.  I could deal with this, after all, I had already been through so much in my grief, what was a little extra stress and anxiety in the grand scheme of things?

My doctor's appointment was in mid-March and as I went through the weeks I realized that my stress was not fading and decided that my month of dedication to meditation, mindfulness techniques, and yoga was probably just what I needed.  I have been so busy the last two months preparing to run a half marathon in April and May, getting back into the swing of things at work, and making healing connections with others as part of my grief project, I had forgotten the importance of slowing down in order to heal.

So this month I will get back in touch with my emotions surrounding grief by taking time out to really sit with it.  For the month of April I will "sit with my grief," which will entail setting aside time to practice mediation daily, engage in yoga exercises twice a week, and find and create a healing place of refuge where I will meet my grief and explore it on a deeper, more intimate level with myself.

Once again, as part of My Grief Project, I will update you each Friday during the month about my experience with using these specific healing techniques and how they help in healing the grief after child and pregnancy loss. My journey using these healing techniques will be as follows:

•  April 6th -12th - Find A Place of Refuge
• April 13th - 19th - Yoga & Grief
• April 20th - 26th - Meditation - Sitting with Grief

I look forward to taking the time this month to slow down and take a seat with my new companion, Grief.   I'm sure on our travels together we will find out a lot about each other.

"We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey."  ~Kenji Miyazawa

~Still Breathing...Lindsey