Miscarriage and the Broken Road

October is pregnancy and infant loss awareness month. For the last 30 days, I have thought of the beautiful lights that have been extinguished too soon. I have thought about all of my friends and acquaintances who have experienced this grief and I hold each of your losses in my heart as I think of my sweet angel babies too. Nine months ago I had my 4th miscarriage. Today, someone I don’t know had one too. Yesterday, someone had a still birth, Last week someone found out they can never have children. Tomorrow, someone will find out there is no heartbeat. Their wombs have failed. Their hormones have betrayed them. They were victims of bad timing. They found out chemo made them infertile. There are so many that will never know why. Every day in October, women all over the world remember these moments during pregnancy & infant loss awareness month. It is estimated that one in four pregnancies will end in loss. Why don’t we talk about this? Why don’t we share this? Many people believe that if you can’t see it, hear its heartbeat or tangibility feel it with your hands, that is doesn’t exist. To “us” they all lived and died and should be remembered. This month I could have been nine months pregnant or maybe I would have given birth by now and I would be a sleepless mommie zombie for Halloween with leaking breasts and bags under my eyes. I will never know, but I do know this, I am not alone and neither are you. I share my life with readers on a daily basis and don’t usually hold back. This last miscarriage was harder that I had expected and I wasn’t ready to share. I needed to meet this new grief head on and learn to work around its jagged edges. This past week, I took part in a grief panel at Vidant Hospital called Giving Voice. We were asked to share with the audience of over 160 people on what grief has taught us. It was the first time I said out loud to people I didn’t know that I had not one, but four miscarriages and that grief no matter what shape it takes will not shape me negatively but affect me positively. Each loss is a step up, a step toward knowing and loving myself more. My grief blog has allowed me over the last five years to share the heartache, the grief that wraps our hearts in pain every day, no matter what we’ve lost. It may be children, parents, lovers, sanity, control, our memory, or a number of other things. I love meshing our stories together showcasing that we all have walked this same path and miscarriage & infant death is a loss too that should be shared and valued just as much as any other loss. I encourage you to read today’s blog called The Broken Road. This is not just my journey, but the journey of others including Elaine Elaine Martschenko Hughes and Tabitha Melton.

Growing up, my parents taught me that we each have a life path. It’s a road already planned out for us and no matter what choices we make, bad or good, the path will always be there. It won’t always be straight, paved in gold, dotted with directions, or clean and smooth. It will wind at times so quick and fast, it will make your head spin. Other times, the road is flawless, glistening from the sun and blooming flowers are at your side. As we grow, we walk down the path through the stages of our life. We graduate Kindergarten, and the next thing we know, it’s decades later and we are graduating with a college degree, falling in love, making mistakes, and enjoying the beauty of life. The road is our book, it’s our life story and as each memory is made, and each step taken, the memories are stored along the road like trees that root themselves in the earth, pushing down and then up until they reach the sun. My mom told me sometimes you don’t always get what you want. The road if life will stop at times and test you with pot holes and broken dreams. You will have to find a way to walk through the chaos that presents itself and keep going, never giving up. You can stand at the pothole in your road and scream at it and ask it why, why did you do that, but it won’t change. You can’t go back down your path. You can look back on your path, but you must keep moving forward.

This brings me to my newest grief. A grief I know, a 4th pothole on my life road called miscarriage. When I was 35, Craig and I finally decided we wanted to have a baby. I didn’t want kids for years. I was a full time nanny for 3 children when I was in college and in my twenties. I loved watching Collin, Nathan, Alicia and the neighbors kids Ashley and Christian grow and learn and I love them as if they were all my own. They are all in their twenties now and I love to see how they walk their own roads. I even helped take care of my best friend’s son, Grayson. His mom died when she was 41 and Grayson was only 2 ½. I babysat him for years and still get to watch that sweet little soul, my “little brother” grow into a beautiful young man. He is twelve now and we paint pottery together and watch movies and have a blast. He is my adopted family and I love him as if he were my own. I got pregnant the first time when I was 35. It was 5 months after my mom died, and one 1 month after my dad died. It was a strange time for me as I was in shock from my parents untimely deaths, both falling like dominoes in succession. I should have know grief comes in threes. I found out I was pregnant on April Fools Day and Craig thought it was a joke. I wanted to call my mom, but I couldn’t and that broke my heart. I was excited for this new little baby, this beautiful gift that was formed because two people loved each other. The minute I found out I was expecting, I loved my baby. It was alive to me even when doctors told me at 9 weeks that there was no heartbeat. But to me, it lived, it was a child. It was a promise, it was my future and two days before my first Mother’s Day without my mom in 2014, my baby was lifted to heaven to be with my parents. It was another devastating and yet beautiful moment knowing my mom and dad were holding my baby. That was the only comfort I had during that time. I remember crying saying “what did I do wrong, why am I being punished. I’m a good person.” None of the matters, It was not my fault, and I had to accept that was my map, my journey. My heart was broken again, but I had to trust my life path, to trust God, to trust my body, and myself. It was a dark time, the road was covered in darkness for while, but I remembered mom telling me to go one. She said “when I die, don’t die to. Don’t let the bad win, learn from it, take it in, and keep going.” That is what I did. I picked myself up, and that’s when I went to France for 2 weeks to meditate, write and heal. It was a light shining on my path, showing me the way. So, I kept going Here’s the thing I learned after my 1st miscarriage. Not many people talk about it. Some people believe a miscarriage is not a real loss because many of us never get to see or hold our baby. You get robbed of the joys of giving birth for some and going through the stages of pregnancy. I was mad that I never got to round 2, second trimester, the eating whatever you want, gender reveals, baby clothes shopping, and feeling the flutter of a little kick. But for those who suffer miscarriage, there are organizations and support groups, but for many it’s still a silent loss. I grieved alone and little did I know, I would have to give up more babies on my life path. My second pregnancy was a successful Clomid attempt in June of 2016, but I miscarried at 5 weeks. It was not as rough as the first one which was surgery as this one was a natural process. The third miscarriage was in August of 2017. I was about 6 ½ weeks right in the middle of the nauseous, annoying yucky part and was I directing a wedding out of town. The show had to go on and I worked through the miscarriage telling myself to trust God, to listen, to pray, and to know another 2 babies were once again with mom and dad, or as I like to call them now, Nona and Poppy. I wish I could see then playing with my sweet angel babies. I remember crying after my parents died mad because they would never see me walk down an isle in a white dress, or hold their grandchildren. And I’m thinking this and smiling, which is so not right, but so peaceful to know I DID give then grand-babies. So now I will tell you about the fourth miscarriage that happened this past February. Craig and I had pretty much hung up the baby card. It was still on the side of the table, but not front and center. And, just like that, I found out I was expecting on Super Bowl Sunday. Goal!! The first thing I thought was, I’m 40 years old. Then, I was happy again, but cautious as we had learned to be. I had some health challenges, so we just took it day by day. 7 ½ weeks in, I was rushed to the Radiologist office on Valentine’s Day of all days for an ultrasound because they thought I may have an ectopic pregnancy. It was dangerous, I was high risk, elderly gravitas (seriously) as they call it. I was terrified. I went in alone since they would not let Craig back in case I was rushed into surgery, and once again was told there was no heartbeat and no ectopic pregnancy. But, the silver lining was that this pregnancy was the furthest the baby grew. A baby step, but I was still heartbroken. I had to go home on Valentine’s Day, the very same day 19 years earlier that I told Craig I loved him for the first time. This day, I told my 4th little sweet baby that I loved them too and I would see them all one day in heaven. I miscarried 2 days later. I have struggled with this one, but I sought out the strength of others; my friends, people I met along the way who have suffered too and know the pain of miscarriage, the grief of a loss. I will probably not try again for children and I am at peace knowing that not having kids will not define my life. My life will still be full and the path still ready for me.

I asked friends, and other brave women to shares their miscarriage journey with readers. My dear friend, Elaine Hughes has been a blessing and an anchor for me in times of pain and grief we helped each other through it. She has walked my path too and this is her journey losing her mom, and babies: There are no words to truly describe the sense of loss that comes from a miscarriage . . . overpowering sadness, absolute emptiness, heart wrenching sorrow, miserable yearning, utter failure... none of them feel adequate enough! I am a mom of four . . . three angels and one incredibly awesome earthly son. Helping my husband raise him into a fine young man has truly been my greatest joy and most fulfilling responsibility in life! After my second miscarriage, my aunt shared with me that God trusted me to create some precious angels for Him. Although it didn’t take away the emptiness from the void in my cradled arms, it did bring a sense of peace, knowing that it wasn’t all in vain. God trusted me . . .that in itself was a special blessing! I often thanked Him for the honor of using me for His good and I turned to this bible verse: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding" ~Proverbs 3:5 I truly believe my son’s heavenly siblings were by his side many times, protecting him from harm and injury, and even helping to steer him back on track when he started to wander off his path. Although my miscarriages were in ’86, ’89 and ’92, time has not healed the emptiness of their silence. The emotions are as raw today as they were back then. The tears easily flow and the sadness is overwhelming when I stop and think about the extremely short-lived lives my husband and I created. I am so very grateful for my living son and for the busyness of our lives, as that serves as a distraction for the grief of the memory of three unlived lives! I am also now able to smile as I imagine what each one of my angels would have been like. I look forward to meeting them when my time here is through. I love that Elaine allowed her faith to be her guide. We sometimes carry the weight of the past with us on the path, but sometimes, they are weights we will gladly bear knowing we can think of our children often.

I met a fabulous young woman named Tabitha who works the front desk at my OB office. Little did I know, we had a lot in common. I saw her often at my OB's office. She is always smiling and cordial and little did I know she was a master at hiding her pain. Her fertility journey is long and she is fierce. Hearing her story, I was moved. Her journey will move you too. The million dollar question about life after loss is always how? That is the most difficult word to try to explain honestly. Infertility is so hard, the most extreme roller coaster I have ever known. I finally received those two pink lines after 2 years of trying, however it was brought to a heartbreaking holt at 22 weeks. One of the hardest words an expecting couple can hear is, “I’m sorry your baby isn’t going to make it”. That is the sharpest knife to the gut for sure. After her passing I refused to stay in that dark miserable hole of grief. Since 2007 I have made it my personal duty as a mom of an angel to choose JOY, HAPPINESS and process that it happened for a reason. Did I have moments of anger and bitterness? Of course I did, I just made myself choose the opposite. I didn’t want to be know as “that” person who hated every single pregnant woman or completely avoided all baby sections in stores. Instead I wanted to embrace all babies and all people and spend hours picking the perfect baby shower gift for someone. I do work for a fertility OB/GYN office and get to experience both sides of this viscous cycle. It’s very humbling to see those who have finally conceived or to be the first person they can tell with such excitement and overwhelming joy in their voices. In the end, I simply want to be the light in someone’s darkness and even if my answer remains “no” after these 12 years, I will still choose LOVE, JOY and HAPPINESS. My mission will always be to talk about your journey, live transparent, celebrate the life of your miracle and embrace those who have never had the chance to even carry a child. That is how I choose to push and press on this bittersweet journey.

Grief in any form is hard, and we have to know we are not alone. Thousands of people have walked the same stretch of road as us. We have to talk about it, we have to share the grief, hand it to someone else, let them hold it in their hands to share its weight, and know it will all be Ok. Our path is still there waiting for us, another pothole or fork in the road, but the road is still long and we know that there are good things just around the next corner. Stand tall, be brave, and let’s walk our road, because we have some living to do. Tis post is dedicated to the many women who have suffered miscarriages, for those unable to have children, and the beautiful women who have shared their womb as acted as a surrogate. I also want to thank the doctors (Dr. Beverley Harris, Dr. Ester Smith, nurses and technicians (Ladena and Sarah) and the fertility doctors who were there during my fertility journey.

The Beginning-Paris

The nonfiction story below was featured in the 2017 edition of the Petigru Review. It is the beginning of my grief journey and the beginning of my book. All beautiful stories should start in Paris.

The Life of Death

This is what I know for sure. I am 36 years-old and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Three weeks ago, I contemplated filling up my gas tank, grabbing a few bottles of Diet Sunkist and driving the opposite direction of home with no game plan. I was not sure where I would go, but for the first time in my regimented and planned out life, I was willing to leave it all behind in order to find myself.

Nine months ago, my mother who was the most important person in my life died of a rare uterine cancer. One hundred and eleven days later, I took my dad off of life support after he had a catastrophic ruptured aortic aneurysm. Dad collapsed at home on a Wednesday morning in mid-February. I remember waking up to thunder and wondered why it was thundering in February. Later, I would conclude that it was my mom telling me to check my phone for the missed call from the hospital. The next few days were a blur. Hospital machines, blood draining away from his body so fast, it filled up almost every canister in the hospital. Dialysis, tubes, medications, and vigils followed in those three days. On the third day it ended. Thirty-five years with my parents and just like that in a span of one hundred and eleven days, it was over.

A few weeks after Dad died, I found out I was expecting my first child. Through all of my grief, for a brief, fleeting moment, I saw hope. However, hope I had found out in my life is short-lived. Two and a half months into my pregnancy, we found out there was no heart beat and our little baby had died. Two days before my first Mother’s Day without Mom, I had surgery and my little silent baby was lifted to heaven and placed in the loving hands of its grandparents. Grief does not even begin to describe my state of being. I had so many emotions spinning inside me; I felt as if I would fall to the floor and never have the strength to get up again. I was afraid the spinning grief inside my body had killed my child. It was devastating.

I stand at the gas pump, wearing black patent heels and a black dress with tiny white polka dots. I let the soothing waves of wind wash over me. The sky is a soft white with tiny tendrils of pink clouds scattering across the sky like bales of hay waiting to be sent to the grain mill. I smile for a moment feeling the energy of my mom coming down from the heavens patting my cheek with love. The day was so glorious and bright. How can it be so beautiful all around me, but inside I'm a tornado. I remembered what my Reiki healer Kara told me: in order to fully grieve the loss of someone dear to us, we must "grieve well." Grief should be angry and spinning like a tornado. It should take you, suck you in, roll you around and take your breath away. Grief is not sitting at the base of the cliff and not jumping because of fear. You have to jump and grow your wings on the way down. So, there I was again with a Diet Sunkist in hand, a full tank of gas, and heavy heart. I knew what I had to do. I had recently been accepted into a Summer Yoga and Writer’s retreat in France for two weeks. I emailed the director and accepted the invitation. I called my travel agent, booked a flight to Paris, bought a floppy hat and a French phrase book. I decided I need to grieve, and what better place to do that than France. I spoke very little French and my yoga left a lot to be desired. One week later, I will board my transcontinental flight, try to not run away from grief, but meet it head on, with a glass of French wine, notebook and vast library of memories.

Dad If you were lucky enough to know my dad, Nick, you knew you would never go hungry. This was the Italian way and my dad lived this philosophy until his final days. If you needed food, he would show up with bags of canned chicken, rice, soup, and especially bags of toilet paper. My dad had a little hoarding problem with buying socks and underwear as well. If any of my brother's friends or my boyfriend came over, they always left with a bag of new underwear and socks. I laugh when I think about this. I think I finally understand what Dad was doing.

Not only did Dad want to feed your soul with food, he also wanted to make sure your butt was always clean, and your feet always warm. I guess now that I think about it, this must be the recipe for a good life. I know this sounds strange, but I have been blessed the last 15 years since I moved away for college with never having to buy my own toilet paper. Every time Mom and Dad would come for a visit or I would go home, I always left with canned chicken and toilet paper. I just looked in my pantry last week, and cried when I saw the last 12 pack of toilet paper sitting there sad and lonely on the bottom shelf. It made me sad to think after it's gone a piece of him will be gone from my home as well. I am contemplating whether I should keep just one roll and encase in a plastic cube with a mini hammer and sign that says "In case of emergency, break and use- Love Dad."

Mom If you were lucky enough to know my mom, Linda, then you knew you had a steadfast friend and supporter for life. Linda was a cheerleader for everyone who was lucky enough to know her. She was generous, kind, loving, protective, supportive, and made sure everyone else's needs were met before she did anything for herself. She was that mother who worked a full-time job and was up until three in the morning frosting 100 cupcakes for the bake sale. Mom loved books and having read a great book, she would often give it away so someone else could enjoy the journey. She would be so tired when she put me to bed for the fifth time, but always had the strength to read me as many bedtime stories as I wanted. As a child, she was poor, and they did not have enough money for books. She spent many of her days huddled in the corners of the library reading everything she could get her hands on. When she had children, she vowed her children would never be denied a book. She told me I could always have a book and many times .

I chose a book over a toy, because it meant so much more. I like to think this is why I am a writer, because Mom was generous enough to give me the gift of stories. Mom was also a skilled multi-tasker, managing to run a large department with ease and efficiency. Many people told me how much she did for that company and her employees that went above and beyond her role. She also made sure every employee felt important. She was secret Santa every year to the dozens of workers, making sure they had a little something special in their box for several weeks. She would give them note cards, fuzzy socks, bookmarks, books, mini snow globes or mini stockings filled with the "good chocolate." Mom was also involved in multiple charities and events around town. She spread herself thin, but loved every minute of being a Red Hat member, Dazzling Diva, raising money for the Red Cross and serving on their board. She was even a senior reagent with the Moose Club. I am now a proud member too! So, as Dad made sure your belly was fed, butt clean, and feet warm, Mom showered you with the warmth of a hug, a special treat, and a warm heart.

The last few months, I have had the daunting task of cleaning out my parents’ house. It is a small, modest brick home with very few updates that have been made in the 42 years they lived there. I sift through the boxes of memories and find cards people wrote Mom thanking her for a gift or a note to Dad thanking him for a good deed. I finally realize the answers to so many questions that I had over the years. Why did they not get a new washer and dryer when the old one broke? They knew the lady who owned a local laundromat and supported her business by going to do their laundry there every Saturday. They didn't own nice furnishings, just basic tables and chairs and a non-formal brown couch. My mom and dad shared one car for years so my brother and I had reliable cars when we moved away for college. They wanted to make sure we had money for groceries or enough money to take piano lessons or buy art supplies, drum sticks or enough money to go on the class field trip to DC. This is why they went without getting the dishwasher fixed, instead washing the dishes by hand with no complaining. My parents lived “without” many things, so others could live "with." Today, I thank them and remember them every time I pass rows of toilet paper or sock displays in stores or the feeling in my heart when I volunteer at the shelter. As I pack my bags for my up-coming trip to France tomorrow, I make sure to pack a bookmark and the writer's kit Mom gave me and plenty of the socks and underwear Dad gave me. I may still be lacking a proper French vocabulary and my yoga is still a little wobbly, but my soul will be fed by the food of France, my butt will be clean and my feet toasty warm. Thanks Mom and Dad. Bon Voyage!

Paris I think the most important thing for any new traveler to do, especially one like myself who has decided to run away from her life to a foreign country, is to upgrade to first class. This makes the fear of flying (thanks to the free-flowing champagne) worth the extra money. It sure did the trick for me. I also can say the lobster appetizer, fresh baked olive roll, filet Mignon with wine reduction, cloth napkin and butler in the sky was a nice touch. I also enjoyed the bedroom slippers, toiletries bag, rose water to spritz on my face and my fold-out bed with personal television. Those sealed the deal. Let’s just say I was not sure I ever needed to leave the airplane. I was already smitten and had not even changed time zones. The flight was perfect. Once we descended, I opened the window shade and a beautiful rainbow spread across the lush, great landscape.

My trip to France was amazing. I meditated, journaled every day and soaked in the clean air. I woke to the calls of roosters, drank wine, laughed and cried. I met a dozen other women who were experiencing similar feelings. We typed on keyboards, stretched our legs on yoga mats and opened up our hearts to the pain. We let grief move us. We laughed over meals and train rides as we strolled through quaint Parisian streets sipping steamy cups of coffee. We toured caves, castles, ruins, and towers. No matter where I went my mom was there, not just in the locket around my neck, but in the air. I knew the trip was exactly what I needed. I slept peacefully, exercised, and learned how to be alone with myself and my thoughts. It was the most necessary thing I could have ever done for myself. It was necessary because I needed to be away from life for long enough to learn how to navigate grief and learn it to be OK if it stays with me forever. I cannot allow grief to define me. And yet it does and will.

Right before I went to France, I read the best-selling nonfiction memoir Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail by Cheryl Strayed. It's one woman's journey alone on a 1,100 mile hike on the Pacific Crest Trail after the death of her mother. The author starts out as a weary, promiscuous 26 year-old woman four years after her mother’s death, and moments from the end of a marriage. She happens across a book at an REI store one day about the Pacific Crest Trail, a mostly desolate stretch of national hiking trails that starts in New Mexico and runs the entire length of the west coast all the way up to Canada. After dabbling in drugs, sleeping around and divorce, Strayed spirals out from grief and makes a decision to hike 1,100 miles alone on the PCT in order to deal with her grief. What she finds in herself, in others and in nature stayed with me long after she puts her brown hiking books away and packed away her writing pen.

The author has a way with words in exploring the past and shedding new light on her life as she hikes through New Mexico all the way up the western seaboard until she reached "The Bridge of the Gods" in Oregon. As I read through the miles with Strayed on the trail, I too was on her journey learning how to take grief and use it to create positivity. I finished reading the book during the same week in September that Strayed finished her hike some eighteen years earlier. I laughed, cried, sobbed, wailed, and breathed with Strayed. Her prosy narrative was just what the doctor ordered for my weary, grief-stricken soul. The earthly, poetic language washed over me like holy water at church and the words were Band-Aids over my fresh grief wounds. I know a book is fantastic when I cry at the end because not only was it life-altering, but I’m sad it's over. Before I read this book, I was at a crossroads in life. I was not sure where to turn, who to turn to, and not sure what the future without my parents would hold. I may not have hiked a trail for 1,100 miles alone, but I did take a journey in order to heal. I journeyed 3,500 miles from home at my most weariest and joined other women on a healing and restorative journey. I was searching for myself but found my mom instead.

I found my mother in the trees that were wide-open and full of hope. I found her in the wind. I heard her call to me in the laughter of little children one afternoon as I meditated in the wet, green grass. I found my mother joining me during evening yoga sessions and when I opened up my hips and raised my arms to the sky, I let grief out. I found her in the photos I took throughout my journey, showing up as a beautiful purple light that swelled around my face and comforted me. I found my mother's spirit in other women on my journey who made me feel the love only women can radiate out from their souls. I found her on the Eiffel Tower in Paris as rain trickled out of the sky and formed goose pimples on my bare arms telling me I should have worn long sleeves. I found my mother staring at me through the deep, charcoal eyes of a French horse named Romeo.

I found her in English breakfast tea at a café in Chantilly, France as the warm, soothing feeling washed over me when I drank it. I found my mother staring back at me when I looked in the mirror after crying and for the first time in my life, I was happy I looked like my mother. I had her soft lines hugging my eyes and the same full blue veins running under the soft skin of my hands.

I found my mother in the brilliantly colored vocal rooster that woke me each morning and welcomed me each night. I found her in the yellow and black butterfly that floated into the writing salon and delicately balanced on the wooden coffee table for over eight hours. And, I found my mother literally in the subway station in Paris when the locket containing her ashes fell off. I finally found her laying behind me on the ground. I found out I do not have to let her go, because she never left me.

Grief is a Rock

Grief is a like a Rock Sometimes it feels flat in the palm of your hand, a smooth, rounded pebble from a mountain stream. Sometimes it’s a jagged sedimentary rock filled with years of build-up and it’s so brittle it breaks off in your hand, large chunks first that fall apart like sand between your fingers. The memories spilling out. Other times, grief is a large quiet rock, a coastline’s barrier rising out from the sea like the Great Orme Rock in Whales, rounded on sides, it’s wide birth a bounty being battered with cold, gray waves. I feel like grief is a rock because it has many stages and takes a long time to form. Time will age it’s appearance. Sometimes we have to be a rock too when it comes to grief. For me, it was one of the first stages I went through. At first, I was in shock, but realized I had to write my mom’s obituary, plan her funeral, select her church music, order prayer cards, frame photos for a memorial table and so on. I was so busy trying to make everything special for mom’s funeral, I didn’t have time to initially grieve her like I needed. I walked around in a fog, making the motions but not diving into grief’s abysses. I was the flat rock, cold and hard. After the funeral when I finally got home, my rock exterior finally started to break away and I cried for days after that, sometimes my eyes swelled shut. Death was only the beginning. But it was not the end. Mom had a journey to go on. I was going to make sure she did. One of the woman I met on my trip to France was a young woman named Janet. She lived in South Carolina, just a state below from me. She had recently lost her father and was also dealing with her own grief trying to find a way to navigate through it. I remember thinking I was running away from my grief to France and when I went there, the women I met were dealing with the same thing. We ran away and toward the same thing at the same time. Funny how things happen that way. I believe I was meant to go to France, to meet new beautiful friends, to see grief from someone else's point of view. To see it from another angle. Janet was in the process of renovating a property in Llandudno, Whales and had planned trips there over the course of a few years to turn the large house into a holiday rental. She said she would be happy to help take moms ashes on her journey. Just a few short months after I started my ash project in summer of 2015, Janet sent me the beautiful pictures of mom’s ashes at the Great Orme Rock which is a large limestone healdland that juts out into the northern sea in Whales. The rock is referred to as “Cyngreawdr Fynydd” by the 12th-century poet Gwalchmai ap Meilyr. Its English name derives from the Old Norse word for sea serpent. It may have been named that because sailors when approaching the large rock jutting up from the sea said it looked like a serpent. It rises up 679 feet from the sea with cool gray limestones. Janet took a walk that day and took the cable car/tram to the top and tried to find a location that would allow for wide views below. It took her about three hours round trip to take her walk that beautiful day during the summer of 2015.

The Great Orme has many animals that are only found there like the silver-studded blue butterfly. You can also see wild Kashmor goats with large pointy horns and shaggy coats. And one of the largest Bronze Age mines is down the road. The Great Orme Rock is just across the sea from Ireland. How close mom came to her final resting place on one of her first stops. I'm so grateful to have met Janet. She is kind, funny, and it was great fun getting to know her. I am forever grateful to her and all of the people who were willing to help me with this project and open up about how grief changed their own landscapes. For Janet, grief sometimes grabs a hold and changes colors. “Someone recently described our heart being like a circle. Grief colors everything when it happens. We build a bigger circle around it and that includes a lot of light. Grief hits again and again, colors everything, until we grow that circle yet again. I liked that explanation.” Janet says. What a wonderful way to think of grief and its many circles and colors. Grief can help you grow and not shrink into yourself. It can be a smooth, flat, or a jagged rock like a serpent. It can be whatever you need it to be.

A Baby Bird and a Book's Beginning

It has been a little over five years since my mom died and not a day goes by that I don’t think about and miss her. I remember the night she died as if it was yesterday. I walked outside in the cold winter air and looked up at the stars and thought, “right here, right now everything changes,” and nothing since then has ever been the same. You think you are ready to handle the loss of a loved one, but death is only the beginning of it. Grief has taken on so many forms and emotions since then, it surprises me every day with its power. Like the landscape around us, it twists and turns and changes shape, color and temperature. It’s raw, painful, and beautiful all at the same time. I started writing about my grief a few months after her death and it has helped me navigate the terrain. I have also enlisted the help of friends on my grief journey and have been working on a new nonfiction book. I want to tell you how it began. So about nine months after mom died, I was still reeling from her death, the sudden death of my dad a few months earlier and a miscarriage. I had lost three people I loved and I needed a little space to deal with my grief. I felt like when my parents were alive, I was a baby bird that they sheltered and fed and molded. They were teaching me to fly and when all of this death happened, I was shoved off the cliff and it was their way of saying…"fly now my dear, we gave you wings, no don’t give up...go.” That’s exactly what I did. I needed to fly on my own both metaphorically literally. I decided to travel alone across the Atlantic Ocean to France. In August of 2014/ I decided I needed some time alone to heal and a two week yoga, meditation, and writing retreat was the answer. A thin, silver chain and tiny tear-shaped locket with mom’s ashes was secured around my neck, close to my heart. I journeyed 3,500 from home alone, joined other women on a healing, restorative journey to find myself and I found my mother instead. I found my mother in the trees that were wide-open and full of hope. I found my mother in the wind. I heard her call to me in the laughter of little children one afternoon as I meditated in the wet, green grass. I found my mother joining me during evening yoga sessions and when I opened up my hips, and put my hand to the sky, I let grief out. I found my mother in the photos I took throughout my journey, showing up as a beautiful purple light that swelled around my face and comforted me. I found my mother's spirit in other women on my journey who made me feel the love only women can radiate out from their souls. I found my mother on the Eiffel Tower in Paris as rain trickled out of the sky and formed goose pimples on my arms telling me I should have worn long sleeves. I found my mother staring at me through the deep, charcoal eyes of a French horse named Romeo. I found my mother in English breakfast tea at a Café in Chantilly, France as the warm, soothing feeling washed over me when I drank it. I found my mother staring back at me when I looked in the mirror after crying and for the first time in my life, I was happy I looked like my mother. I found my mother in the brilliantly colored vocal Rooster that woke us each morning and welcomed us each night. I found my mother in the yellow and black Butterfly that floated into our writing salon, and delicately balanced on the wooden coffee table for over eight hours. And, I found my mother literally in the subway station in Paris when the locket containing her ashes fell off. After several panicked moments, I finally found her laying behind me on the ground. I found out I do not have to let her go, because she never left me. After I found my locket and regained my composure, one of the ladies on my trip asked me later that night over dinner, what I would have done if I never found my mom’s ashes in the Paris subway station. I told her I would have had a nervous break-down first, and then accepted it. Maybe it was a sign that she wanted to stay there. She wanted to be surrounded by her French heritage, and witness the energy and beauty of Paris. Even though the energy of my mother was and is still always with me, I was not ready to give up this tiny amount of ashes. I felt ashamed in a way that I freaked out about it. I had her urn with the rest of her ashes at the top of my closet. I put her ashes in a beautiful biodegradable, pressed cotton urn with a colorful beach scene embossed on the top. I talked with mom before she died and she said I could let her ashes go in Ireland when I could afford to go. I promised her I would keep her ashes safe until I went there. We had been planning a mother/daughter trip to Ireland for my present after graduating with my master’s degree. We never got to go. Cancer robbed her of yet another thing. I thought about this a lot over the weeks following my trip to France. I thought about all the trips my mother never got to take when she was alive, and it made me sad. She had so many adventures planned, and was just a few years away from retirement. She had traveled once with my dad for their 15th wedding anniversary. They spent a week in St. Kitts near Bermuda, and she once went on a Caribbean cruise with her Red Hat friends. That was it. 64 years of life, and two trips under her belt. My dad on the other hand, had a passport that looked like a well seasoned steamer trunk, full of stamps and stickers in every color and language. My dad was a research scientist and at one time during the late 80’s and early 90’s, a national director, who spent months at a time globe-trotting. He would be drinking steins of German beer, while my poor mother was working 50 hours a week as a Microbiologist, and literally up to her eyeballs in shit specimens. Then, she would be our taxi driver, taking us to ballet and soccer and cooking dinner. She was superwoman, but instead of a red cape, she wore a lab coat. And, dad was wearing German Lederhosen shorts with suspenders. It didn’t seem fair that mom could not join dad on all his adventures. He got to see so many beautiful, exotic things while my mom reared her children. Dad drove 100 miles per hour on the Audubon in Germany while mom drove us in a carpool to the Science museum. Dad learned the art of Bonsai in Tokyo, Japan, and was less than twenty feet from Elephants and Lions on Safari in Cape Town, South Africa. Mom was busy sewing my yellow lion costume for my dance performance, and mowing the lawn. Dad stayed at five-star hotels, drank expensive champagne, and slept on 500-count Egyptian cotton sheets in Egypt. Dad ate the finest chocolates in Switzerland and argued with a French woman in Paris because she would not let him eat Cheesecake. She said he could only eat chocolate cake, because she did not like Americans. One of the most memorable things my dad experienced while he traveled the globe was the night he called mom to tell her he was in a hot tub with Cher in California. I can’t remember what mom was doing at the time, probably opening a can of creamed corn and pulling out Tyson chicken fingers from the oven while looking over our homework. I do remember mom telling him “yeah right” laughing, and scrunching up her face, which was her way of facial cussing without speaking. It was true, he sat in a hot tub with Cher. I don’t know what they said to each other in that hot tub, maybe she just smiled and my dad’s head swelled to the size of a hot-air balloon. It was all he talked about for weeks as mom continued to open cans of vegetables, and make fish sticks, while dad continued to hop the pond. My hope chest is filled with Kimonos, boar skin pocket books and Egyptian hieroglyphs on papyrus paper. It’s pretty to look at, but nothing is more beautiful than the urns that hold my parent’s ashes. Before I take my mom’s ashes to Ireland in April of this year and set her urn free into the emerald sea to say goodbye to that part of her, I wanted her to travel. I wanted her to hop ponds, get jet-lagged, dip her toes in the west coast and dangle from the Hollywood sign. I wanted her to see the world. I wanted her to taste a foreign country, feel its soil between her toes, feel the warm sun of a different time zone, and sip champagne with Robert Redford (her dream man). This was my wish. Just after I got back from France, I decided to not hog my mom literally. She deserved to see the world and I knew I would not be able to afford to go to Ireland for a few years, so I would have time to write about grief and my ash book idea started. I started getting in contact with the people who were with me when we lost mom’s ashes the first time in France and enlist their help. My goal was to send some of mom’s ashes to as many states in the US as possible and hopefully to some other countries. Two weeks later, I sat with a strainer in my closet sifting the bones from my mom’s ashes and then mixing ashes with colored glittered and adding then to tiny glass vials. I contacted some friends and explained what I was doing and strangely no one was too disturbed with my idea and came on board. All participants/friends and fellow writers that agreed to take part were to be mailed a small glass vial of my mom’s ashes. The ashes were mixed with colorful glitter and tied with a charm. Each person selected a location of their choice (some will be given suggestions) and either spread her ashes or buried the vial. They were required to take either take a photograph of themselves with the ashes while letting them go, or of the location the ashes were spread. They emailed me photos of the experience and if they wanted and were encouraged to talk about how they deal with grief. Many of the writers and participants have met my mother, or are connected with me in the writing world. They are my friends and some of them have also lost someone they loved. In the past 4 1/2 years, my mom has gone to so many beautiful places I never would have imagined she . She has circled the globe from South Korea, Japan, China, the Philippines, to Budapest, Prague, Thailand, India, Egypt, South America, Antarctica, New Zealand and every place in between including dozens of states in the US. My book, The Landscape of Memory showcases how the terrain of grief changes and how each of us deals with grief and its many facets. Grief is a journey that no one has to go on alone. Grief has it’s own landscape and has it’s own story to tell. I want to tell you the stories of the places mom has gone and share inspirational stories of contributors who have lost mothers, brothers, children, loved ones and some who have almost taken their lives because of grief.Over the next few months, I want to showcase some of the locations mom’s ashes have been and share some encouraging stories that will be included in my book. Follow my blog and let’s go on an adventure. Let’s start flying! Here is a sneak peek of location 1- Orme Rock Whales

What Does Grief Look Like

What does Grief Look Like? I think about grief daily. Sometimes it sneaks up on me in the shower and slides down my cheeks. I find it hidden between my ears, in the voices that rob me of sleep at 3am. They tell me about the way things used to be. They promise it will get better. They are not dead, just sleeping and I need to do the same. I feel grief like a heavy, wool coat that suffocates me on a hot July day. It’s a crashing, wide ocean wave that takes me off guard and slashes at me with a stinging mist of spray. I see grief in the bending branches of the Oak tree in my parent’s front yard. It slings low around the base, minutes from collapse. It wants me to come back into its abyss where I once felt safety among the foliage. Grief is the Rollie Pollie bug I cup in my hand. Its grey armored body extends wide and quickly pulls into itself. It is afraid to open its eyes and see. I feel sorry for it, so I set it in a patch of wet leaves and apologize. Grief is the line where the heavy rain begins. I can see it coming ahead and charge into its bottomless chasm. I have no fear anymore of what will happen when I pass from the quiet into the storm of grief. It envelopes me and I am soaked with its pelting promises that soon it will all be better. Sometimes grief is a happy thought. I hear a song that my mom and I used to sing together in the car on road trips, or smell the Chanel #5 that she dotted on the back of her ears. Grief is the beautiful, Jonquils that popped through the dying grass this past spring, or the purple blossoming Azalea bushes and, green Hastas that hug the sides of the house. Grief comes and grief goes like the phases of the moon. As each phase occurs, it evokes a new emotion that pulls and tugs us into all directions. For each of us, grief is different. It is not supposed to be the same. Grief is a one-of-a-kind thing. I recently asked my friends what grief looks like to them, and quite a few had the beautiful courage to share. My sweet friend, Jenny had the courage to share her grief journey after the death of her mother, Jean who used to work with me. The first time I met Miss Jean Riggan, was when I started working at Barnes and Noble in 2006. She was the kindest woman I have ever met, with a pure heart. She was delightful, genuine, and caring. She loved all her friends and would do anything for them. The day she told me she had cancer, she held my hand and told me to not worry, because everything was going to be ok. We both knew what the outcome would eventually be, but we hugged and she remained hopeful. A few months later, Miss Jean was transferred to her daughter’s house with Hospice to wait until the Lord would come to take her to her eternal home. I started going to her house almost every day for a couple of weeks to help her daughter, Jenny Toler cook meals or take care of her children. I would sit beside her and hold her hand why she smiled with her infectious smile wearing her sunny, yellow nightgown. I bonded with her entire family. I became friends with her sister, Sharon, and sister, Charlotte. I watched all of her sisters whisper words of comfort in her ear, and shower her with comfort and love as she transitioned to her end. It was not as scary as I thought it would be. With family huddled around a birthday cake and a sparkling candle in a dimmed room, love beamed from every corner and my heart felt warm. Miss Jean went peacefully when her end came. Jenny struggled with her mother’s death, much like I did. The day after her death, a beautiful flower arrangement arrived and the card was from her mom. The moment she saw the card, she collapsed into sobs in her husband’s arms. The weight of grief was palpable that moment, and I knew one day that this pain would find me too. We have both lost our best friend, our mentor, our soulmate. With that light extinguished from our life, we became numb for a long time, unable to fully digest the fact that our compass was gone. We are grief warriors and grief bonded us as friends. I thinks this created a pure friendship that I am grateful for. We do not get a chance to see each other as often as we used to, but keep up with each other via Facebook. Even after years pass, the pain doesn’t. It fluctuates and blows in the wind like Miss Jean’s favorite yellow flowers. For Jenny grief is still real and raw: “What does grief look like? Grief has so many stages, chapters and phases. Sometimes, I think it looks like the beach, and a storm. The water represents life that is still for the living. The sand represents the soul, who you really are. And the storm...is grief. That storm sometimes comes in knowingly, the "weatherman" told you it was coming. But sometimes, that storm just appears. Seemingly out of nowhere. The water is covered in a darkness and water beats down on it, beating into it...reminding it that the storm is there, that their loved one is gone and each rain drop is a memory of the person who is no longer here. On really bad days, grief (the storm) will throw lightening at you and will rattle down into your sand (your soul) with thunderous sounds. And though through this storm that just keeps going and going and going...sometimes leaving and coming back again....the sand may shift, move around...some may wash back into the water, redirecting our moods and thoughts, but the sand stays strong. Even when we think the storm is going to wash it all away. As long as there is one grain of sand left after the storm has passed for the last time, then we still have a part of the person we lost as well as a part of who we were with them. And....while the storms may come and go, the sun will break out in between....but when the grieving process has been survived...that sun shines brighter than ever. Occasional storms may remind us that it's ok to still having grieving times...but we know by this point that the sun is going to come out tomorrow...”

One of my friends from Kiwanis, Deb lost her husband of 47 years due to a sudden heart attack. He was asleep, woke up with chest pain and died in his wife’s arms. How hard that must have been to see. Deb shared her thoughts of what grief looks like to her: “I lost Andy after 47 years together...only man in my life ....we grew up together. To me, it's like losing an arm or leg and now having to learn how to live with this handicap......how to live without a part of you. Empty heart and also as your friend Terrell put it the" quite absence".....suddenly gone in the night and no longer in my life ...Family functions are not the same ....something is always missing ..I had to leave our home we had together ....everything reminded me of our great life we made together” My Uncle Frank Carnevale died just a few short months ago. My Auntie Vilma and Frank were married for many years and were each other’s soulmates. When they were together, the room lit up with beauty, serenity, and love. His laughter was contagious. He was funny, generous, loving, and kind. For Auntie Vilma, she is learning how to navigate a world without her other half. Everything seems off balance and fuzzy. I am sure when she looks in her son’s eyes, she sees Frank. I can only imagine how beautiful and hard at the same time seeing part of him here can be. You are not alone in your struggle. Vilma was able to share how she is managing the early stages of grief: “I'm right in the hardest part of my life at this time because I just unexpectedly lost my husband in April after 52 wonderful years of marriage. I find it so hard to explain because I don't think anyone understands how I feel.” For my friend, Terrell grief is many emotions all wrapped into one: “Grief is a circle. It ebbs and flows. It's a cold hunger in the heart. A fiery pain running through your nerves. It is the acute awareness of a quiet absence. It is periods of relief and good memory that last longer with time. It is the pain our heart feels while it is healing after loss.”

For my friend, Ruby, grief is a selfish and peaceful act much like a yin yang. She also sees that grief is not just missing and hurting over a loved one who is gone, but grieving for the people she loves who are still alive, but obstacles are in the way: “Grief has so many meanings. The last and one of the most important person I lost sent so many emotions through me and still to this day, I selfishly grieve for her. However, at the same time I am at peace knowing she no longer suffers from the pain and misery the world cast upon her. It’s a personal pain within a person. I personally I grieve for and over people and things that are alive. I grieve for children that have anything to do with me because they want me to continue a life of codependence and dysfunction. I grieve for my grandchildren I am not allowed to see due to their continued dysfunction. I can do on and on.”

Grief is and will always be a changing image, emotion and experience. Each person sees death differently, and each person grieves differently. But, the one thing we all have in common is the pain that comes along with losing a loved one. We each board our personal ship of grief. Some may falter and end up back on shore for months or years, and some may be able to steer their ship to calmer waters. There is no right or wrong journey. The Journey is yours alone, but the destination is what we all seek. Thank you everyone for sharing your inspiring thoughts of what grief looks like to you.

The Brightest Star

Where do you go when you die? I remember asking my mom this when I was ten and my neighbor, Uncle Ron Sykes died. She picked me up from catholic school and said she had bad news. Mom told me Uncle Ron went to heaven. I remember wondering where he was in heaven at that exact moment. I already knew he had died, I can’t tell you how I knew, but I did. I already knew he was sitting on some big, puffy cloud with Jesus sipping chocolate milk and waving at everyone below as they floated across the sky. The thing was, I was young and didn’t understand what death really meant. I knew it meant that the person was gone in a body sense but, I still needed more answers. I did not know the lingering path that death creates. It would take many years before I would be once again asking myself questions about death. A few nights after my neighbor Ron died when the sky was clear and the air crisp and cool, I asked mom again where you go when you die. She told me to look up into the night sky and pick the biggest and brightest star. Once I found the one I liked best, she told me that that was Uncle Ron. He was now a big, bright shining star and he would never stop glowing. He would live forever. This was such a profound moment for me. I loved the star analogy that she told me. It has always stuck with me and now I have found that all these years later when I look up in the sky on a clear night, I know all my friends and family that died before me are shining stars, burning bright. I thought of my conversation with mom back on November 15, 2010 as I stared up into the night sky on a once again, cool and crisp night. That morning at 6:30am, my best friend of fourteen years, Michelle died. She was 41 and died of lung cancer. She fought a two and a half year battle with cancer and it won. That night, I drove to her house to help her husband write the obituary and to pick out what she will be buried in. I said I would help tell her three year old son, Grayson about death. I remembered the serendipitous moment with my mom and the star talk. I knew what I needed to do. On the ride over, I thought about that morning remembering that it was gloriously beautiful outside. The clouds were perched high in the sky, there was a magnificent fall breeze and golden leaves swirled around me. The smell was heavenly, and I thought, what a beautiful day to die. The night of her death was clear and stars burned bright across the sky. I remember thinking that in a few moments, I will get out of my car and go into her house. I will have to take her son by his sticky little hands and tell him about death. I will do it while remembering that talk my mom and I had. A few hours later after dinner was cooked, dishes cleared and half an obituary written, it happened. Michelle’s husband and a few family members came and went, calls came in and calls came out. Doorbells rang, and the dishwasher sang its somber wail. Grayson looked up from his coloring book and asked me if mommy was in heaven now. I simply said “yes, sugar bear, she is and you know what, she isn’t sick anymore and she is sitting on a big, puffy cloud with long flowing hair and looking down on you right now smiling.” He looked up at me and said “really” and then smiled. It broke my heart to think of all the things that she would miss in the physical sense, but I knew he needed to know about the stars and that this was the time for his star talk. I told him that mommy was now a big, bright star and she would shine forever. Whenever he wanted to talk to her, he just needed to go outside, find the biggest and brightest star and that was her looking down on him. He smiled again and simply said, “Ok” and went back to coloring. Two hours later, I finally finished Michelle’s obituary, picked out her funeral attire and tucked her son into bed. I talked with her husband and eased his fears, and hugged family, and shed a few trapped tears. Grayson fell asleep to Wonder Pets and I cried my eyes out on the way home; my sobs engulfing the car.

What did I learn that month after her death? Although death happened, life remained. It had to go on. Eggs were scrambled, toast buttered, school bags packed, and my own home chores and obligations met. Seasons changed, anniversaries and birthdays came and went. Blue balloons were held by four-year-old hands and floated to the heavens to mommies and bright starts. I had to sit down with Grayson one night to explain the clouds and that even though it was a cloudy night, the stars were still there, but just hidden. And, there was no need to have a gigantic panic attack in the bookstore parking lot. Death circled me for weeks like a buzzing bee that I was scared was going to sting me. I flung my hand at it and swatted it away at every chance I got. The months after my first real, death encounter, Grayson became OCD, and thought that if he even smelled a cigarette, that he would breathe it in and die. He became obsessed with expiration dates on food, and would ask his father and myself if it was ok to eat and if it would kill him. He clung to his blankets and special toys and searched for his own way to cope with no longer having a mother. I tried to imagine what it must have been like to have been a 3 ½ year-old boy, yearning for his mother’s warm arm crook to pull him in and inhale the smell of safety. He was so young and searched for his mother in every woman’s eyes he met. He once asked if little boys could get more mommies because his mommy was needed by God for good things. He needed a mommy again. I told him you only get one special mommy and even though you can’t see her, she is always there. Grayson once told me as he was preparing for his bath that mommy came to see him the night before. He had a beautiful grin upon his face and said it was wonderful. He said his mommy came to sleep next to him at night like she did when she was alive. They told each other stories and fell asleep under the cool, blue light of his space-themed nightlight. I asked if it scared him for his mommy to visit, and he said of course not. I think the beauty and the pain of a watching a child cope with a parent’s death, made me change the way I lived life. I cherished conversations with my parents more and loved my boyfriend with a ferocity that I had never showed before. I wanted to make sure I told my mom all the things she needed to know just in case.

It has been five years since Michelle died. Her mother died about a year later, and Grayson did much better with her death. He still struggles, but is doing great. I told him missing someone is ok to do all the time. It’s normal, and necessary to help you grow up better. I told him you need to always remember, because this keeps their memory alive. I think of this now when I remember and miss my mother and my father. I miss them every day, but like Grayson, I can go outside on a clear night, look up in to the sky, and see them again in the brightest stars.

Nostalgia and Grief

This past Christmas, I celebrated with Craig. We sat next to our Christmas tree and watched old videos of my childhood. I found several old, dusty, VHS tapes and had them made into DVD's. I came home, popped in the DVD's one after another and laughed, smiled, and shed a few tears. It warmed my heart to hear my parents’ voices, to see my mom and dad open Christmas presents and kiss by the tree in our living room. It was the same living room that last week I stood in alone vacuuming the dust and mold from the room. The same room that long ago held laughter and Christmas trees and now was void of life. Now all that lives there are 1972 rust colored-curtains and green carpet matted down from 45 years of memory. I stood in that living room, closed my eyes and prayed that when I opened my eyes up again, I would be that ten-year old girl opening up my cassette tape player, porcelain doll, and seeing mom and dad. When I opened my eyes, I only saw pain and heartache. I watched a video of myself putting my great-grandmother, Ada St. George's hair in curlers back in 1990. I also watched as I laughed with my Auntie Vilma, Uncle Frank and snuggled on a couch with my Auntie Betty. It was the first time I watched a video where most of the people in the videos have passed. I was blessed that I found such a treasure in my mom and dad's house. I watched my dad driving down the road as we were all huddled in our white, VW van at Emerald Isle, Beach. I watched as I swam in a pool and my mother leisurely sat poolside in a lounge chair and soaked in the sun and a book. My mother was a voracious reader and watching her reading soothed my scarred and hollowed heart. I saw my dad dressed in his best shirt and Miami Vice white had with the black rim at my brother's birthday party. I saw myself as a naive, young girl, with the world in front of me. I watched as I walked in the Frazier fir trees in a Vermont field behind my uncle's house and soaked in the warm, earthy smell of Lake Champlain and the silly warming laugh of my grandmother. I only cried a few times during this second Christmas without my mom and the first without my dad. I laughed more than I had in months. It was great to feel my chest full with the coolness that laughter brings my insides. I was afraid that laughter was never going to find me again. It is strange how much death has changed me. It has curved and reshaped the landscape of my memory. The layers of memories are wide and full and trying to help me fill the holes of grief.