Freedom to Grieve

Freedom is a word that resonates deeply with me, and I'd planned to write a very different post this month. 

I'm a digital nomad, which means I travel and work from wherever I lay my hat. I love that freedom to roam. Freedom to change my surrounding. Freedom to explore. Freedom to embrace new experiences.

Freedom represents joy. It's my happy place... but ... with the recent death of my Mum, freedom has taken on a new slant. Instead of looking outwards, at what traveling can add to my life, I'm looking inwards at what is missing from it.

Grief is Personal

Everyone grieves differently. That's what friends, family, and the experts say. There's no one-size fits all. There's no normal way to grieve.

There's no timetable for grief. I've got my ticket for the grief train—but I don't know how long this journey will last.

How Long Does Grief Last?

My grief is still fresh, but unfortunately it doesn't have an Best Before date. 

Wouldn't it be great if grief expired? Then you could just throw it away when it started to smell bad or grow whiskers!

Grief Milestones

It was my birthday this month. The first milestone I experienced in a year of firsts. 

When I'm asked my age, I usually have to calculate the years to figure it out. It's an unimportant number I don't have to hand. But this year was special. It was the first birthday without a mum. The tight grip I'd had on my emotions disintegrated. I slipped into a black hole of grief that knew no bounds.

To be honest, it's been a few years since my Mum was aware enough to celebrate my birthday, and more recently, her dementia caused her to forgot she even had a daughter. But rather than lament the loss of this annual tradition, I used my birthday as an opportunity to create a new tradition. I'd give her a birthday card and present, and thank her for being my Mum. After all, she's the one who did all the hard work back then. She deserved a special celebration. 

This year, she wasn't there to thank, and it was the beginning of a new solo tradition. This caused such a huge tidal wave of grief, I thought I was going to drown.

Will I ever be able to ride that big wave of grief?

Now all I can think about are the future milestones lying in wait to ambush me. I hope they're easier to manage than this first one.

The Birth of Sylvie Sunshine

Part of how I'm managing my grief is through creative exploits. I've been obsessed with watercolour, and on the days when I feel motivated enough to get off the sofa and open the curtains, all I want to do is sit at my art table to sketch and paint.

One morning at 3am I started doodling. I have no idea why, or where it came from. It was a mindless activity. I was in the zone. I didn't know where my ideas were heading, or why I was doodling. But by the end of my sketching session I'd created a character.

Sylvie Sunshine is born

Over the next few days I kept reviewing this sketchbook page. I was strangely drawn to her. I had no idea why I'd given her a Christmas Pudding tummy and dressed her in a bikini—but I just felt she was here to help me.

By the end of the week, I'd developed my doodles into a comic strip idea called "Life's a Beach (until it's a Bitch)", and dubbed my character Sylvie Sunshine. Suddenly the bikini made sense, and she became part of the family. She was here to navigate me out of that black hole, and lead be back into the sunshine.

I'm fine in here!

I have a close affinity to Sylvie Sunshine. My Mum's name was Sylvia and she used to call me her little Sunshine. So those two halves have culminated into a new whole. I also like the play on words and it's similarity to that well-known term Susie Sunshine. Plus the irony that Sylvie is anything but a little ray of sunshine.

I've sketched many scenarios based on my first-hand experience with grief, and some of them have that interesting dynamic of being funny and sad at the same time. 

I've learnt that joy and sadness can co-exist, and Sylvie is here to help rebalance the ratio between both ends of that spectrum.

One Day at a Time

You can follow Sylvie Sunshine on Instagram.

About Jay Artale

Jay Artale abandoned her corporate career to become a digital nomad and full-time writer. She’s an avid blogger, podcaster, and nonfiction author helping travel writers and travel bloggers achieve their self-publishing goals. She shares tips, advice, and inspiration to writers with an independent spirit at her website Birds of a Feather Press, and documents her travels and artistic endeavours at her blog Roving Jay. Follow her on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter.

Jay is the author of A Turbulent Mind: A Poetry Collection of a Mother's Journey with Alzheimer's.

Thankful for the Covid Pandemic

The pandemic had devastating worldwide implications. But I will forever be thankful that because of Covid-19, I was able to create memories in what turned out to be the last year of my mother's life.

If Covid hadn't escalated I wouldn't have got marooned in Britain and spent five quality months living with my Mum. Alzheimer's is known as the long goodbye. You lose the person you love, one piece at a time. Each stage feels like the worst you'll experience, but it's just one more step along a deteriorating road.

The carers said she knew who I was. They were just being kind. There was no flicker of recognition when I walked into the room. She'd forgotten she had a daughter, but she let me cuddle and kiss her—and that was enough.

She had an eye for a younger man, and took a special interest in my husband. She'd slip her hand into his and trot by his side. Her eyes sparkled and the corner of her lips twitched upwards. She was the cat who got the cream. It was a heart-warming to see her experience a moment of joy. 

There were many of these small moments during the height of the pandemic. Simple, but memorable. Etched in my mind. 

Sketch I drew of my Mum and brother for the Order of Service

When she passed, my brother and I were sitting at her bedside. We knew it was going to be the day. Her breathing pattern changed multiple times. We took it in turns to play songs from our past. Shared childhood memories. Waiting for the inevitable. My Mum took a sharp intake of breath and grimaced. Then just incase we'd missed it, she did it again. Then she was gone. 

I hugged her. She was still warm and the back of her neck radiated heat. For a brief moment I could imagine I was tucking her in and sharing a goodnight kiss. But this was a forever sleep. I caressed her mottled hand and said my goodbyes.

A Mother Remembered

I wrote a poem for the order of service, told from my mother's perspective:

I lived my life, full speed ahead.

Got up early—escaped my bed.

My days were full, of things I loved.

I weeded hard, with both hands gloved.

My cottage garden in full bloom

A piece of art to tend and groom.

I strode across the countryside.

A pair of Westies as my guide.

I loved the freedom. Loved to roam.

The green landscape would lead me home.

I had so many things to do. 

I’d juggle them the whole day through.

My coffee cakes and Bakewell tarts.

A hit in Mary Berry’s charts.

I’d knit and crochet, do some crafts.

Share’with my kids, through photographs.

I couldn’t bear to sit and waste,

Remaining time, so I would chase.

The hours to fill my day ahead

To dodge the thief within my head.

About Jay Artale

Jay Artale abandoned her corporate career to become a digital nomad and full-time writer. She’s an avid blogger, podcaster, and nonfiction author helping travel writers and travel bloggers achieve their self-publishing goals. She shares tips, advice, and inspiration to writers with an independent spirit at her website Birds of a Feather Press, and documents her travels and artistic endeavours at her blog Roving Jay. Follow her on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter.

Jay is the author of A Turbulent Mind: A Poetry Collection of a Mother's Journey with Alzheimer's.

Laughter as a Coping Mechanism by Jay Artale

Dementia is a serious business, but if your family is under the dark cloud of this disease you’ll know how important laugher is to the coping process.

An Austrian neurologist, Viktor Frankl, wrote that humour is the soul’s weapon to help us transcend despair. Studies have shown that laughter can boost the immune system, lower blood pressure, and alleviate anxiety. It seems natural to make fun of a life-threatening, disastrous, or terrifying situation, and when times become difficult—laughter helps.

Our Alzheimer's Journey

My Mum was diagnosed with Alzheimer's six years ago. She used to tell us about the funny things she was doing because of her dementia—that’s back in the early days of the disease when she was aware of its impact on her behaviour. 

The hallucinations of the babies crawling on the floor at night. 

Hiding her handbag again, and again...and again so her husband wouldn’t steal it. Then forgetting where she’d hidden it and blaming him for moving it.

Stock-piling kitchen rolls, and hiding those because people were stealing those too. 

Inadvertently buying super-sized or tiny groceries because her depth perception became warped.

She laughed. I laughed. It was an effective coping mechanism.

Another way I coped was by devouring dementia-related memoirs and self-help books to find comfort and solace in other people’s experiences. In an attempt to pay it forward I kept a journal to document the progression of the disease. 

Every now and then these journal entries would trigger the need to write a poem. My poetry is in a rhyming style similar to the 20th Century French/British poet and writer Hilaire Belloc. They’re jaunty, and on the surface they’re tongue in cheek, ironic or even flippant. But this surface veneer shrouds the torment beneath.

Inappropriate Laughter

As the disease progressed, my Mum went through a phase of inappropriate laughing. She laughed when people hurt themselves, dropped something or tripped. It’s as if she wasn’t sure of the socially acceptable response so resorted to laughter. She went from a serious and empathetic adult to a giggly teenager in a matter of months. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks and snot bubbled from her nose. 

It was so good to hear her laugh, we didn’t care what triggered it.

Excerpt from the print version of: A Turbulent Mind

We had many years of this laughter therapy. It blinkered us to live in the moment. We didn’t look back and wallow in regret or look forward with concern—we just belly-laughed our way through the here and now. Her laugher was so infectious, even when it was misplaced.

Fast forward a few years... and my Mum has disappeared inside a shell of the person she once was. She no longer remembers how to laugh.

Could I have just one more. . .

by Diana McCollum

As many of you have said, I wouldn't change anything I've experienced in my life because all the  good and bad have made me the person I am today.

My one regret, I wish that I could have just one more day with my mom before she went into the lost her memory completely. The last 2 weeks at the memory care home she wasn't present, she was confused and upset all the time.  The last two months of her life she was slipping into full fledged dementia, Alzheimers and needed 24 hr care. If I could have that day with mom, I would tell her I was sorry I didn't realize she had been ill for so long. It took a hospital stay and the doctor telling me mom's scan showed Alzheimers and she needed 24 hr care.

Since mom lived with us, the changes were subtle. Just mom being mom. Looking back I can see she was falling into dementia for the past few years.

Hindsight is always a few minutes too late, isn't it?

The past couple of years before she died I sometimes got frustrated with her, she lived with us. I tried not to show it, but once in a while I couldn't help it. She had a couple months when she bought mop and glow for the floors every time we went to a store. Forgetting things like the garbage disposal she turned on then walked away from. Things like that, not normal. If I had only known then that she was already suffering from Alzheimers I would have been more patient, more understanding.

An example of my frustration: Mom and I were looking for a parking spot at the grocery store about a year ago. An obese woman was slowly crossing in front of us. Mom says, "honk the horn, maybe she'll walk faster!".  I said, "Mom! She can't walk any faster." I could literally feel my blood pressure rise. My frustration came from mom having no empathy for the woman who was obviously distressed. And Mom used a walker and walked very slow herself.

Grief has been one of my closest friends since December, when mom passed.

Mother's Day loomed in the future and I found myself becoming more anxious. My sister, Sarah and I decided a good way to deal with this first Mother's Day with no 'Mother', was to spread love and joy to others.

So we surprised some family members with 'Mothers' day cards and gifts.

As Lynn said in her post, share the love. In doing our new Mother's Day tradition we made our daughters, nieces, friends, and daughter-in-laws happy. None of them were expecting anything from us, but their joy brought us happiness and joy too, on what would have been a sad day.

My motto is now spread the love. Smile at the grouchy looking person in the grocery line, maybe that will make their day.

If you could have one more day to talk to someone who passed, who would it be?