But have you ever participated in one?

The experience is an entirely different one.

For the former, you may or may not have enjoyed a meaningful relationship with the person lying in the coffin. You may not even know him or her.

When you attend a funeral, you get to the venue, you do what you need to do there, and then you pack up and go home.

On the other hand, when it’s your loved one who has just passed on, you are part of the entire proceedings. You had to arrange the whole funeral procedures. You probably played a part in picking what clothes the deceased would be wearing, as well as which coffin he or she would be lying in.

You also had to help decide on how the obituary would look like in the local newspapers, and what it would say. You picked the scripture verses, the hymns to be sung, and the date of the funeral.

If you have ever arranged a funeral, or funerals, for your loved ones, you would know exactly what I mean. It’s an extremely surreal experience.

And that’s only the physical aspect of the funeral.

What’s more the telling is the relationship that you shared with the person who has just moved on to another world. It’s utterly unique, and no one, and I mean no one, can ever share or understand it.

The jokes you shared, the conversations you had, all the common memories which filled both your lives, the places you’ve been to, the disagreements you’ve had, the forgiveness you have bestowed on each other… and more… these are all unique to you and the deceased.

Dealing with the loss of a loved one is an amazingly surreal experience. In a way, what makes it so much harder to bear is the fact that it is, in many ways, a lonesome journey.

But then again, so is life in general. And, the thing about journeys, is that they always come with opportunities for growth, the chance to build new beginnings and reach better destinations, as well as much beautiful scenery. Be sure not to miss those.

ShareThis

When my mum passed on, my dad took over the use of her mobile phone and number.

Almost exactly four years later, my dad passed on, too.

It has been more than three years since, yet I am still holding on to the number.

It has been more than a thousand days, but the number of times I have actually used that number can literally be counted on one hand. Yet I still cling on to it. And I wonder why.

It’s a classic case, I think, of clinging on to the past, of refusing to let go. Subconsciously, it gives me a false sense of security to be hanging on to something which used to belong to them.

Quite honestly, it’s a waste of money keeping a number which I don’t even use.

I want to move on. I want to let go. And I hope to do it soon.

ShareThis

It is the festive season again. Sometimes, I can barely believe how each year just zips by before us.

It is a pretty well-known fact that such seasons, where people spend time with loved ones, evoke strong, painful memories for those who have lost loved ones, and strong feelings of loneliness for who do not have loved ones.

It is said that the Christmas period is also when suicide rates are the highest. I have never personally verified this, and it could well be one of those ‘urban legends’ people often speak about.

Both my parents passed on in October. This made the experience still very fresh during the respective December festive periods. Throw in the fact that we had certain family Christmas ‘traditions’, like going to church and a large gathering with extended family, and those Christmas’ felt all the more lonesome and empty.

Indeed, I distinctly remember feeling big voids in December 2001 and December 2005. Big time emptiness. Time heals, though, and wiith each passing year, things become easier and easier.

There is still pining though. And within me, I do wonder - what would I give to spend just *one more* Christmas with the two of them? We could talk, take a walk, reminiscence, and basically have a jolly good time. We could hug, too.

It would so different because we would *know* we only had this one more chance, one more Christmas to spend together.

Have a wonderful and blessed Christmas, my friends. Fill yourself with the company and warmth of loved ones. 25 Dec is but an arbitrary date… let us strive toward making every day Christmas.

ShareThis

Losing a loved one is a very trying experience.

At that point, almost everything seems doom and gloom, and life can be pretty empty.

And it’s especially hard because we are so caught up in the event, with no idea of why it has happened, what is going to happen next, and what good could possibly come out of it.

This reminds me of an analogy about life, which I feel is also very applicable to the grief journey.

The events in life are like dots on a piece of paper. Without an overall vantage point, the dots are just that — dots, and they do not really make any picture on their own.

As for meaning, it’s usually not easy to find. We need to be able to see the entire big picture to see such things, but we are only here, right here right now, with vague recollections of the past and no idea what is going to happen tomorrow.

However, once everything has unfolded, and we look back, we would then be able to join the dots and, in the process, see the overall big picture. With the big picture, we would then be better placed to make sense of individual events, and find meaning in them.

What we can do, while living out each of those individual dots — or events — is not to allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by the present state of affairs and its seeming meaninglessness, but instead to do our best to hang in there, bearing in mind that, one day, things will make a lot more sense.

One thing is for sure — we grow with every life experience, and especially grief experiences.

ShareThis

Perhaps, when we were very young, we innocently believed that life was all smooth and rosy and that all the people dear to us would be around with us for a long, long time, if not forever.

Once you’ve lost one loved one, however, everything changes.

It’s almost like, having been exposed to death in and around the family, one becomes very much more aware of our vulnerability.

There were a number of deaths in my family from 2001 to 2005, including those of both my parents. To be honest, thinking about it, I am sometimes gripped with fear, fear of who is the next one, or who are the next ones, to go.

That fear, if left unchecked, can be highly detrimental to my mental and emotional wellbeing.

Fear is usually unhealthy. Especially if it paralyzes us.

I try to channel this fear towards positivity. For example, I remind myself to live each day as fully as I can, and to treasure every moment I have with my loved ones. Importantly, I remind myself not to take them, and things, for granted.

Of course, it isn’t easy, and lapsing into complacency is a human speciality. But I try — it’s much better than not doing anything at all, and allowing the fear to consume me. That would be totally undesirable.

ShareThis

In some ways, my grief experiences — the loss of my parents in my 20’s, which is earlier than most people — have hardened me to the possibility of losing loved ones.

Yet, at the same time, I feel that grief experiences build on each other, and almost multiply the hurt that one goes through.

For example, after my mum passed on, I would miss her, and feel terribly sad from time to time. But that was it, I missed her. One person.

Since dad passed away, however, I often find myself being sucked into a downward spiral of grief. All I need is to think of one of them, feel a little sad, and suddenly, I’m missing both of them, and perhaps feeling twice as sad.

Throw in a grandma and an aunt, who also left during the same period, and it’s like, hey, I’m thinking about a whole load of people.

I wonder if others feel the same way too.

And, you know, one thing is for sure — unless I am the next one to go, there will be more loved ones being added to the mix.

Will the grief become increasingly difficult to bear over time? I’m not sure. I would think I will learn to cope with it, when the time comes.

ShareThis

The loss of both my parents, although both to illness, were very different experiences.

With dad, it was a fall-ill-admitted-to-hospital-condition-deteriorates kind of scenario, while with mum, it was more of a fall-ill-coma-it’s-over type.

I can’t say which was more difficult to bear. The two experiences were painful in their own ways.

One great difference was whether or not I was able to say a proper goodbye.

Mum went first, and with her, there was no chance for anything — no goodbye, no last words, no take care, nothing. In fact, my last words to her were pretty harsh.

That hit me hard. Especially when my mum was the sort of person who always gave a good account of her whereabouts. Why the sudden and unannounced departure, at the time when it matters most?

I was very bitter about it all, and it haunted me for quite a while.

With dad, there was a proper last conversation. Well, more of a monologue, as he was already too weak to really speak. But I said my goodbyes, my ‘I will be fine’, ‘I’m ready’, ‘go in peace’ kind of thing.

Of course, there is a ‘price’ to pay, so to speak — my dad had to suffer more, whereas my mum went through a relatively quick and less painful (painless?) death.

But the chance to say those final words really mattered the world to me. 

After the first episode, I was just so grateful to be given the chance for that last conversation.

Not that it made the pain of loss any less pronounced — not really, but it still helped a great deal, somehow.

As for the first loss, well, no goodbyes, but there is pretty much nothing much which can be done about it, and you learn to deal with it.

I just mutter quiet words to her under my breath, and hope that she can hear them.

ShareThis

This society of ours values strength. The fittest survive, the best win, the strongest top the chart, and what not.

Being weak, on the other hand, is seen as a sign of, well, weakness.

The result is that many people put on facades of strength, while they are, in fact, soft as jelly on the inside.

This situation is hardly ideal.

Pretending to be strong is an extremely tiring and trying experience. It’s almost like a dormant yet sizzling volcano, awaiting its next, probably violent, eruption.

And one reason why men do not live as long as women is that we often coop our feelings inside, hiding weaknesses and only displaying expressions of strength on the exterior, no matter how fake they may be.

There is nothing wrong with being weak. And when the time is right for being weak, all the more people should be ‘allowed’ to be weak.

And what more telling time to be weak, than when mourning the passing of a loved one?

Talk, cry, whatever — do what is necessary.

Man or woman, young or old — it doesn’t matter.

It forms an important part of the grief and healing journey.

ShareThis

As we mourn the loss of our loved ones, it is often tempting to retreat into a shell, to build a barrier and shut ourselves away from the love of others, and any interaction with them.

This is something I strongly discourage.

Oh yes, we definitely need time and space alone to grieve and come to terms with our loss, no doubt about that.

But isolating ourselves from others for the long term serves very little, if any, positive purpose.

On the flip side, by opening ourselves to others, we would be, very directly, aiding in our own recovery.

In fact, people often say that our own hurt and pain heal faster when we stop focussing only on ourselves, but also reach out to the needs of others.

No man is an island, and this holds true even during the most difficult moments of our grief journey.

ShareThis

During the immediate period after the passing of a loved one, we are usually surrounded with care, concern and the support of friends, relatives and other associates. They ask how we are, they go easy on us, they console us, and they volunteer whatever help is needed.

They do this because they know we are emotionally rather vulnerable at that point.

But, as time goes by — it could be months, weeks, or even just days — and the frequency and intensity of such support diminishes, even disappears.

Not that people don’t care — I believe they still do — but, rather, they are giving us the space which they think we need and, more importantly in my opinion, they think we should be okay by now, or at least getting much better.

Actually, often, it is during this period when new levels of emptiness really set in.

At least, before, the additional care, concern and support offered by our loved ones helped, to some extent, albeit a limited one, to fill the void which has been left by the departed loved one. Once this additional support disappeared, the void suddenly became an obvious gaping hole.

In my view, there is no way to escape this period. We can run, or delay it, but we will have to face it sooner or later.

For a while, I filled my life with the company of friends. But I knew, sooner rather than later, I would have to return to the face the four walls of my house and the empty space it surrounds. So I made myself do it.

Make no mistake, this period will be tough. But it is part of the grief journey, the healing journey. And an essential one at that.

ShareThis