Celebrating those at Stage IIII/ - Acceptance

This is the stage that we resist from day one.

WE DO NO WANT TO ACCEPT whatever has caused our grief, be it death, illness, disease, tragedy, loss or change.

We want it undone.

We fight it, resist, do anything to avoid it. We bury our head in the sand (denial), fight it tooth and nail for it is so unfair (anger), plead and beg for it to be reversed and go away (bargaining), until we become completely depleted and despondent (depression).

Then one day, we succumb (acceptance).

Does that mean we've given up?

At first, I thought it did - and that's why I fought against it so much. I have since invented a new meaning for acceptance.

Acceptance is giving up the struggle, but not the hope. It doesn't mean you have to like what has caused you grief, but you can live with it. It's about choosing to be okay. It's about moving on. It's about discovering new meanings to life that did not exist before.

Until tomorrow, may we have compassion for all those who are at various stages of grieving. Wishing you a speedy journey to stage five.

Grace xx

Honouring those at Stage III - Bargaining

So my tribute idea is not going as I thought it would go. I had grand visions of opening up a global conversation as we progressed through the five stages of grief.

I imagined people opening up and airing their experiences, thoughts and feelings, albeit anonymously, to help themselves and others heal. Contributors and readers alike would have felt important, considered, acknowledged, supported and loved.

Oh dear, I'm such an idealist. Is that pathetic? Is it time that I learn once and for all, that it's safer to be a realist and stop trying to be a hero.

I am a little person with big ideas. Too easily discouraged. Too often full of fear. It makes me wonder, who do I think I am?

Until tomorrow, keep going because you said you would.

Grace xx

PS. The answer to Saturday Quiz No. 1 was EARWIG and the winner is... Garrie, the iron commentator. Congratulations Garrie, you have a virtual set of steak knives coming your way. These imaginary knives will have you cutting rubber tyres, Reebok runners and aluminium cans in no time.

Honouring those at Stage I - Denial

Yesterday's post broke all records.

I have received so many comments, calls, emails and SMS messages from family, friends and strangers from all over the world. It has completely overwhelmed me.

It also made me realise that the sensitive subjects of grief and infertility has struck a chord with a number of people for a myriad of reasons.

As a result of all this, I want to dedicate the next five days to support and honour those who are at different stages in their grieving process.

If you are grieving, or have grieved, I invite you to express yourself and share as much or as little of your story about your first stage - Denial (remember you can preserve your anonymity and post as a guest).

The purpose of this is not about dwelling in grief, but to help those that are in the midst of it to move through the five stages. It's about opening up a conversation, extending a hand, heart, shoulder and ear. It's about letting them know they're not alone. It's about hope.

Until tomorrow, help our friends move through to stage two.

Grace xx

PS. I extend my hand in friendship and support to those who are grieving no matter what the cause. If you are moved to say something, please do.

The 5 Stages of Grief

Continued on from yesterday...

It's funny how your mind operates under stress.

There I was sitting in my car, imploding with grief. Instead of calling my husband (then boyfriend) or Mum for consolation, all I kept thinking was "Who can help me right now?"

My first thought was Kylie.

Not only is Kylie my gorgeous dear friend, confidante and soul-sister, she's also a nurse. Don't nurses know everything 'medical'?

Poor Kylie - I can't imagine what my call would've been like for her that day.

As soon as I heard her voice I began sobbing uncontrollably. I blurted out my diagnosis, my despair climaxing when I was hit with the most disturbing thought - that I may have lost all possibility of having children of my own.

Horrible.

I have images of Kylie skipping along merrily wearing her infectious smile only to have her long distance friend call and dump an emotional bomb on her. If you're reading this Special K, I'm sorry for the distress it must have caused you. I hope that was counteracted by the other shock news phone call three years later - you remember? - the one when I told you I'd won $15,000, had booked flights and you had 1 hour to get to the airport.

Sweet Kylie did her best to console me, but the only consolation I sought was for the clinic to phone back with news that I'd been given the wrong results. They didn't.

I can't remember much after that - only hours of crying, stinging eyes and an ache in my chest. It was excruciating.

At that point, I was in stage one of the Kübler-Ross five stages of grief

1. Denial
   "This is not possible, it can't be happening, they've made a mistake. There must be other answers". This led to frantic searching for solutions, seeking all kinds of alternative therapies; traditional Chinese medicine, acupuncture, homeopathy, naturopathy, hypnotherapy, Bach flower essences, Reiki, applied kinesiology, NET, CBT, yoga therapy, Ayurvedic medicine, psychic healing, aromatherapy, colon hydrotherapy, crystal healing, dietary healing therapy and meditation - most of which brought back menstruation, but nothing ever permanent or pregnant.
   
   
2. Anger
   "This is not fair, why me? There a so many people 'less healthy' or 'less deserving' than me - people who smoke, take drugs, are alcoholics. How can they get pregnant and become parents so easily? This is bull$hit!!!" I was completely angry and utterly furious with God, the universe, mother nature and anything else that I could put a label on. I questioned my faith in me, my beliefs, everything. I was bitter and unforgiving. I became intolerable of people asking me "When are you going to have kids?" - I either wanted to swear at them or hit them in the mouth with my shoe. I didn't x 2.
   
   
3. Bargaining
   I engaged in conversations with God "I'll pray every day, I'll fast, I'll eat well, exercise, do yoga, meditate, take my medicine, I'll stop drinking caffeine and wine, no more wheat, no more dairy, no more sugar, or salt, no more gluten, I'll only eat low GI foods, I'll juice every day, I'll even do a coffee enema every day - I WILL DO IT ALL (and I've done it all) if you could just please, please, PLEEEEEEAAAASE let my body work so I can have a baby!"
   
   
4. Depression
   Deep, dark and scary. To me this was a loss of lives, the lives of my beautiful yet-to-be-born children. The sons and daughters I had dreamed of, imagined and anticipated. I cried myself to sleep every night. I collapsed in the shower, sobbing on the ground till the water ran cold. I felt pain in my heart and sickness in my stomach every time I heard news of someone becoming pregnant. I could not look at pregnant bellies. I could not stand hearing women complain about being pregnant (I want to punch them in the nose - seriously). I could not hold babies without tears welling in my eyes and my lips quivering. I was in constant pain. It felt like an elephant sitting on my chest. I was aching all the time. I felt I was going insane. I was once so disturbed by my upset that I wished someone I disapproved of would miscarry - how horrible, judgmental and inhumane is that? (thankfully that wish was not granted).
   
   
5. Acceptance
   One day I decide I cannot go on living my life in chronic anguish and yearning. I choose to be okay. I am okay. I became an aunt. I realised I can still have children in my life, it's just going to be different to what I first imagined. I had a dream that dictated words for a manuscript. It was a blueprint for a children's book. I spent nine months and four days to create and deliver a book that (without my knowing) turned out to be the physical manifestation of all my maternal love for my unborn babies. Every time I hear news of a child loving my book I feel a connection. My maternal flame is lit. I feel I have made a difference. I am happy. I am a mother.

September marks 10 years since that fateful day. A decade.

This has been the most difficult thing for me to write and the most freeing. I am sobbing once more. I will sign off for now.

Until tomorrow, be brave and take all five steps when grieving. The fifth one is the best.

Grace xx

PS. At the time of my diagnosis I was told I had gone through premature menopause. The condition is now more commonly known as Premature Ovarian Failure (POF), though it is in transition to being known as Primary Ovarian Insufficiency (POI). It can affect women as young as 16. While many alternative modalities have theories about how this condition occurs, western orthodox medicine state that there are no known causes.

PPS. For avid followers of Weigh-In Wednesday, click here to see video

Does every cloud have a silver lining? In memory of James Williamson

I'd planned to write a light-hearted upbeat piece after yesterday's pensive post.

I was looking at my current state of affairs, trying to find the funny side of having a parking ticket, overdue bill notice and a sink full of dishes.

No sooner did I come up with the title 'Dark side of the spoon' (which I thought was a stroke of genius) when I noticed Patrick staring at his phone, his face depleted of joy.

"James Williamson died at the Cape Epic" he said in a stunned, monotone.

"James? The same James we met at the Greek restaurant?"

"Yes, same James"

"WHAT????????"

Both in complete shock, our hearts sank. We were, and are, in disbelief.

Patrick and I met the wonderful, friendly, down-to-earth, sweet James one week before he was to fly to South Africa to compete in the Cape Epic. We were moved by James' gentle and joyful nature, vowing to catch up with him when he returned (you know when you meet someone special and say "I'd like to be friends with that person" and then imagine how you would form such a friendship? Well, that was our experience with James).

James (it's so hard to say) was 26 years of age and editor of Enduro magazine. He'd been a World Champion mountain biker, which I only found out today after Googling the cause (which is still unknown - he was unable to be roused by his team mate in the morning). James was so unassuming I had no idea he was a champion, and yet I'm not surprised that he was.

James was so, so, so lovely... and so, so, so young.

What I want to know is, does every cloud have a silver lining?

As much as I've searched, I just can't seem to find it today.

James was excited about his trip to South Africa, it was something he'd looked forward to for a long time. While we're expected to 'look at the bright side' of the situation and be thankful that he was happy and got to live out his dream, I can't help feel that this is all too premature. Someone so lovely is surely needed on Earth a little bit longer (if not a lot longer).

All I feel is sadness. Sadness and loss. Remarkable considering I'd only spent a few hours sitting across the table from him; such was the impression he'd left on me (I feel indulgent expressing my upset and cannot fathom what his girlfriend, family and friends are feeling right now).

Do we always have to see the bright side of everything? Can't we just be sad because some things are just plain sad. I totally appreciate how we don't want to get bogged by sorrow. I know we're encouraged to move on. I can see how being 'stuck' can play havoc with our lives. But surely it's okay to be sad when something like this happens, isn't it?

Sometimes I feel that constant optimism can be tiring and, to be honest, a little fake if we can't honour the times when things upset us.

While many new age dialogues are worthy of consideration, I question the subject of death. We're told that sadness comes from our attitude and the stories we tell ourselves. That by changing our meaning of death, we'd somehow change our emotional response to it. We're told there are cultures where death is celebrated - where are they? I've never seen them and wonder if it's all a myth.

What I have seen, are dogs lamenting over the loss of a loved one. I have heard their weeping wails, I have seen their long faces and I have felt their distress. I ask my self - is that because they have a negative attitude? Are they just responding to the stories they tell themselves? Do they need to change their meaning of death? My answer is - I think not.

I've concluded that it's okay to be upset by death. Dare I say, it's normal.

Sometimes, I think it's okay to not feel you have to be strong. I think it's okay to cry. I think it's okay to be sad. I think it's okay not to have explanations or answers. I think it's okay if things don't make sense. The secret is, not to get 'stuck' in the weakness, the tears, the sorrow, the unexplained un-knowingness and the senselessness.

There is a time for grief, a time for mourning, and a time for moving on.

To all the family, friends and colleagues of James Williamson, and to Niki, I feel for your loss. I hope your path to healing and resolve is swift. To James, may your spirit ride on forever.

Until tomorrow, a place in time where we assume we'll be...

Grace xx