Author: Julie Gentz

Metamorphosis

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

Trauma changes everyone, and I was no exception to that. It altered how I now see the world and my place in it. I understand my new reality means that there is no going back to who I was before death paid me a visit. Death. It was the life altering trauma that entered my life. It is impossible to go back to the life I had before Brian died. He is gone, and no amount of reflection, wishing, or trying can get me back to “The Before”. It is over. This is the present. Cheryl Strayed says it so well: “It is impossible for you to go on as you were before, so you must go on as you never have.”

April 1 marked three years since Brian died. The road to that day was a long, drawn out, rocky one, ending suddenly with an unexpected fall, leading to seven days in the hospital, followed by two days in skilled nursing, and finally three days at home on Hospice. After Brian died I talked to his neurologist, hoping for some kind of explanation as to what had happened. Unfortunately, the answer was more of a helpless sigh of resignation from the neurologist, who I knew wanted to be able to do so much more for his patients, but more often than not was unable to. The answer was, of course, that there was no solid answer. The best that medicine had the knowledge to hypothesize was that the Parkinson’s had simply reached, as the neurologist put it, the “tipping point,” where all of it was simply a perfect storm that served to accelerate the finality of the disease. It was precious little comfort for either of us, but that was just how it was. A part of me died with Brian that day, and who I was as a person changed. Sometimes the transformation into who I was after Brian died resembled a slow unraveling. Other times it felt violent and painfully abrupt. My mind was unable to focus. I spent a lot of time crying. Not just simple crying, but the ugly kind of crying that one does when it feels like their entire world has just fallen down around them. I found myself living in a fog where complicated thoughts, mental acuity, and the ability to accomplish simple, everyday things all seemed to fall prey to the abyss that had swallowed my world. In an attempt to protect me from overload, “Trauma brain, ” or “widow brain,” as it is often referred to, had taken over my mind, limiting what and how much of my world I could absorb. Most of the time I felt barely able to function. Looking back, there were more days than not that I was forgetful, confused, sad, and disorientated. Thankfully, today I can say that, even though I was often convinced I had been condemned to live in that unreal shadow world forever, slowly, often painfully so, my brain functioning has returned.

None-the-less, the safe little world I used to know was no more and would never be back. There was no way to un-know what I had been reminded of: People die. Not just other people but my people, too. Of course, on some level I already knew this. But, now death had visited me on a deeply personal level, I stood in front of the stark reality that this meant even someone I loved very much and who I felt I could not go on without was, and had been, fair game to die. No amount of work on my part, no matter how hard I tried, was going to change the fact that the world as I knew it, had just come to an abrupt and terrible stop. It’s a well-known, undisputable fact of life that things don’t always work out like we’d like them to. And so, there I was — living in a world where my worst fears had become my new reality.

Fast forward to today. I’ve been living in this new reality for three years now. Much effort on my part has been poured into writing, revising, and re-writing a new version of my life. I imagine that in some ways, I will be doing that for a very long time. Secondary losses will pop up as I am living this new life, and when they do, more rewrites will be required. More adjustments will need to be made. Going forward, my job is to remember that there is no way for me to anticipate these adjustments. Life’s script is always being altered, and, in order to move forward, I must be willing to live in the moment without looking back and wishing for what was but is no more.

Nothing ever turns out exactly as we expect it. Sometimes things turn out better, other times they take a sharp turn for the worse. I’ve learned to be gentle with myself when I get discouraged . . . which, I might add, is something that can happen quiet frequently. When I’m feeling overwhelmed I need to think like the educator that I am and “stop, take a recess, refresh, and regroup.”

In her book, “Different After You,” Michelle Neff Hernandez wisely says: “Though rewriting is often painful, the altered script may just be a masterpiece in the making.” I am excited to continue working on my masterpiece.

New Reality
Death barged its way into my life
and tore my whole world apart.
It changed my familiar reality
while it decimated my vulnerable heart.

My sense of self and who I was
seemed hidden away deep inside.
And as I searched hard to find it,
Grief took my poor soul on a ride.

I muddled my way through one year, then two,
until here I am  at year three,
wondering where I'm heading now,
while still learning to love the new Me.

I ditched Grief's wild ride the first chance I got.
The wounds  left by it slowly healing.
And it's feeling like things have taken a turn,
even though life can still set me reeling.

My heart's slowing crawling out from that dark place
and into the bright light of day,
where I know, once again, I can laugh, love, and hope,
because there's no way I'm letting Grief stay.
Julieanne Gentz



Learning to Turn the Page

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This past Tuesday, March 19th, marked the day three years ago that Brian fell, ended up in the hospital, and came home on Hospice, dying just three days later. It was a short journey, but none-the-less, one that seemed like it was the longest of my life up to that point. I know I had that day on my mind this Tuesday, as I woke up early and the significance of the day was the first conscious thought that crossed my mind. Even though I knew I shouldn’t do it, I let myself go down the “What if” road about the part I had played in what happened that day:  What if I hadn’t left him in the care of his helper and gone to check out a care facility for possible future options if he required a level of care I could not provide? Would my being there have altered the course of the day enough that he would never have taken that fall? If it had, what difference would that have made in the big picture? Would he have still died sooner rather than later, and perhaps from a fall that was some freakish accident where he split his head open on the garage floor like he narrowly avoided doing when we first moved here five years ago? Or maybe fell somewhere and lay there, suffering because I didn’t find him until later?  

Of course, I will never know the answers to those questions, nor do I really want to. Even though when I’m tired and sad, my brain sometimes tries to convince me otherwise, I know deep in my heart, it was not because of poor care or negligence on my part that he fell that day. And, yes, I could possibly have altered the course of events that ensued, but there is no guarantee that anything I’d have done differently could or would have made enough difference that he would have had a good quality of life. He may have lived longer, but the disease would still have kept rapidly progressing. It happened, and that is it. I never neglected to care for him in ways that preserved his dignity the best I could and that provided as much autonomy in his daily life as possible. Everything else was in God’s hands, not mine.

Rest in peace, my dear Brian. You lived a good life and touched so many lives in your journey here on Earth. God spared you from the situation you never wanted to find yourself in – living with no quality of life, which you said many times was something worse than death. Wherever your spirit is now I know that you are more than “fine” – you are free. And as for me, I’m learning to take all that life and you have taught me, working hard at moving forward with my life now, just as I know you would want me to, and I’ve come a long way from June 5, 2022, when I wrote the following prayer: 

Hi, God. It’s me again. I know you see me struggling, trying to deal with all that life is throwing at me right now. Thanks for still believing in me and being patient as I muddle my way through this. I know that I can’t dwell in the past and wish things had turned out differently. Neither can I worry about what might or might not happen in the future. While I’m not doing a very good job with any of that right now, I know in my heart that you have a plan for me, and despite my doubts, it will all work out. Help me to have the patience and trust to wait for that. Mend my broken heart and restore a sense of order to my messed-up life. Provide me with the direction I need to find my way forward, writing new chapters in my book of life. Put people in my path that will help me in that direction. I don’t know how I’d make it through this without you. Thank you for making Brian a part of my life. It truly changed me, and I feel much more equipped to continue authoring my book of life because of that.
                        				 Amen.

So, today, as I remember Brian’s journey homeward, I’ll shed some tears for what I’ve lost, but mix them with a smile for having had the opportunity to know and love him, not just as a beautiful, caring person, but as a loving husband as well. In my grief work I’ve read a lot of great advice, and this quote seems fitting to end these thoughts with

  “Though no one can go back and make a brand-new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand-new ending.”
                                  Carl Brand

I hope the next chapter I write in my book of life makes me as happy as this last one was.

                 Here’s to precious memories and new beginnings.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.co

Hunting the Good Stuff

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment 
Kiss Joy As It Flies

He who binds himself a joy 
Does the winged life destroy.
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise.
~Wm Blake

Each day I try  to listen to a mediation. Sadly, I often don’t do a very good job of that. However, sometimes when I do manage to sit for my mediation time,  I get lucky and come across one that really speaks to something I’ve had on my mind. That’s what happened to me a few weeks ago when this one popped up, centered around the above poem by Wm. Blake.

The narrator of the meditation that day, Jay Shetty (on the Calm app.), suggested that this poem addresses a different way of relating to joy. Instead of trying to hold onto fleeting moments of happiness as we so often do, his thought was that we simply do as the poem suggests – appreciate each moment as it quickly flies by us. Doing this, he said, can help us not be as vulnerable to the ups and downs life presents us with each day. My immediate thought was, “I’m all for that!”

Think about this for a moment: Do you find yourself  equating “being good at coping”  as automatically translating into making you happy? As it turns out, experts have discovered that a lot of us do. However, the meditation said that to truly be happy  we have to be able to appreciate life’s good moments, no matter how small those might be. To build positive emotions we have to learn the skill of “savoring the moment,” not looking toward what we might be able to gain in the future.  The premise of this is that if we savor each moment, we can learn to build up our reserve of positive emotions and promote optimism in our lives. Fred Bryant, a leading social scientist who has studied the concept of savoring the moment, says: “Being able to handle negative events in ways that reduce stress does not guarantee one will experience positive events in ways that promote well being.” Even if we are good at coping, that does not guarantee that we will be happy. In order to experience happiness we have to be able to appreciate life’s good moments. We can savor experiences by  reminiscing about something, enjoying experiences as they occur, and anticipating the future. If we learn to savor, we are more able to build positive emotions, be more confident and gratified, more optimistic, and feel less hopelessness  (F. Bryant, “Savoring Beliefs Inventory [SBI]: “A Scale for Measuring Beliefs About Savoring,” Journal of Mental Health 12, no.2 [2003], pp 175-96).

Sounds like something I’d like to do, and I bet you are thinking the same thing. If you, like me, have noticed that humans seem to be hardwired to notice bad things more readily than they do good ones, you would be exactly right. To help counteract that tendency, Karen Reivich, an internationally recognized expert in the fields of resilience, depression prevention, and Positive Psychology, has come up with a strategy that she calls “Hunt the Good Stuff,” or HTGS for short. It is a simple technique that can be used to promote positive emotions, gratitude, and optimism. Reivich uses HTGS as a part of the Comprehensive Soldier and Family Fitness Program that she and her colleagues have introduced to the US Army . The goal of the program centers around focusing on three good things that happen during your day and noting the role that you played in them. By doing this you get to experience the benefits of positive emotions twice from each thing that happened in your life. When you reflect on good things that happened in the course of your day, it turns out that you essentially double  the time you spend experiencing positive emotions – and you don’t even have to change or add anything to your day! A good example of this is when you pick up your child from school and ask them what the good things were that happened in their day.  In order to answer you they must actively “Hunt the Good Stuff.” And, in doing this you have triggered them to reflect more deeply on those good things, remember  more about moments that made them smile, and in the process, reexperience the positive emotions they felt earlier in the day. (https://www.armyresilience.army.mil/ard/R2/R2/Create-positive-emotions.html)

Interestingly, the study showed that people who could do this on a consistent basis reported greater levels of happiness and decreased symptoms of depression for up to six months afterwards. It turns out that cultivating a habit of noticing the good things in life helps increase your quota of daily positive emotions. (M.E.P. Seligman, T. Steen, N. Park, and C. Peterson, “Promoting Psychological Progress: Empirical Validation of Interventions,” American Psychologist 60. No.5 [2005] pp 410-21)

April 1 will mark three years since my husband died. In that time I have been down many new roads, some of which were obvious mistakes, some that were dead ends, and others that have taken me to new places and people that have helped me find my way around the unfamiliar and often strange landscape that is now my life. Along the way I have found that the more I condition myself to savor the moment and Hunt the Good Stuff, I not only can find acceptance of this new way of life that I have been catapulted into, but have been able  to cultivate a sense of renewal and peace. I am not only able to more fully appreciate cherished memories of my life before Brian died, but also savor each of those moments in my new life that are helping to shape who I am today and where I am going.

I encourage you to join me in Hunting the Good Stuff. For a list of resources to learn more about how you can utilize HTGS in your life, simply Google, “Hunt the Good Stuff.” I promise you won’t be disappointed.

Say My Name

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"A name pronounced is the recognition of the individual to whom it belongs. He who can pronounce my name aright, he can call me, and is entitled to my love and service."

— Henry David Thoreau.


Our name has power. Far more, in fact, than most of us realize. It is our identity. We like to hear it said aloud. Even more than that, we love it when people address us by name. Dale Carnegie, American writer and lecturer, has gone as far as saying that our name is the sweetest thing we can hear. Search the web for articles on the importance of our names and you’ll find there’s a lot of agreement on this. One site I visited likened using someone’s name to “adding a sweet cherry on top of a conversation.” (goodmenproject.com) It turns out, when you call a person by name, it shows that you see them as someone other than a random stranger.  In fact, hearing our name said aloud even creates a positive link towards the speaker. Hearing others say our name, can make us feel seen, valued, and establishes a personal connection. Still better, when we hear our name spoken it activates the brain’s reward system, which then releases the pleasure hormone, dopamine. In the end, this simple act enhances our mood and reinforces positive feelings.

All of that goes a long way towards explaining why it means so much when someone important to us addresses us by name. However, as with most things, there are some exceptions. I recently read a meme on social media that said, “I am convinced that the sole purpose of a child’s middle name is to let them know when they are in trouble.” Think back to when you were younger and, in a stern no-nonsense tone, one of your parents addressed you either by name, or worse yet, your full name. If you were like most of us, it was hard to fight the urge to run and hide. Yes, tone of voice and accompanying facial expressions are important too!

One of the best explanations I found of why our name has such power is that, from the beginning or our life it is “our tag” -- the thing that is always with us. It is what others “tug on” when they want to get our attention. Even if we are already engaged in a conversation, when someone says our name we will stop talking and turn our head towards them. They’ve effectively “tugged our tag” and gotten our attention, and, their tone and context will determine how we remember the way hearing our name made us feel.

The last time I heard my late husband say my name was not the way anyone wants to remember hearing how something was said, much less by someone they love. He called my name for help when he took the fall that started the downward spiral, which, 19 days later would end his life. I heard him loudly call my name, in a scared and urgent tone. And that was it. After that I never heard him say my name again.

I can’t tell you how many times I wanted, just one more time, to hear him call my name in the way he did when he walked in the door, when he admiringly told me how nice I looked, or when he said goodnight at the end of the day. In those first weeks and months I spent a lot of time at home alone, trying to figure out who I was without him in my life after all those years and how I would navigate life now without him in it. In that time, I desperately wanted to be seen – seen not as a widow. Not as someone to be afraid to talk to because it was hard to know what to say to me. Or worse yet, as someone deserving of pity. I wanted to be seen as me – Julie - Whoever that was that I had become with his death, but also the person that I had always been and who was still there, buried underneath all of the sadness. I wanted to hear my name and know that I was still alive, and that, while his death had changed me, no one had “stolen my tag.”

In one month, I will hit the three-year mark since Brian’s death. If you have been reading my posts since I first started this blog, you have watched me struggle with despair, confusion, anger, and uncertainty. And, as the months turned into years, I hope you have seen me learning to smile and finding my way back to life.

Even before Brian died, I knew that everyone is a work-in-progress, and until the day we die, life will change us. It will bend us. Break us. Make us laugh and make us cry. And it will take all of our experiences and skillfully mold them into who God has planned we will be. Because, after all, He is the original creator of each of our tags.

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; you are mine!”
                        Isaiah 43:1

All You Need Is Love

/ Julie Gentz / 3 Comments 
It's one of my favorite days of the year: The day after Valentine's day . . . when you can buy all the chocolate you want (or there about!) for half price! And, while I will admit, it carries a greater significance when given to you by someone special, none-the-less, chocolate is chocolate (at least in my book!) But, I digress. This site is not about my affinity for chocolate. Rather, it deals with my journey since the death of my husband -- experiencing it, coping with it, and learning to make peace with my grief and move forward with life. 

So, let's talk about Valentine's Day. It's one of those holidays preceded by lots of hype. The odds of one running into some sort of reminder of the day seem to be everywhere: On TV, social media, in the stores, and sometimes even on the evening news. So add all of that to the preponderance of emotions that accompany it, it's no surprise that someone grieving the loss of a spouse can easily find themselves feeling even more lonely when a day centered solely on love rolls around. Let's face it -- emotions are always complicated, and love seems to have an especially tenacious grip on the heart. 

I will say, however, that while I don't dislike Valentine's Day, for the last five years of my husband's life, as his Parkinson's and eventual dementia progressed, there were no Valentine's expressions of caring from him. That is, unless I arranged for a friend or caregiver to "take him shopping." So, while I missed the personal attention he put into making sure there were flowers, or at least a card on the day, it was enough just to have the gift of him there with me. On April 1 it will be three years since he died. I've learned a lot about life, and about myself in that time. The bottom line is this: Life isn't fair. I knew that before, but death reinforced it. Nothing I can do or wish or pray for can change the fact that he is gone forever. However, I am still alive, with the rest of my life story still ahead of me. When I ask myself what he would want me to do, the answer is he'd tell me to move forward with my life and keep writing the rest of my story. And, in my book, that's what love looks like.

What does love look like to you? There are a million ways to show love. I think the answer to the question of how each of us sees it fits right into one of my favorite sayings from young children: "It's exactly the same, only different!" Continuing to follow that thought on the wisdom of children, let me end with some very wise quotes about love from the segment of humanity that pretty much tells things like they see them --- children. 

-"Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other."

-"Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs."

-"Love is what makes you smile when you're tired."

-"Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK."

-"Love is when you kiss all the time. Then when you get tired of kissing, you still want to be together and you talk more. My Mommy and Daddy are like that. They look gross when they kiss."

-"Love is hugging. Love is kissing. Love is saying no sometimes."

-"Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it everyday."

-"Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well."

-"Love is when mommy sees daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford."

-"Love is like a blanket -- it wraps you up in warmth and keeps the scary monsters away!"

Now, it’s time to go out and find that half-price chocolate!

Making Room in Your House For Life

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In my search for meaning after Brian died, and in an attempt to try to get a grasp on what is going on in my life now, I have read books, books, and more books on grieving; joined online grief support groups; and tried to learn as much as I could about where life has put me. Recently I came across a wonderful website called “The Heart Way” (theheartway.org). There is a lot of good food for thought here, as well as events you can participate in free of charge. And, since we have just finished the Advent/Christmas season, there were, of course some thoughts about surviving the busy schedules this time of year seems to demand, along with the pressure we feel from our culture that we need to be joyful — regardless of the personal and emotional cost that might bring.

We are reminded that death, like birth, is part of the cycle of life. However, while birth is accepted as a natural part of life, a majority of us avoid thinking about death as “a natural, accepted and honored part of life.” Viewing death in this way keeps us from being able to think about what it is we need to do to be at peace with death when it inevitably enters our lives. We lull ourselves into thinking that we will always have more time: more time to be alive, to live our lives to the max in the time we have left, even though we are clueless as to whether that is measured in years, months, days, or even minutes. Personally, I never wanted to even think about death, much less talk about it. I can remember coming home from my parents’ house one Christmas, a silent tear sliding down my cheek as I realized that the time I had left to celebrate with them was growing ever shorter with each passing year. Then, just as I had feared, one day they were gone. And now, not only are they gone, but my husband is gone as well. Which leads me to the bottom line — one day I will be gone, too. So, no, there will not always be more time to chase my dreams and fulfill my obligations. I, like everyone and everything else in this life, come with a built in impermanence. It is because of this very thing that, despite all of the obstacles that seem to stand in my way, I need to strive to remember the privilege it is to be alive. To live this one precious life to its fullest in the time allotted to me . . . however long or short that may be.

The article ends with this wonderful poem by Jelaluddin Rumi that uses the metaphor of a guest house to remind us how to put our life in perspective.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they are a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice. Meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

Putting My Faith Before My Fear

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment 
Here it is, January 15th, and I am posting a piece I wrote on New Year's Day and had planned to post the next day. Obviously, that didn't happen, but, what else is new, right?! It still has a lot of good thoughts in it, and I'm hoping that in reading it, you will find something that helps you, too.

January 1, 2024

Sometimes it seems like only yesterday since Brian died. Yet, other times, it feels like it was so very long ago. So here it is, New Year’s Day . . . the third time that I have started a new year, knowing that he wouldn’t be in it with me. 2023 was eventful in many ways. Probably the most significant of those was the loss of my sister-in-law, Pat. At the request of my youngest brother, I traveled to Colorado at the end of September to be, as he put it, “emotional and moral support.” His reason: “Because you are one of the few people I know who really understands how I’m feeling right now.”

About a year ago, Pat had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s — the very same disease that took her mother at an early age. When Pat turned 50 she had a celebration with her girlfriends because she had made it to the age when her mother was diagnosed. There was no sign of her nemesis and she was still “OK.” Fast forward to 2022, and at 62 she found herself thrust into that scenario she had so hoped to avoid. And, as if the rapidly advancing Alzheimer’s wasn’t enough, in the spring of 2023 the doctors found colon cancer. Things were going along as good as could be expected given what she was fighting. Then, just when things looked like they might be making progress, she was diagnosed with stomach cancer as well. Treating one made the other worse. She spent most of her time in the hospital, becoming sicker and weaker each day, and more and more confused as well. Her family never left her side. Eventually, they made the decision to bring her home on Hospice. And this is where I entered the picture. We all knew, that like Brian, when she came home she did not have much time left. Like him, she last only five days, and though heavily sedated and, for the most part unresponsive, it was obvious that she none-the-less had been granted her wish — spending her final days on this earth in the place that she loved, surrounded by those she loved most — her family. And, after the good times had been remembered and the final kisses and goodbyes had been given, in the quiet the early morning, she slipped peacefully through the veil between this world and the next, leaving behind her disease and her suffering . . . and those who loved her dearly.

I’m going to be honest. When my brother asked me to come, I was hesitant. And scared. I knew I would find myself stepping back in time two and a half years ago to Brian’s death. I knew that I would again find myself waiting for death to knock on the door, and for an earthly life to end and a heavenly one to begin. I was afraid of how I would react. I wondered if I could mentally and emotionally handle it all . . . again. Trust me, I did my best to convince myself that I shouldn’t go, but I was never able to make that stick. As terrified as I was, as much as I wanted to leave all those memories behind me and not relive them, I still went. I went because my brother asked me to come. Because I knew the drill. And, because of all those things, I knew that I had gifts that needed to be shared, and this was the time to do it. It felt to me that maybe, helping others through grief was turning into “my thing.” And though it is still confusing to me, in the end, I decided that if God thought I could do it — which he must because he kept sending me to things like this — then who was I to question my ability?

Over the past two and a half years following Brian’s death, I have been doing the hard work of carving out a new path for my life; of navigating the grief ambushes and finding my way out of the darkness of death and back into the light of life. I’m getting better at finding smiles, laughter, new friends, and a renewed sense of purpose. I know that I am moving forward — forging a new path. However, doing things like this visit are still difficult and make painful memories bubble to the surface, causing tears to fall. But I have noticed that the tears have changed from the early days of my grief. Instead of floods of tears that are accompanied by heartbreaking sobs and feelings of despair and hopelessness, they are quiet tears, gently tracing cherished memories of days gone by as they quietly slip down my cheeks. They come . . . and they go, and they don’t stay for very long. That is progress.

All of this is not what I imagined my life would be like at this point. It’s nothing I ever wanted, much less thought I would be capable of doing. Still, here I am, doing it. By posting on this blog, by sitting with others in their grief, and by sharing what I have learned, I am paying it forward. I am making a difference, and that helps me find meaning and acceptance where once there was only disbelief and denial; smiles where there was once only despair and sadness; and peace and comfort where there was turmoil and discontent.

I’m grateful and honored that my brother requested my presence at such a sacred moment in his life. It’s something I will treasure forever. I don’t know exactly where it is that I am headed right now, and I may not even know I have arrived when I get there. But I know in my heart and in my head that I am on a new journey and making a difference along the way. And for now, that’s good enough.

Happy New Year, and “May God bless us, Everyone!”

New Year — New Me

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

Like a tiny newborn babe, the New Year is just nine days old, full of possibilities and opportunities. I spent a lot of time this past Christmas season just trying to figure out what day it was! But, I have also been doing a lot of reading and thinking about the now well-worn path I have been traveling for the past three years. I’ve found myself doing a lot of soul searching and discerning just what direction it is that I want to steer this ship aptly named, The Rest of My Life. I’ve spent a good share of the time since Brian died navigating the treacherous waters of the Sea of Grief. I’ve gotten lost in the fog; struggled to hold on and keep the ship afloat when the waves crashed over the sides, careening across the deck and threatening to sweep me overboard. I’ve stopped and put down anchor at unfamiliar places that appeared along the way, hoping to find at least a portion of what I was looking for . . . without truly knowing what that “something” was. During each of those stops, I’ve met many interesting people. People who I’d never have met had I not (unwillingly) set forth on this journey of loss and confusion, with no map, no compass, and often not even so much as a North Star to guide me. I have come to know and love people who have become important to the ME I am now. Looking back, I see how each person who has touched my life these past three years has played a role in helping me find my way to where I’ve landed today. I am — a person forever changed. I have grown wiser; am grateful for the little things. I have learned to look forward to second chances with a renewed joy, and appreciation for the opportunity to live, laugh, love, and make a difference in my little corner of the world.

I’ve always collected favorite quotes. Some speak volumes to me. Some make me cry. Now just seems like a good time to share some of them with you. They remind me that my feelings of sadness, confusion, and uncertainty after losing Brian are not unique; that others before me have felt the same. They speak to my heart as well as my mind, and give me the strength to keep on living and loving life. I hope they bring peace and hope to you in this New Year of wondrous possibilities, and that you also make 2024 “the year that you come back”!

~”The passing moment is all we can be sure of; it is only common sense to extract its utmost value from it.”

W. Sommerset Maughan

~”Life is like a beautiful melody, only the lyrics are messed up.”

Hans Christian Anderson

~”Don’t be afraid to take big steps. You can’t cross a chasm in to small jumps.”

David Lloyd Judge

~”Love doesn’t sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.”

Urusla K. Le Guin

~”In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.”

Albert Einstein

~”The highest motive is to be like water: Water is essential to all living things, yet demands no pay or recognition. Rather, it flows humbly to the lowest level. Nothing it weaker than water; yet for overcoming what is hard and strong, nothing surpasses it.”

RAO-TE- CHING

~”The grand essentials to happiness in this life are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.”

Joseph Addison

~Hope is the thing with feathers, That perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words and never stops at all.

Emily Dickinson

~Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Rainer Maria Rilke

~Experience is what you get when you don’t get what you wanted.

Anonymous

~What happens to us is less important than what we make of what happens to us.

Anonymous

~The fact that nothing lasts is the reason everything matters.

Anonymous

When Life Gives You Lemons . . . Make Lemonade

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment 
Sometimes it seems like only yesterday since Brian died. And yet other times it feels like so very long ago. So here it is, a New Year's Day . . .the third time that I have started a new year, knowing he'd not be in it with me. 2023 has been an eventful year in many ways. Probably the most significant was the loss of my sister-in-law, Pat, in Colorado. At the request of my brother, I traveled there to be, as he put it, "emotional and moral support" . . . because "You get it." I was, he said that I was one of the few people he knew who could really understood what he was going through. His  wife was dying and didn't have long to live. About a year ago, she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, the same insidious disease that took her mother, at far too young of an age. What made this even sadder was that Pat had fought both colon and stomach cancer in the last five months of her life as well. Like Brian, her family brought her home on Hospice. And, like him, she lasted for just four days, quickly declining more and more each day. Even though she was heavily sedated and, for the most part unresponsive, she spent her last days on this earth in the place that she loved, surrounded by the ones that she loved. And in the quiet hours of the early morning, she peacefully slipped through the veil and crossed from this world to the next, leaving behind her disease and her suffering . . . and those who loved her dearly.

I'm going to be honest: When my brother asked me to come, I was hesitant. And scared. I knew I would find myself mentally stepping back in time 2.5 years ago to  Brian's death. That I would again be waiting for death to knock on the door, for one earthly life to end and a heavenly one to begin. I was afraid of how I would react. I wondered if I could mentally handle this . . . again. I tried to convince myself that I shouldn't go, but I couldn't make it work. As afraid of it all as I was, as much as I wanted to leave all of those memories behind me and not relive them, I still went. I went Because my brother asked me to. Because I knew the drill. And, because of all those things, I had gifts that I needed to share. It felt to me like maybe helping others through grief has somehow turned into "my thing." And, though it's still confusing to me, in the end, I decided that if God thought I could do it -- which He must because he keeps sending me to things like this -- then who was I to question my ability? 

Over the past two and a half years following Brian's death, I have been doing the hard work of carving out a new path for my life. Of navigating the grief ambushes and finding my way out of the darkness and into the light. I'm getting better at finding smiles, laughter, new friends, and a sense of purpose. I know that I am moving forward. However, doing things like this are still hard and make painful memories bubble slowly to the surface, still causing tears to fall. But I have noticed that the tears have changed from the early days of my grief. Instead of floods of tears that are coupled with heartbreaking sobs, they are quiet tears now, gently tracing cherished memories of days gone by down my cheeks. They come and they go, and  they don't stay for long.

All of this is not what I imagined my life would be like, and it's nothing I ever wanted, much less thought I'd be capable of doing. Still, here I am, doing it. I'm paying it forward. I'm making a difference, and that helps me find meaning and acceptance where once there was only disbelief and denial; smiles where there was once only despair; and peace and comfort where there was turmoil and discontent. I'm grateful and honored that my brother requested my presence at such a sacred moment in his life. It's something I will treasure forever.

I don't know where I am going, and may not even know when I have arrived, but I Know that I am on a new journey and making a difference along the way. And, for now, that's good enough.

Happy New Year, and "May God Bless Us Everyone."



The Day After Christmas Revisited

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

Some would think that it’s a little late for “Merry Christmas,” but around my house I believe in celebrating the 12 Days of Christmas. My husband was a Lutheran pastor and this was a big deal for him: Four weeks of Advent first, then Christmas Day, the 12 Days of Christmas began. In case you don’t know the story, here it is (credit to Google):

“The Twelve of Christmas are more than just a beloved Christmas Carol. In Christian theology, the 12 days mark the time between the birth of Christ and the visit of the Magi, the three wise men. Beginning on December 25th and running through Epiphany, Jan. 6, sometimes called Three Kings Day. The ‘Twelve Days of Christmas” was written in code to teach catechism to young Catholics during a period in which people could not openly practice their faith in England. There is something else too few people realize about the 12 Days of Christmas — the first day starts on Christmas Day!“

I realize that I am a little late in posting something about Christmas, but in the spirit of it’s 12 days, I am going to revisit the post I made at this time of year in 2021, my first Christmas without Brian. Re-reading it I can see that, during this season of joy and happiness, I have come a long way in learning how to deal with his loss. I thought that perhaps it would resonate for some reading this blog who are new to here and may have missed it the first time around. I am now on Christmas #3 without Brian, and while it gets easier, it will never be the same as it was with him, and that is how it should be. I have new dreams to dream, new experiences to enjoy, and a life to live fully each and every day. He will always be with me in spirit each Christmas, and every day after that for the rest of my life.

I don’t know about you, but the build up to Christmas Day has been a tough one this year. The closer it got to the day, the harder it was to continue faking that “jolly Christmas spirit” that is expected of everyone, unfairly, even for those of us who are grieving the loss of a loved one. Bear with me while I give you a little background to my train of thought behind my post today. When I met my husband, Brian, nearly 30 years ago, I had just finished going through a messy divorce. I was a single mother of four children, ranging in age from 17 to 5, and my only source of income was my teaching salary. Needless to say, funds were tight. I’d met Brian in the summer, and by Christmas we pretty much considered ourselves a couple. I did not bring many of my Christmas tree decorations with me, and definitely did not have the money to go out and buy new ones. In fact, I didn’t even know how I was going to buy a tree. One afternoon, early in December, Brian showed up at my door with a beautiful real tree! He helped us set it up and it was even more beautiful than it looked when he brought it our door! I decided that it would be fun to make our own decorations for it, so my children and I spent countless nights making ornaments and stringing popcorn and cranberries to create a garland. The result was an amazing tree, filled with so much love in so many ways. So, this Christmas, as I was thinking about what to do to decorate the large evergreen wreath I had placed at his gravesite, I remembered that wonderful tree and the garland we made for it. It didn’t take long to decide that, on this first Christmas without him, reprising that garland for the wreath would be a fitting tribute to the love he showed for me that first Christmas we were together. So, since Mother Nature seems to be on the wrong calendar page for what is supposed to be December in Iowa, and it had been 53 degrees yesterday, with no snow on the ground, and it was still in the 40’s today, I thought it would be a perfect time to make the hour drive to the cemetery and decorate the wreath. After I was finished, I had a heartfelt talk with Brian, cried, and told him how much I loved and missed him. I asked him to help me get through this terrible loss, and, from time to time, to let me know he was there for me. When I got home, I sat down and the poem that follows is what I wrote. I had a strange feeling of peace after writing it, and I am going to credit him with providing that, as well as the inspiration. I hope that you are also finding ways to navigate the stormy seas of grief that rise up and flood our souls during holiday times such as Christmas. Much is expected from those of us who have already given so much that there is often precious little left over. But we are strong, and the love we still hold for our spouse will help us make it through it all, if only we will let it. Hugs.

‘Twas the day after Christmas and the house was so still.

The tree lights were glowing, yet the air held a chill.

The presents were opened and piled in a chair,

while the memories of yesterday still filled the air.

The guests had all gone home to where they should be,

and normally that would just leave you and me.

There we’d be, cuddled together, up close to the fire,

a tradition of which we never would tire.

But this year was different because God called your name

and you left us for Heaven, and now nothing’s the same.

When I look at the table, at your empty chair,

I know that you never again will sit there.

Your stocking is gone from the fireplace, too.

So much that I see brings my mind back to you.

Then the longer I stood there, the more that I thought

not of things that still could be, but of things that could not.

“Please stop. You know better!” I could just hear you say.

“You know that we will all be called Home someday.”

No, it never is easy, and it feels so unfair

when the one you love is no longer there.

But that love IS the answer! Yes! That love is the key.

If you keep it inside you, it will set you free!

Take your time with your grieving. It’s Ok to go slow.

Just remember, I’m with you wherever you go.

Live your life and be happy, and whatever you do,

don’t forget, here in Heaven, there’s a place for you, too.

       Julieanne Gentz, December 26, 2021

Lonely or Simply Alone?

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment 
It's a dark chocolate caramel sea salt candy, accompanied by a glass of red wine kind of night. I'm sure you've had those kinds of days/nights too. There's a lot of reasons for this particular one. For starters, it's winter and the lights in the sky get turned off way too early for my liking. I just finished up the end-of-semester marathon grading for the online class I taught, and I'm tired, which, for me, makes everything look worse. Last, but certainly not least, I'm only six days away from spending my third Christmas alone. So, the quote at the top of this post is quite appropriate. Because, I am still trying, and no, I am not "over it," (the "it" being Brain's death). However, I am still trying, and I'm making progress. It's just that sometimes I get stuck. Which is what's happened and why it has taken me two weeks to get this post together. Finding my bootstraps and pulling myself up is harder on some days (and during some holidays) than others. 

Interesting quick note about me: I have been keeping journals for about 32 years now. Some are more comprehensive than others, like the two years when I was clawing my way through a divorce, but then others are a bit sketchier. You can tell when I am going through a stressful time in my life, because it is then that I write. It has always been my best "go-to" therapy. I met my late husband, Brian, in July of 1992. For the entire year before that I had been locked in a messy divorce and custody battle with my first husband. I wrote every night. In fact, last summer I finally complied and published the poems I wrote during that time. I also did a lot of journaling and writing during the Pandemic when I was a caregiver for my husband and the whole world outside my front door was dangerous and turned upside down. Then, one year later, Brian died and, again, it was time to try and write myself out of the deep, dark hole I seemed to be in. 

Today I was leafing through some journal pages, looking for a particular writing, when I came across an entry from June of 1992, just one month before I met Brian. The theme was a familiar one: survival. Survival was my quest as I tried to stay afloat during the divorce, then when Brian and I got married in 1994 and put our blended families together, and yet again in 2020 when survival was a theme for all of us as we blindly made our way through the Pandemic. Little did I know that I would be catapulted into that mode for the last 2.5 years as I keep working to not only survive but thrive after Brian's death. Today, as I read what I had written so long ago, it struck me how, even though the fine details were very different than they are this time around, the goal is still the same. . . make peace with the past and move forward with my life. I decided that that old journal entry from was worth sharing, so here it is:

"I feel like a survivor -- a survivor of one of the toughest years of my life. Summer has settled down upon me like a blanket of peace, and I gratefully accept the shade it affords me from the heat of the months past. I plan to bask in the blissful ignorance of doing practically nothing for a good share of the summer. I can already feel the magic of summer shower down and settle upon me like fairy dust. My flesh tingles, my mind revels, and desires in me long hidden rise to the surface. I afford myself the luxury of reading books for no other reason than enjoyment. I block out afternoons to sit at the pool and let the sun rays bring energy to my worn-out spirit. The summer sun warms not only my body, but my heart as well, and I can feel the healing begin. Yes, I am a survivor, but barely. Too many nights I have fallen asleep with tear swollen eyes. I have survived verbal assaults designed to control and defeat me. I have found my self-esteem bruised and dying, lying in the gutter, and I have brought it back to life. I have made peace with being alone and have learned that loneliness is a state of mind, not a punishment. I have come to understand that love, grief, and hate come in many forms and wear many faces. I want to make love my constant companion, grief a precious memory of love, and hate only a distant relic of the past. I know not to ask or expect more from others than they are willing to give. But most of all, I have learned that I can survive. That I am strong. That I am special. I have learned to love ME, so that in doing that, I may learn to love others, too."
       ************       ************       ************       ************
Fast forward to September of 2021. Brian died in April and my world had come crashing down. Once again I found myself in survivor mode. I wrote this poem and used it with  a post from that month, but speaks to me still, and bears revisiting.
Survivor
Hidden deep inside me
is something most people can't see.
It's a part that I've always kept hidden and private,
a part known only to me. 

It comes from a place in my being,
from the spot that makes me feel whole.
It sings the songs of my spirit, 
plays the music of my soul.

I know that it's always been there, 
deep inside, locked safely away,
secure from the eyes of others
for fear of what they might say.

So, if the ME that you see now seems different,
you're right -- life's carved out a new path.
And those hidden parts kept me going --
helped me live, helped me smile, helped me laugh.

And I'm finally OK being different.
Meeting Death changed my life in a flash.
And the Me that crawled out of its wreckage
is the Me that's survived the crash.


 
So, as I continue to work my way through this Christmas season, I need to remember that I am the one who decides if I am "lonely" or simply "alone." If I let my mind flip into "Poor Me" mode, it will work to convince me that I am lonely, and that the only thing that will fix it is what I cannot have -- Brian back in my life. Difficult though it may be, I need to alter my state of mind. Instead of being lonely, I must settle for the explanation that the condition I find myself in is that I am alone, and that I have the power to alter that by finding others to be with. It's a challenge, for sure. But you know what? I'm confident that I'm up to it.

This is not the first time I have dealt with grief, nor will it be the last. I am sure that at some point going forward I will need to activate survival mode again. However, I've done my homework and while surviving grief again might not be fun, it is doable. Meanwhile, this Christmas, I am granting myself the gift of grace, and acknowledging that, while Brian won't be physically with me, I can always find him smiling at me, if I just look into my heart.


The Holidays

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

It’s Thanksgiving. That means “The Holidays,” as we’ve learned to call them, are officially upon us. Even when we are at our best, this holiday season of now through Christmas Day, can sometimes be difficult . The expectations, the merriment, the memories, can make us feel like the fly, stuck in a spider web. And it seems that whatever we do to try and extricate ourselves only makes matters worse. There is that empty place at the table, as well as in our hearts. Memories and traditions that remind of what we have lost seem more vivid than usual, and seeing those around us happy leaves us feeling alone. It’s not easy to do, but we have to try and flip the narrative from one solely of loss to one of memories that keep our loved one alive in our mind, and that continue to fill our hearts with joy and gratitude.

Meanwhile, while we grapple with all of this, perhaps the following recipe will sound familiar to one that you know by heart. Remember though that it’s not only the careful attention to the recipe that counts, sometimes it’s the extra little touches that you add before serving that make all the difference in the world. This Thanksgiving, I hope you were able to serve your recipe for grief “smothered in love and compassion and garnished with a sense of peace.”

Recipe for Raw Grief

From the Kitchen of Theresa's Heart
Serves: One

ingredients:
1 heaping cup disbelief                 8 ounces anger (substitute
1 tablespoon reluctance                  feeling misunderstood)
 to say good-bye                        2 teaspoons agonizing guilt
16 oz. excruciating pain                3/4 cup embarrassment
3 cups brutal sadness                   1 quart loneliness
2 tablespoons confusion                 Dash of untimely and needless
 (substitute questioning)
1/2 cup obsessing

Directions: Preheat oven to 1,123 degrees Fahrenheit. In a small bowl, mix disbelief with reluctance to say good-bye. Next, trim platitudes from excruciating pain and discard. Use mixture to coat pain. Cook in scalding cast-iron skillet until blackened. Set aside. Fill large pot with tears and bring to a boil. Lower heat; pour brutal sadness into pot and cover. Allow to simmer for weeks. When sadness is numb, remove from heat and drain tears from pot. Stir confusion and constant obsessing into sadness and set aside. Use mallet to pound anger until tender. Cut into bite-sized pieces. Fry in pan over high heat with agonizing guilt and embarrassment. When anger turns red, remove pan from heat. To assemble, spread pain into bottom of baking dish. Layer on the sadness mixture, then cover with anger, guilt, and shame. Top with loneliness. Season with untimely and needless. Place in oven and bake until loneliness turns to intense longing. Let sit for a lifetime.

NOTES: Pairs well with absolute fear. Best served smothered in love and compassion (may need assistance). Garnish with a sense of peace.

From "Grieving Is Loving" by Joanne Cacciatore, PhD (pp. 21 -22)

Checking Progress

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

In April of 2022 I wrote this letter to myself:

A Love Letter to My Old Life

Dear Julie,

I guess you might say that this is a “Dear John letter” to myself, as I am writing to say good-bye. Good-bye to who I was before Brian died. Good-bye to so many things that are now forever gone. This new world I find myself in is strange, confusing, and quite foreign to me. I am working diligently to adapt, and, yes, even to thrive. 
For 27 years, the world that Julie lived in was shared with another. Each morning there was someone to say “Good Morning” to at the breakfast table and, at the end of the day, someone to share those little bits of daily minutia that only couples care about. There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and a voice on the phone. The shared laughter of a funny story and arms to comfort when things got rough. And now that is all gone. And the world is lonely and quiet. Nothing is the same except the ticking of the clock and the slowly passing days on the calendar.


I notice how the former Julie doesn’t fit into that old life anymore. The 24 hours that make up each day seem much longer than they really are. Each new day, when I look in the mirror, I am reminded that, while outwardly I may look the same, truly, inside, where it counts, I am not. My world has changed, and to move forward, I must be part of that change. And so it is that I am writing to tell you good-bye as I embark on this new journey, leaving the old Julie behind and becoming better acquainted with whoever it is that I am now.


In the past 15 months since Brian died, I have learned so much. I’ve learned to appreciate the little, everyday things that I took for granted – things that are now gone forever: The tears and the heart aches; the hopes and the dreams; the missed opportunities; the familiarness that can only be understood by all those years of living, loving, and learning together. Every new day each of us is given 24 precious hours. And each day, no matter how we choose to use our time, seconds turn into minutes, then into hours, then days, and eventually, a lifetime. Sadly, we seldom stop to remember how fragile and fleeting life is . . . until it has suddenly ended for someone we dearly love.


While it’s been a rocky 14 months since this change began, I’m wiser now, and I still have life to live. To live that life, I’ve learned the importance of patience, perseverance, and self-love. I know could he talk to me, Brian would tell me not to let his death debilitate me for life. So, even though so much of who I was is gone, I realize that there is still so much of who I am becoming to be discovered and experienced – so that is what I will try to do. Thanks for getting me this far, Julie. I’ve got this. I’ll take it from here.

Love, 
Julieanne

A day ago I wrote this. I am both amazed and proud of myself that I have come this far in this amount of time, and I fully intend to keep moving forward. Hopefully, you will decide that, too.

I met an old friend today!
It was so good to see her again.
I hadn't seen for about five or six years.
We've been friends for as long as I can remember, she and I.
But, I was really worried I'd never see her again.

I met an old friend today!
She's changed a lot since I last saw her.
Still, she's got that same smile that I'd recognize anywhere.
I've been thinking about her a lot lately, 
wondering how she was doing, how life was going for her.

I met an old friend today!
While there's a lot that's still the same about her,
there's much that has changed, too, but in a good way.
Time does that to us all, I know, 
and life can put us through some pretty tough stuff sometimes.

I'm so thrilled that I met my old friend today!
It felt so good to see her.
I hope I don't have to wait so long to see her again,
but only time will tell, won't it.
I'm just happy that she showed up again at all.

You know, she looks a lot like me.

Listening for the Meaning

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment 
I'm sure it's happened to you: You wake up in the morning and there is a song running through your head. Or maybe, like me, you've woken up in the middle of the night and you can't get a part of a song to stop running on loop through your brain. Scientists would tell you that you are experiencing an "earworm." And, as it turns out, they have an explanation for this phenomenon. An article in the July 15, 2023 issue of "Wired" magazine discusses a theory which says that when our mind is free to wander (say, at night when we're sleeping), it might land on a song that we've heard many times and, consequently our neurons have stored it away in the archives of our brain. These earworms have a fancy scientific name, too: INMI, or "involuntary musical imagery." Certain kinds of music are more likely to get stuck than others, such as anything that is simple, repetitive, and easy to sing or hum. (Think "Itsy Bitsy Spider.") Certain emotional states can also make us more prone to earworms. Leading contenders in this category are being tired, anxious, overworked, or stressed. Simply put, earworms are a form of rumination, fueled by our minds getting stuck in "reflect" mode -- a place where those of us who have lost our spouses often find ourselves.

However, another article, entitled "The Magic of Waking Up With a Song in My Head" that I read on the site "Medium" (lanadragonivy.medium.com) has an explanation I like better. The author, Lana Dragon-Ivy, says that she considers these "earworms" a gift, because it is her subconscious speaking to her. She's found over and over that the songs she hears running around in her head offer her a message about something inside of her that she might not have even been aware of. It could be something in the lyrics or perhaps the feeling or memories the song brings to mind, or it could be both. I think that for me, the lyrics that I have running around in my head lately have everything to do with my continued attempt to readjust, reframe, and restart my life after Brian's death. Even when I'm sleeping, and unaware of it, I am still looking for answers.

The inspiration for all of this is an earworm that keeps playing over and over in my head at night. It's a piece that I'm practicing at my voice lessons, called "When Your Feet Don't Touch the Ground," from the musical "Finding Neverland." The musical is the story of Sylvia, a young widow whose husband dies from cancer, leaving her a single mother of four young boys. She meets a gentleman, Sir. James Matthew Barrie, who turns out to be someone who relates well to her boys and becomes like a surrogate father figure to them. He is himself a boy at heart and tells the boys a story about another boy who doesn't want to grow up, naming him Peter, after one of Sylvia's sons. There is, of course, a more complicated plot that runs throughout the story, but, in the end, it turns out that Sylvia has a mysterious illness and dies. After her funeral  Sir Barrie is sitting with Peter on the park bench where they first met, and these are the lyrics that Peter sings -- the lyrics that keep running through my head: 

"When did life become so complicated? Years of too much thought, and time I've wasted. And in each line upon my face is proof I fought and lived another day. When did life become this place of madness, drifting on an empty sea of waves of sadness? I make believe I'm in control and dream it wasn't all my fault. When your feet don't touch the ground and your world's turned upside down, here it's safe, in this place, above the clouds. When your feet don't touch the earth, you can't feel the things that hurt, and you're free; there's no need to come down."

And, while I don't feel, nor never have felt, that Brian's death was my fault, and I have come a long way from those first months of despair and abject sadness, I still sometimes find myself unceremoniously "drifting on an empty sea of waves of sadness." And I think that my writing is what keeps my feet from touching the ground, so I can escape a bit, above the clouds, away from the things that hurt. 

Getting back to science, it suggests that the best way to rid your brain of an ear worm is to finish the song. I'm not there yet, but I'm working on the lyrics for the rest of my song, the verses without Brian in them. It's a slow process, but at least I know I'm on my way. And I do so love to write.

So Close But Yet So Far Away

/ Julie Gentz / 1 Comment 
                     Sunday, October 29, 2023

Dear Brian,

It's getting close to the first of another month, and it's a Sunday. Both of those things make me think of you. In just four days it will be November 1, and you will officially have been gone from my life for 2 1/2 years. Part of me wonders how it can be so long ago already, yet, at the same time, I find that each passing day seems to take you further and further away from me. Like so many things since you died, I'm often not sure what is real and what is not. I know that I will never forget you, and I know that I will be OK, that life will go on. But sometimes, like today, it feels like I am stuck between two worlds: The "Before World" with you in it, and the "Now World" without you. 

I've made progress though. I'm moving forward, doing the only thing that makes sense -- living my life, trying hard to make the best of it. And, while most of the time I do a good job with it, I do sometimes wonder what it would have been like for you if the tables were turned and I was the one who died. It comes down to two scenarios: One where I want you to miss me, be sad I am gone, feel that a huge part of your life and your heart were missing; and the second one where you miss me and wish I'd never died, but decide that you have to go on living, put your life together, maybe even fall in love again. But, like everything in life, there are two sides to every story. Yes, I would want you to miss me, but I certainly would not want it to ruin the rest of your life. And, yes, I would want you to be happy, even if that meant you found someone new to spend your life with. It is truly hard for me to wrap my mind around the concept that your earthly life has ended, and my life here no longer has any bearing on you. So, I guess it turns out to be not an "either/or" scenario, but a combination of the two: You would be sad and miss me, and like me, you would feel like a part of your life and heart were missing. But, like me, you would know that you had to keep moving forward and living your life. And by doing that, it  didn't mean you would forget me: It just meant that I would always be a part of who you had become, and what would go with you would be the memory of the love that we shared. And, so, while my heart still breaks that you are gone, and there is an empty spot in my life, I have come to the conclusion that this is the price one pays for love.

So, I'm writing to tell you, that yes, life has been hard since you died, but I'm getting better at adjusting. At first there were days when I didn't want to go on. When I didn't think I had the strength to. When it didn't even seem worth trying. But I kept on going anyway, even when it didn't feel right. And here I am today, missing you, but feeling like I am finding a purpose in my life again...a purpose because of who I am now for having had you in my life for 27 years.If I had to choose between loving you and losing you or never having known you at all, I would always choose the way it has turned out. I will not let myself get stuck in grief, so I am learning to live with heartbreak, and I am moving forward. Even though you are gone, there will always be part you that is molded into who I am today. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
                          Much love -- always,
                                  Julie

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Living with a Broken Heart

Remember what the Tin Man said in the "Wizard of Oz" after he finally got a heart-- "Now I know I've got a heart because it's breaking."

If someone you love died,
your heart is probably broken.

So how do you live with a broken heart? The answer isn't how you fix it or move beyond it.

The skill is learning to live with your grief as an ongoing way of being in the world.
It's the way you honor that which you love.

What I'm proposing is that, with enough healing, living with heartbreak can become natural, and very normal.

From my personal and professional experience, I can tell you that as you embark on your healing journey,
you'll start crying a whole lot more.
Not just to clear pain, but for the simplest of everyday reasons, and out of nowhere.

You'll cry when you see a bird, a can of paint, an apple, or even the shape of a cloud.

Random things will make you cry.

The heart is designed to grieve, it wants to grieve . . . it has to grieve!

Especially when it is broken.

This is the price you pay for love.

The loss of the life you thought you had, the life you once knew and held so dear.

Loss of a dream you believed was true.

But you can also find and feel grief in opening your heart.

Opening it to love and new possibilities. Opening it to what the future holds.
Isn't that what life is all about?
Endings and beginnings, closings and openings?

The heart was designed to navigate you through this forever winding adventure called life.

But you have to be willing to feel . . . and to live with a broken heart.

Here's the thing . . .you can learn to live with your broken heart by befriending your grief.

You can discover the love that still exists around you . . . and share that love with others who are also living with a broken heart.

Gary Sturgis — “Surviving Grief”