Pathway Through Loss

Bertha Brannen

Description

In life, there will be many different losses. This book expands on the importance of acknowledging grief to move toward recovery. Storytelling is highlighted as a means of sharing our sorrows as we learn from one another. It is also the story of one man’s journey into dementia and the lessons he taught through his humor.

Sujets

• Biography
• Path
• Loss
• Dark
• Autobiography

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 07 mars 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669869542
• Langue: English

Extrait

PATHWAY THROUGH LOSS
 
Finding Hope in the Dark Valleys
 
 
REVISED EDI TION
 
 
 
 
 
 
Bertha Brannen
 
Copyright © 2023 by Bertha Brannen.
Library of Congress Control Number:
2023904125
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-6956-6

Softcover
978-1-6698-6955-9

eBook
978-1-6698-6954-2
 
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
Rev. date: 03/06/2023
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
850857
 
 
 
 
If my sister Alice had not been born, lived, and died, this book would never have been written.
As time has passed, I have realized that it was my father who showed me the importance of sharing our stories as they shine a pathway through life.
CONTENTS
Foreword
Alice Ruby
Death of a Spouse
What Is Grief
Community Grief Support Groups
The Grief Journey
Grief Timeline
Grief Is Physical and Emotional
Grief Is Spiritual
The Stages of Grief
Miscarriage and Abortion
Divorce
What to Say and What Not to Say
Suicide
The Death of a Child
When a Child Dies from HIV/AIDS
Estranged Adult Children
Journaling
I Hope You Cry
Children and Grieving
Toward Recovery
An Individual Journey
Covid-19
What if I Forget the Person Who Died?
Guilt
Grief Work
Everyone Grieves Differently
Looking for Answers
Losing a Loved One to Dementia
Things My Dad Taught Me
Dying Is the Difficult Part of Death
MAiD (Medical Assistance in Dying)
What I Will Miss When I Die
Attachments
References
FOREWORD
My husband George died on December 19, 1999, nine days before his forty-fifth birthday. I had been studying the journey of loss and grief following the death of my twenty-seven-year-old sister Alice in May of 1977. I had been presenting to health care groups on what I was learning about the topic. I felt I was prepared to process the loss of my patient, kind, and compassionate spouse. I was wrong. After that first week following my husband’s death, I became saddened by the silence from my family, friends (although not all), church family (all), and colleagues. I became aware that many grieving widows must have faced similar circumstances. I decided to do something about it. I started a community support group in February 2000. Little did I know then how much they would influence my personal journey toward recovery. The stories I wish to share with you are from lessons I have learned partly through the research and the courses I committed to over the years but mostly from the insight that came from the grieving and honest people who have shared their hearts. It is my hope that if you are grieving or if you are interested in helping someone understand grief, that you will be pleased that this book has found you. If you can find the energy to keep reading, I am confident you will discover words and small steps that will ease some of your pain.
ALICE RUBY
Alice Ruby, as she liked to introduce herself, was born the sixth child in a family of nine in 1951, in what would be considered an impoverished village by today’s standards. The scarcity of home luxuries was not noticeable amid strong family ties and a good dose of humor. Alice ran with the humor. She was a joy to grow up with. We shared the secrets of childhood as well as a double bed in our-hundred-plus-year-old home. I mention the house being old, recalling how our parents would warm pieces of wood in the oven on winter nights and wrap them in flannel diapers to be carried to the foot of our straw mattresses. We giggled at seeing our breath in the air before sleep and upon awakening.
Alice took multiple occasions to explain to anyone who would listen that she was the only child out of nine who had black hair because Elvis was her real dad. At age sixteen, she interrupted her schooling to care for our handicapped sister while our mom struggled with cancer. Following Mom’s untimely death, Alice returned to school. By age twenty-five, she graduated from a nursing program at the Halifax Infirmary. She returned home and secured full-time employment at the local hospital. She married her handsome high school sweetheart, who had built their new home, and their “happily ever after” life began. The spark in their relationship was sometimes illuminated by Alice’s determination to flirt. A vivid recollection of mine is her husband leaving her standing on the dance floor as she was pretending to have a toothache to gain the attention of the good-looking dentist dancing nearby. My memory files hold stories upon stories embraced by peals of laughter brought on by her antics. Her husband was not surprised when their first child’s head was crowning, between contractions, Alice said to the young family doctor, “At last, we meet face-to-face.” She had spunk. She was in love. She was happy. Before her son turned two, Alice was admitted to the local hospital with a diagnosis of pneumonia. The medical internist called me away from my nursing duties, asking to speak to me in the hospital stairwell. He explained he was fairly certain that Alice had Goodpasture syndrome, a rare autoimmune disease in which one’s antibodies destroy the membranes in the lungs and kidneys. As a registered nurse having practiced for several years, I had never heard of the disease. Her diagnosis was confirmed two weeks later, after she was transferred to the larger city hospital.
Alice spent many weeks in hospital for dialysis treatment, followed by respiratory and renal (kidney) complications. Following bilateral nephrectomy (surgical removal of kidneys), a procedure intended to slow the attack of her antibodies and hopefully prolong her life, she shared with a visiting aunt that she had her kidneys removed as toilet tissue was getting too expensive. Putting her humor aside, Alice was well aware that the health care profession avoided any discussion regarding unhealthy patient outcomes. She and I had accepted the surgeon’s decision to hide Mom’s prognosis from her and from my father. Mom entered the hospital for a hysterectomy and was found to be full of cancer. She died six months later. During her short illness and deteriorating health, we continued to reassure her that she was getting better. We ignored her questions about her illness by continuously changing the subject. Mom was forty-seven years old with four children still living at home. In 1969, it was OK to hide the truth from dying patients and from their families. If we don’t talk about it, nobody will get upset.
I was not surprised when Alice asked me if she was going to die and that she would not accept the usual nursing care plan answer, which was “Never upset the patient.” We embarked on an honest, painful journey that opened a space for her to share her emotions, including her fears.
Alice’s journey was a difficult one, and it affected everyone who loved her. Her young husband was by her side whenever he was not at work. In typical fashion, loss was expressed, or not, in as many different ways as there are individual personalities. Some tended to avoid the issue, depending on learned behaviors, societal expectations, or both. Although many family members and friends were open to talking about the challenges Alice faced, not everyone was prepared to share their own emotional roller coaster.
With a full and happy life ahead at age twenty-six, a terminal illness was the last thing Alice expected.
Facing her death was difficult enough. However, she would suffer multiple losses on the journey ahead.
She rarely complained. Loss of self-esteem often accompanies negative changes in body image.
Most of us have fretted over a bad-hair day or tried desperately to conceal a cold sore before presenting ourselves to the public. We have all heard apologies from people we meet, excusing their appearance for reasons not so obvious to us. Alice commented on her appearance as her disease quickly changed, and she became disfigured by puffiness, pale skin, weight gain and an exaggerated forward curvature of her neck and upper spine. She would stretch up out of her chair, lean closer to the mirror over her hospital bathroom sink, stick her tongue out, and ask the stranger looking back at her, “Chi s’que t’est toi? Et eyou s’tu d’vonne?” Who are you? And where did you come from?
Her courage often broke my heart. Alice lost all her ability to care for her young son. The home she dreamed about was too often being viewed from her bed. The loss of a dream for herself, for her husband, and for her family became her reality. She spent a lot of time in the local hospital for long hours of dialysis and weeks in the larger city hospital, a four-hour drive from home, away from the familiarity, comfort, and love of her family.
Privacy is next to impossible to maintain when under the care of a health care team. Alice required insertion of a needle in her groin. As common practice in the 1970s, hair removal was routine in the prepping of a sterile site. Alice asked the nurse if he could leav