Author: Julie Gentz

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

+

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”

A Journey Back to Self: Part 1

/ Julie Gentz / 2 Comments
Details

“The death of someone or something we love changes us. There is no going back to the person we were before this life-altering experience. We will never be that version of ourselves again. No amount of effort or reflection or mental gymnastics will return us to our pre-tragedy self.” Michelle Neff Hernandez, “Different After You” (p. 15)

I recently read a post on Facebook by a friend who talked about the changes they were making in themselves. They talked about how they were learning not to be so judgmental and self-critical. Reading about their journey of self-discovery and being kind to themselves made me think back to 1991 when I was going through a contentious divorce from my then husband of nearly 20 years. We lived in a small town of less than 3,000 in a rural setting. I was the one to move out of our house and the the three of our four children who were still at home came with me. To say that all of this stressed me to the max would be a gross understatement. I left feeling broken, inadequate, manipulated, ugly inside, and overall just a loser for having failed. Fast forward to 1992 when I met Brian, my late husband. He made me feel valuable, loved, worthwhile, and beautiful inside and out. I started to believe that just, perhaps, I truly was the wonderful person he thought I was. That left me with the year in-between to wrestle with. The year where I’d set off on my own, with three children. My life was lived on pins and needles, being tormented by mind games that I felt myself being continually sucked into. Each night, exhausted, I sat at the dining room table in my small rented house, crying and journaling my way through what I now know was grief over the death of a relationship I had planned on lasting a lifetime. Writing was not just my therapy, it was, in the end, what saved me. It kept me sane. It gave me hope. While my mind struggled with feelings of inadequacy, fear, and low self-esteem, my heart took me on a journey of self-renewal and self-love. I now realize that in order to fall in love with Brian as I did, I first had to fall in love with myself again. So, here I am now, 2.5 years after losing Brian, trying for all I am worth, to fall in love with myself again. Ironically, I find myself on the same journey I was when I this poem, all those years ago. And, while I may not be there all the time, with each passing day I am getting closer to loving the Me that I am now.

First Love

I really think that I'm falling in love --
I honestly think that it's true!
I like this feeling it's giving to me.
For me it is something quite new.

My love is quick-witted, attractive, beguiling,
exciting, successful, and smart.
My love's learned to laugh, to cry, and to play:
To think with the head and the heart.

To stand on both feet and face life day-to-day,
to be proud of what they've grown to be.
It's a wonderful feeling, this being in love,
for you see, I've learned to love ME!

Julieanne Gentz
February, 1993

Sacred Moments

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

Today is Saturday, September 30th. Yesterday I flew from my home in Iowa to Centennial, CO, a suburb of Denver, to be with my “little brother” as he, along with his children and grandchildren, began the long walk home with his wife/their mother, who had just begun her transition from this world to the next. I am not going to lie: I didn’t want to come. Not because I didn’t think it was important, because it IS. Not because I was busy and had things to do, even though I did, but I know all too well that death waits for no one or no thing. I didn’t want to come because 2.5 long/short years ago I made the same walk with my husband, Brian, and I was worried about how serious opening that wound would be. And I was scared, And I didn’t want to revisit old memories of Brian’s death. But I told myself I was strong. That my presence, even only for a few days, with my brother and his family would not only benefit them, but also me. It would allow me to take a gut-wrenching, traumatic experience and use it to give back to people I dearly love, while honoring the life of my sister-in-law at the same time.

So, here I am. And is it hard? Yes, very. But, guess what? It is more healing than it is hard. When time has begun to heal the wound left by your loss, and you begin to distance yourself from the event that started it all, the specter of death begins to drift back to the shadowy part of your memory, as well it should because we don’t need to fixate on that every hour of every day. But when you meet death again in body of a loved one or friend, you are reminded of its reality, and of the preciousness of each breath you take. Of each sunrise you are blessed to see. And you experience a going back and moving forward at the same time. You realize that you know death intimately, yet you survived. You have learned that grief is an expression of love. So it’s time for you to be an example for others left behind to mourn that life after death is complicated and painful, but doable and rewarding. That it provides you with a new perspective fueled by beautiful memories, and a love, that though drastically altered from its original state, will be with you always as your guiding light leading towards your own journey home someday. And, when given the chance to share that, it’s yet another gift that cannot afford to pass up.

The following exquisite piece of writing came across my FaceBook feed this morning, and it just had to be shared. Big hugs to everyone reading this. You are a survivor, and you are amazing.

Expected Death –When someone dies, the first thing to do is nothing. Don’t run out and call the nurse. Don’t pick up the phone. Take a deep breath and be present to the magnitude of the moment.

There’s a grace to being at the bedside of someone you love as they make their transition out of this world. At the moment they take they last breath, there’s an incredible sacredness in the space. The veil between the worlds opens.

We’re so unprepared and untrained in how to deal with death that sometimes a kind of panic response kicks in. “They’re dead!”

We knew they were going to die, so being dead is not a surprise. It’s not a problem to be solved. It’s very sad, but it’s not cause to panic.

If anything, their death is cause to take a deep breath, to stop and be really present to what’s happening. If you’re at home, maybe put on the kettle and make a cup of tea.

Sit at the bedside and just be present to the experience in the room. What’s happening for you? What might be happening for them? What other presences are here that might be supporting them on their way Tune into all the beauty and magic.

Pausing gives your soul a chance to adjust, because no matter how prepared we are, a death is still a shock. If we kick right into “do” mode, and call 911, or call the hospice, we never get a chance to absorb the enormity of the event.

Give yourself five minutes or ten minutes, or fifteen minutes just to be. You’ll never get that time back again if you don’t take it now.

After that, do the smallest thing you can. Call the one person who needs to be called. Engage whatever systems need to be engaged, but engage them at the very most minimal level. Move really, really, really, slowly, because this is a period where it’s easy for body and soul to get separated.

Our bodies can gallop forwards, but sometimes our souls haven’t caught up. If you have an opportunity to be quiet and be present, take it. Accept and acclimatize and adjust to what’s happening. Then, as the train starts rolling, and all the things that happened after a death kick in, you’ll be better prepared.

You won’t get a chance to catch your breath later on. You need to do it now.

Being present in the moments after death is an incredible gift to yourself, it’s a gift to the people who you’re with, and it’s a gift to the person who’s just died. Their just a hair’s breath away. They’re just starting their new journey in the world without a body, and in the room they’re launched in a more beautiful way. It’s a service to both sides of the veil.

Credit for the beautiful words — Sarah Kerr, Ritual Healing Practitioner and Death Doula: Death Doula Beautiful Art by Columbus Community Death Care

The Silent Scream

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment 

During the pandemic I saw a Facebook post showing a sign at a theme park in Japan that read: “Please scream inside your heart.” At first glance it looked like a bad translation of the request, “Please don’t scream out loud when you get scared on this ride.” At the time I saw this I was a 24/7 caregiver for my husband whose Parkinson’s Disease suddenly seemed to be on an increasingly rapid, downhill spiral. And, while feeling that I had been working on “screaming inside my heart” because of this, it occurred to me that this obscure little phrase also had profound meaning for the unprecedented times in which we found ourselves living when the pandemic entered our lives. 

Perhaps you, too, have experienced this “silent scream.” Thinking back over my lifetime, I can remember a time or two when I was so scared that even though every inch of my body said, “Scream!”, I found myself incapable of uttering a sound. Truth be known, many of us have probably had moments when we’ve experienced this “silent scream phenomenon.” Life as a care giver had already unceremoniously tossed old routines out the window, replacing them with complicated regimes of endless therapies, doctor appointments, pill schedules, fatigue, and burnout. Then, just as I had begun to adjust to “care giver normal,” along came COVID. Once again life’s routines were altered, replaced by social distancing, sheltering in place, and isolation from family and friends. While this unwelcome incursion of the pandemic into life added to the complexity of being a caregiver, Brian’s death a year later became my own private pandemic. It felt for all the world like the rug had been pulled out from under me again, throwing me to the floor, wondering how I would ever get up.

Thinking back, it seems to me that, surrounded by fatigue, doubt, and grief over so much of life that seemed lost, the silent scream had begun to creep into my body, slowly rising to a deafening roar and taking up residency inside my heart on the day that Brian died. Every day since, its constant drone has been the background noise in my life, reminding me, and me alone, of how much I lost. How alone I was.

Grief is like that, I've learned. It’s a scream that broke my heart, but that I wasn’t going to let break my resolve. Eventually I learned to pause. To close my eyes. And to just simply breathe. Now, two and a half years after Brian’s death, this silent scream has taken on an entirely new meaning for me. While its cacophony is somewhat quieted by the passage of time, I know it will still, in some small way, always be with me. But learning to live with it has brought me to the realization that I still have life that needs to be lived. So, even though I know that scream will still rise to the surface sometimes, I am learning to live with it. And on those days that I hear it a little too loudly, I’ll keep telling myself, “You’ve got this!” And life, and I, will go on.


                             And this silence
                             without you
                             is like a scream
                             only my heart
                             can hear.

                             Edward Lee

Loop Correction

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment

“Compassion is the thing that leads you gently back to yourself.“

Merle Shain

The other morning, I made myself sit down and do my meditation and devotions before I did anything else. Before I even did anything on my phone except my mediation app. This is not my normal morning routine . . . unfortunately. I am usually trying to do at least two things at once, because I can get more done that way, right? Wrong. Turns out that is faulty thinking. Science has shown us that there IS no such thing as multi-tasking because our brains are not wired to do two things at once, much less three or four. Brains can be working on more than one thing in the same span of time, but doing all of them at the same time is just not possible. It’s the old “start/stop/start/stop” routine, and, to feel productive we just tell ourselves we are multi-tasking.

I don’t know about you, but personally, I get stuck in the same endless loop over and over again. I’ll be doing something and then remember, “Oh! There’s this other thing I need to do, too!”, and before you know it, I have a whole raft of things going. None of which I will probably finish, or if I do, I won’t finish them well. In trying to feel “caught up” I just keep getting myself further and further behind. The inevitable result is always that I find myself stuck in the never-ending loop of just one more thing to do, and I eventually wind up feeling like the figure at the top of this page: frustrated, exhausted, and very stressed, batteries missing. And, since Brian died almost 2.5 years ago now, I can see that, even though I vowed not to, I have often used this “busyness loop” as a form of denial/escape. The result? I am feeling buried, too, only literally buried alive in too many things to do with no time to just “be”.

As luck would have it, this morning’s meditation was entitled “The Caring Loop.” It began by asking the listener if there was a secret to emotional and mental health. Of course, that would be too easy, right? And the correct answer here is, no, there is no secret. The quick fix we are looking for does not exist. It turns out that the solution is so simple that it is hard: We need to tap into the basic human satisfaction that we get, not only when we help others, but also when we make the conscious effort to nurture ourselves. So, I decided to do a little self-evaluation of how well I do at this. The question I asked myself was: How well do I apply the positive feedback loop that I get when I show care for someone/something to myself? I seem to do my best thinking in metaphors, so I loved it when the meditation leader suggested comparing this to taking care of a house plant — only this time I am the houseplant. Do I make sure that I have enough of what I need to nurture me to keep myself alive and vibrant? What does that look like? Is it reading a good book, talking to friends, going on a long walk? Of course, I knew that our minds and bodies need a break from always doing, doing, doing. That this is not a good loop to find one’s self stuck in. But, when the meditation leader said, “Sitting and doing nothing is a way to move from that constant busyness and into a loop of self-caring where we can experience the subtle satisfaction that comes from caring for ourselves.” (Jeff Warren, Calm), I knew that I had a lot of work yet to do. It was obvious to that this certainly is not my current way of doing things. Truth be known, I don’t do nearly enough of this. In fact, I hardly do it ever at all. And the reason? Because I tell myself that I don’t have the time for that. Obviously, however, I am not alone in this, or there would not have been a need for this meditation topic. And, yes, I agree that I need to do more than simply notice that I should pry myself out of the busyness loop occasionally, slow down a bit, and do a better job of taking care of myself. Will that be hard for me to do? You bet it will. But, just like all the other things in life that seem difficult to do, but whose results are beneficial to me, the more I notice even the subtlest sense of satisfaction in caring for myself this way, the easier it will become to not only do it more often, but to sustain it.

Will this be easy for me? Absolutely not. Am I worth the work it will take to remove myself from the busyness loop I seem to be perpetually stuck in? You bet I am! And the lesson that this meditation taught me is: The more that I consciously tune into this positive intention of making a spot in my over-scheduled life for the loop of self-care, the stronger it will get and the more grounded I will be.

While it may not be a “hidden secret,” it is an important change that I need to take in order to find my way back to a life I want to live — and one that I will not only enjoy, but where I will also thrive. One thing I know for sure, I need all the help I can get, especially from myself, to stay on the path to healing and renewal. Thanks, Jeff Warren and the “Calm” meditation app, for reminding me of the value of spending time in “The Caring Loop.”

“My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.”

Maya Angelou

Whose Packing Your Parachute?

/ Julie Gentz / Leave a comment
Photo by Ankit Pathak on Pexels.com





We all have to pull the cord and deploy our parachute sometimes to help us make safe landings when we face struggles and trials in life. When that moment comes, it’s important to have people in our lives that “pack our parachute” — the people who help us make it through tough times in so many unsung ways. Life is busy and we don’t often stop to think about who those people are or the little things they do for us that make a big difference. When we are grieving, these people and the light that they shine on the dark spots in our lives, are even more important. Stop for a minute and ask yourself, “Who in my life are the people that pack my parachute?” And then ponder how the little things they do and say help you make “safe landings” in the treacherous landscape of grief. While you’re doing that, I’d like to share a true story about Charles Plumb entitled, “Your Parachute.”







Charles Plumb, a U.S. Naval Academy graduate, was a jet pilot in Vietnam. After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb ejected and parachuted into enemy hands. He was captured and spent six years in a communist Vietnamese prison. He survived the ordeal and now lectures on lessons learned from the experience.





One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at an other table came up and said, “You’re Plumb! You flew jet fighters in Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. You were shot down!” 





“How in the world did you know that?” asked Plumb.







“I packed your parachute,” the man replied.





Plumb gasped in surprise and gratitude. The man pumped his hand and said, “I guess it worked!” Plumb assured him, “It sure did. If your chute hadn’t worked, I wouldn’t be here today.”





Plumb couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about that man. Plumb says, “I kept wondering what he might have looked like in a Navy uniform: a white hat, a bib in the back, and bell-bottom trousers. I wonder how many times I might have seen him and not even said “Good morning. How are you?” or anything, because, you see, I was a fighter pilot and he was just a sailor.”





Plumb thought of the many hours the sailor had spent on a long wooden table in the bowels of the ship, carefully weaving the shrouds and folding the silks of each chute, holding in his hands each time the fate of someone he didn’t even know.





Now, Plumb asks his audience, “Who’s packing  your parachute? Everyone has someone who provides what they need to make it through the day.”





Plumb also points out that he needed many kinds of parachutes when his plane was shot down over enemy territory — he needed his physical parachute, his mental parachute, his emotional parachute, and his spiritual parachute. He called on all of these supports before reaching safety.





Sometimes in the daily challenges that life gives us, we miss what is really important. We may fail to say :hello”, “please”, or “thank you”, congratulate someone on something wonderful that has happened to them, give a compliment, or just do something nice for no reason. 





As you go through this week, this month, this year, recognize people who pack your parachute.
(https://www.indres.com/news/who-packs-your-parachute-a-true-story-about-charles-plumb)





There are angels all around us 
     that help us through each day.
They bring us joy and  lift us up.
     They help us find our way.

The little things they do for us,
     the caring that they show,
might very well be helping us 
     in ways we do not know.

A loving hug, a cheery smile,
     a soft and gentle touch.
All of these are healing things
     that mean so very much.

Kindness really is a gift
     we can practice every day.
For the love we hold within our heart
      is always best when its given away.
Julieanne Gentz


     


			

	


			
				


	

							
Memories
						

			 / Julie Gentz						 / Leave a comment
								

			


		

		






It’s early morning,  and, yet again, thoughts are running through my head that are begging me to put them into words. This time it happens to be song lyrics (with the melody, of course!) that have woken me up. When yesterday turned into a rainy day, my overall mood seemed to follow suit. Sometimes, as I continue to work my  way through grief, I find myself straying off the path and sitting down with memories for awhile. Gray, rainy days can be like that for me sometimes. So, to no surprise, that is where I found myself yesterday — sitting down in an inviting grove of memories, trying hard not to stay so long that I forgot my way back to the path leading to happiness. I guess that this morning’s early  writing prompt was a result of that very thing.





The song I had stuck running  through my head on a loop, was “Memories” from the musical, “Cats.” In particular it was these three verses that permeated my sleeping mind:





Memories, all alone in the moonlight
I can dream of the old days
Life was was beautiful then
I remember a time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again.

Daylight, I must wait for the sunrise
I must think of a new life
And I mustn't give in
When the dawn comes, tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin.

Touch me, it's so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun
If you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is
Look, a new day has begun.





Memories. They seem to thrive in the quiet. In the times when my mind has spots that are unoccupied, leaving memories a place to quietly slip in and, for a bit, stop me in my tracks. One would think that two years into this journey I would have come up with a better way to cope with the grief ambushes that I find have caught me off guard and put me at a tipping point, but it doesn't always work like that. However, I am happy to report that I am getting better at handling them. I don't fight them. I just let them come . . . play themselves out . . . and leave as quickly and quietly as they came. I don't like the alternative -- getting stuck in the ugly swamp of grief -- so I've learned not to allow myself to go there.






Going Forward
Life is for the living, as are memories of those who have gone.
It's our job to keep moving forward, to engage in life and go on.

That doesn't mean those we've lost don't matter. Neither does it mean we forget.
It just means we have things here to do. God has more plans for us yet.

So, with courage and love as our power, we move forward through life on our own.
Just because we can't see those we love, doesn't mean that we do this alone.

The love that we shared is still with us. We carry it deep in our heart.
And though our loved one is gone from our sight, we're never that far apart.
Julieanne Gentz

			

	


			
				


	

							
There’s No Place Like Home
						

			 / Julie Gentz						 / 3 Comments
								

			


		

		






July 5, 2023





“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home,” says Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz,” as she clicks the heels of her ruby slippers together three times and magically finds herself back home in Kansas. What I wouldn’t give if “going home” could be as magical and as simple as that. The old saying says, “Home is where the heart is,” but for a very long time now, I have not at all been sure where home would be, or if a broken heart can even have a home. And what I need right now, more than anything else, is a place that my heart, mind, and soul can call “home.”





I’m not talking about the actual physical structure we call our home. That is easy to find. I am there every day … alone. No, what I am missing are all the things that go with a love story of 27 years that turns that man-made structure from a house into a home. Things like knowing what made my husband tick. Or the silly, mundane things that we talked about each day — the things no one else cared about at all. It was knowing that there was always someone who had my back. Someone who would support me, without question, no matter what the personal or monetary cost. It was, in the end, that warm sense of familiarity, security, and rapport that just seemed to happen with no apparent effort on either of our parts. Things that happened because then, when I knew what “home” was, it was just the way things worked. 





But, for the last two years since Brian died, there has been no more of that. Things that had seemed to automatically just happen, because, well, that was how it worked, now just don’t exist at all. Everything I counted on has changed to “what was.” Every last thing has changed. Things like his smile across  the table at mealtimes. The one without words that said, “This is great! Thanks for making it!” It was his hand placed softly in the small of my back that silently conveyed the message, “I’m here. Don’t worry. I’ll support you. It’s all good.”  It’s the hugs that helped me through all the tough times, and celebrated all of the good times. It’s the feel of his body next to mine each night, that not only warmed me physically, but reached into my heart and soul, warming them as well. Simply put, it is all of the familiarity. The routines. The predictability. The unconditional love we shared.  Those are the things that for me were “home.”





So, yes, I want . . . no, I need to go home. My heart aches for an idea that can only be a sweet, unreachable memory now. All are memories now: The things we shared that grounded me and gave me a sense of security and the feeling of being home. Home in body, mind, and soul.





In the end, I try to remember that it took us 27 years to grow together as husband and wife, and I can’t expect my poor, broken heart to heal overnight.





Do you know?
Have you not heard?
He gives strength to the weary
and increases the power of the weak.
Even youths grow tired and weary,
and young men stumble and fall;
but those who hope in the Lord
will renew their strength,
They will soar on wings, like eagles:
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.
Isa. 40:28-31
   ``````````````````````````````````````````





Be strong now because
things will get better.
It might be stormy now,
but it can't rain forever.
Anonymous 







Photo by Gelgas Airlangga on Pexels.com




Sometimes when you're in a dark place you think you've been buried, but you've actually been planted.
```` Christine Caine

			

	


			
				


	

							
Keep On Keepin’ On
						

			 / Julie Gentz						 / Leave a comment
								

			


		

		






"There are no happy endings, endings are the saddest part.
So give me a happy middle and a very happy start." 
~~ Shel Silverstein







Resilient Grieving by Lucy Hone, PhD, and The Grieving Brain by Mary Francis O’Connor are two of the many excellent books on grieving that I’ve read to date. Resilient Grieving struck a chord with me when it talked about acceptance. The author says; “Accepting the reality of the loss is one of the essential tasks of mourning. Other tasks are to process grief’s pain; to adjust to a world without the deceased; and to find an enduring connection with the deceased, while simultaneously embracing a new life.” (Resilient Grieving, pp. 45-46) In my mind, that’s a lot to do simultaneously any day, but with a still slightly foggy, not functioning at full capacity widow’s brain, confusion could certainly be the result of trying to juxtapose  all of these things. And, perhaps the complexity of that is why I often find myself confused, not really being able to put my finger on any one specific thing that’s causing it. Does that ever happen to you? 





I am pretty confident that at this point, two years and two months out from Brian’s death, I have accepted the reality that he is, indeed, gone forever. In The Grieving Brain, Mary Francis O’Connor,  points out that the reason it is so difficult to accept/come to terms with the fact that our loved one  will be gone forever is that when we fall in love or care deeply for someone, the physical structure of our brain literally changes! That wonderful, amazing piece of gray matter in our head actually creates new pathways, new connections, for  the people we love. The good news/bad news about this is, those new neural pathways — they never totally go away. They never totally  disappear. That means that, even though they are not physically with us, a very real piece of our deceased love one always still lives on in our mind. The bad part is that it is a long, slow process for our brains to realize that the connection with that person has inexorably changed, That they are no longer alive. And, while the brain understands, “I’ll see you next week,” or “Three months is a long time to not see you, but I know you will be back,” it has no understanding of the concept of “forever.” So it’s no wonder it has taken me so long to come to grips with the fact that Brian is forever gone physically. But, it certainly is nice to know that he will never, ever be “out of sight, out of mind.” My brain will see to that.





That leaves me with the other two adjustment tasks I need to master on my way to living with resilience: “adjusting to the world without the deceased” and “finding an enduring connection with the deceased, while simultaneously embracing a new life.” It feels to me like I am doing a decent job of processing the grief and pain caused by losing him, and I can honestly say that I am not letting it (totally) call the shots in my life. I say ‘not totally’ because sometimes it does try to do that, but I seem to somehow manage to throw myself a rope and keep climbing out of the grief pit. And, while I frequently lose my footing and slip a bit, I don’t go all the way back to the bottom like I used to. What I am struggling with the most is that last one, the “finding the enduring connection” and knowing that Brian will always, always live on in my mind. I mean, on some level I know that.  Though, it is still a little disconcerting that he was a real person that I could touch and hold, but now and forever he can only be a very special memory. 





Still another thing that I’ve been thinking about lately is the similarity, in some ways, between the grief of losing your spouse and the grief mixed with rage that happens when one goes through a divorce. Thirty-one years ago I went through a divorce. Having my former husband disappear from my life forever was exactly  what I wanted — to never have to see him again. I used to fantasize about how good my world would be without him in it at all. But, unfortunately, that’s not how it works. Ironically, I now find myself at the exact opposite end of that spectrum, realizing that now I AM going to live my life without my husband in it. Only, I’m sorry, Universe, you’re way too late — it is happening with the wrong husband!





Somedays it’s a never-ending circle. Mixed in with all my confusion, mourning Brian’s loss has put me in the position of either languishing in what was and what I wish could have been, (neither of which sounds very appealing to me), or finding a way to continue writing the rest of the chapters in my life’s story. Perhaps it will be more like an entirely new book, a sequel, if you will, to my life before. Before I was so unceremoniously dumped into  this strange landscape called Grieving. And so it is that I choose continue living my life in a way that brings me joy — a joy that I am sure Brian would want to experience as well. And to that end, I agree with Shel Silverstein that there are no happy endings when it comes to death. The ending is the hardest part. And while a new beginning with a “very happy start” and “a happy middle” sounds like a good deal to me, it’s still going to take some doing, But then, I have never been one to turn down a challenge. . . and this is probably the biggest one I have ever faced.





You are a human being. 
You are here to change,
move, act, step out.
You are not here to sit and wait.
You are here to live out loud.
~~Christian Rasmussen






			

	


			
				


	

							
So Much to Be Thankful For
						

			 / Julie Gentz						 / Leave a comment
								

			


		

		






Sunday, June 11, 2023

Dear Brian

Happy "what would have been" our 29th anniversary. I don't have words that will honestly convey the sadness I feel that you aren't here so that we can celebrate it together. I don't have words that will honestly convey the void that your dying has left in my life. We were so looking forward to next year at this time when we could say, "Wow! We've made it for 30 years!" After my divorce, and before we found each other, I never thought I would see 30 years with anyone, much less someone who changed my life in as many wonderful ways as you did.

Every year since you died I've made it a point to do something special on this day to honor the "Us" that we were. The first year you weren't here to celebrate with, I bought a delicate cross necklace, because it reminded me of something you would do for me. Last year I had the set from my engagement ring incorporated into your wedding band, and had a necklace made of that as well. But, this year, I'm in Vienna, visiting Holli, and didn't get the chance to do anything special like that. But, just when I thought there wasn't going to be anything memorable about the day, all of these photos of you in the play, "Smoke on the Mountain" started showing up on Facebook! It was nothing short of amazing! I had never seen these before. It was quite perplexing until I found out that our friend, Miriam, who directed the play, had randomly come across them and decided to post them! She had no idea that it was our anniversary, much less that I wished I had something special to remember this particular day by! I'm a big believer in signs, and find that they come in all manner of shapes and sizes, as well as in many different ways. This one was by far the best I've had for a very long time! You really outdid yourself this time!

I belong to several widow/widower groups online, and it comes as no surprise that I am not alone when it comes this resurgence of grief on wedding anniversary dates. It's hard not to step into the past and remember all of the details and feelings that were a part of that day. In fact, there's even an entire website that not only talks about grief on a wedding anniversary, but it also gives links to things one might buy for a grieving spouse as a remembrance. Things like a coffee mug that says "Stay Strong," or a "Warm Hugs Soft Blanket." I'm sitting here, as the grieving spouse, thinking how important it is to add positive memories to anniversaries without you. Being remembered today makes me feel less alone and warms my heart as well, knowing that others are thinking about you, too. I am glad, however, that no one says "Happy Anniversary" to me. For, while it's an anniversary, it's one that is far from happy. But knowing that someone is  thinking about me on this day is a great feeling.

So, here I am, 2 years after your death, working my way through another wedding anniversary without you. While I have come a long way in those two years towards redefining who I am now, I still can't outrun the tsunami waves of grief that periodically catch me off guard and wash over me. Even so, I am learning to be a better swimmer and to fight against the current, not letting it take me so far past the shore. Yes, grief certainly is one of the most challenging experiences to deal with in life. It is, as I have read over and over again, the price we pay for loving. . . and if we have loved, it is something we all must go through. To paraphrase Nora Mclnerny, "I am not trying to cure my grief, for I know that is impossible. I am just trying to do my best to manage it and live with it."

I wrote a poem to you last year around this time, but it's worth repeating, albeit with a little updating.






Reorientation
It's so hard to believe you've been gone two whole years.
Life isn't the same not having you here.
Most days are good, yet others make me cry, 
though I've learned to stop asking myself, 
"Why did you have to die?"

Who am I without you? What path should I take?
Decisions like these are so hard to make.
But I'll take your love with me, held close to my heart.
I'll still go on living  and doing my part.

I'll write my new story, even though it feels wrong.
Compose some new verses to add to life's song.
Then one day I'll see you, in that home high above,
where we'll all be surrounded by never-ending love.

Julie Gentz, June 11, 2023

"Love is space and time measured by the heart"
~~Marcel Proust

			

	


			
				


	

							
I Wanna Hold Your Hand
						

			 / Julie Gentz						 / Leave a comment
								

			


		

		











Touch. It comes in many forms. Some are subtle while others are more obvious. But, it seems, no matter how it’s packaged, the right touch at the right time has amazing powers. In fact, research has shown that the power of touch is nothing short of amazing.





Of course, we all know that our skin plays many important roles in our life, but, even though you may not have thought of it in this light, skin is the star of the show when it comes to touch. It turns out that one of our skin’s most important functions is to be the receptor and messenger to our brain for the sense of touch. It is a “language” whose understanding and importance is universal, no matter who you are or where you live. In fact, touch is the first sense that develops.





I am sure it comes as no surprise to you that, as humans, we all need touch. The benefits it can provide us are simple, yet enormous. From the minute we emerge from our mother’s womb and take our first, gasping breath, until the day it is our turn to take that one, final breath, touch plays an important role in our life and our well being.  No matter what the age, touch can calm our frazzled nerves, make us feel safe, comfort us, and of course make us feel loved. And, yes, I know there are also times when touch can be bad, and feel exactly opposite. But, what I want to focus on here is the “good stuff.” The kind of touch that can soothe the savage beast in us and calm our frazzled nerves. There is a wonderful article entitled, “The Remarkable Power of Touch,” by Karen Young, in which she states: “ The power of touch is one of our most powerful and important functions. For long-term well being touch is as important as food and security.”





When someone we love becomes critically ill, either physically or mentally, the loved ones around them not only lose an important part of that person, but they also gradually find themselves as the giver of the touch that heals, rather than the receiver. And, when that loved one dies, their touches in your life are left only as memories, never to be experienced with that person again. In her article on touch, Karen Young  credits Dr. Tiffany Field, Director of the Touch Research Institute at the University of Miami as defining this forever loss of touch from our lives as touch hunger. There are various reasons that an individual can find themselves suffering from touch hunger, and I would not be the least bit surprised to find out that losing a spouse/life partner ranks right at the top of that list.





I don’t know about you, but I am always straying off the grief path I’ve been walking for the past two years and wandering onto some dead end street, usually called “If Only. . .” or “I Wish I Still Could. . .” I am getting better finding my way back, however. I can more easily recognize the subtle signs that I am on a path going nowhere and can quickly get back to where I need to be. That’s what happened to me the other day when my 12 year old granddaughter gave me a big, heartfelt hug, snuggled her head against my chest, and said, “I love you Grandma! I am so glad you came!” It happened again when we were walking back from the store and she took my hand in hers and looked up at me and smiled. Even just writing this gives me that lonely “longing for what was” feeling. Those two small gestures of genuine love and affection jolted my mind into retro gear and memories of touches I will never receive from Brian again. I miss the spontaneous “for no reason other than I love you” hugs and kisses: His encouraging touch on my back: The way he would reach over and hold my hand or put his arm around me when we watched TV or went to a movie: The feel of his fingers gently brushing across my cheek or absent mindedly playing with my hair. All those things that I took for granted. All of those things that seemed to just happen as part of our life together. And, yes, all of those things that can happen no more with Brian. All of those touches that died with him.





So now I’ve come full circle, right back where I started, even more convinced that the right touch from someone we care about is a huge part of what sustains us as we move through the motions of life. Kierkegaard famously said: “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” Though Brian’s touches are forever gone, I can’t live the rest of my life in that cave. If I am going to heed Kiekegaard’s advice, I have to fully accept the reality of Brian’s death, understand that those touches are now forever stored in my heart, turn the page in the book of my life, and start writing a new chapter. As widows/widowers we all have a blank page that is there for each of us to write on. My hope is that you will take pen in hand and begin authoring your next chapter as well.





Epilogue: Still, if I could have a few more minutes with Brian, I would definitely sing along with Ringo, Paul, George, and John: “I wanna hold your hand.”






			

	


			
				


			
				


	

							
Saying “No” to Saying “Yes”
						

			 / Julie Gentz						 / Leave a comment
								

			


		

		






I. Am. Done. Finally. 





I began this post 6 days ago, tried to get back to it twice, and while one of those times I was successful, I was never able to actually spend enough time with it to do anything except give it a cursory once over. However, late yesterday afternoon I entered the last grade in the college class I have been teaching, hit “submit,” and not only am I officially done with that, but I am also done teaching. I looked up the meaning of the word “retired” and found I seem to have forgotten that besides meaning “being tired over and over again,” it ALSO means being able to not have to work and, because of that luxury, to be able enjoy life a bit more. I “officially retired” from teaching in 2015, which, if my math is right, is 8 years ago, and I have been teaching in some way, shape, or form ever since. So the rest of this post is about how, looking back, it seems that I purposefully made sure I was so busy that I wasn’t going to dwell on the fact that Brian isn’t just gone for a while .  . .  he is, indeed, gone forever. I have a sneaking suspicion that many of you may fit into this same category yourselves. I just want you to know you are not alone, and, if you are finding yourself feeling as stressed out as I seem to be, it’s time to do a hard reset. And I know you can do it because, after all, lots of change is all we have known since our spouse died, and we are still here! 





So . . . here is my long overdue, but very sincere post.





   





I can’t believe I have not gotten off the hamster wheel that my life has into long enough to regularly post here. For me, that is akin to going without chocolate — which is almost impossible for me to do. I’ve had to sit myself down and have a heart-to-heart with the part of me that has been chasing something which no longer exists — the part that has been trying to fit myself back into the person I was before Brian died — trying to be a person who doesn’t emotionally exist, anymore than Brian does physically. That Julie, is gone. No amount of running around, trying on old roles that I no longer fit into is going to change that. This craziness has to stop. And it has to stop now.





I’m reading a great new book by Joanne Cacciatore, PhD, “Grieving Is Loving.” So much of what she writes about fits where I find myself now. Here’s what I have discovered:





 I need to make the time for the things that feed my soul. Time to discover who I am now, not try to squeeze into a person who I no longer recognize. I’ve thought about that a lot. That “how did I get here and where do I go now” part of my life at the moment. After some soul searching and a lot of good old fashioned thinking, I’ve come to the conclusion that where I find myself now is not unlike where Limony Snicket finds himself in the novel series, appropriately entitled, “A Series of Unfortunate Events.” My particular situation seems to be a combination of all the years of caregiving, the layer of stress added to life by the Pandemic, the anticipatory grief that I was dealing with as a caregiver, Brian’s sudden “unexpected expected” death, and the heavy weight of loss that has shrouded my life and clouded my mind ever since he died.





Deciding that I needed to consult someone about it, I turned to an “expert”: Dr. Google. Searching for a list of life events, in order of the severity of stress level produced by each, I found the following: It seems there is a scale, aptly named the “Social Readjustment Rating Scale” which states that the more of said stressors that are present in a person’s life, the more likely a person is to have health issues. (Note to self: So far this is not looking good.) However, though it was developed to help predict illnesses, the scale does take into account the factors that determine how well one copes with stress. These include an individual’s circumstances, cultural content, and how much support is given from others, as well as the fact that all stress is subjective. Want to guess what the #1 stressor is? Uh, huh . . .  you got it — the death of a spouse. The article continued, saying that aside from losing someone whose life was so tightly enmeshed with your own, so many other things change: life style, daily routines, living arrangements. . . and my mind added, “the very essence of who you are.” It concludes by saying; “If you’ve lost a spouse or life partner, give yourself time to grieve.”





And, while I know I am preaching to the choir here, we all would do well to remember that everything in our lives has changed since we lost our loved one. Absolutely everything.







“Life does not go back to life as usual. Because, for many, when someone we love deeply dies, life is not ‘normal’ — not yesterday, not today, and not tomorrow. Life is forever changed.”

Grieving Is Loving, Dr. Joan Caccitore, PhD





Even though it is long overdue, I am planning to remember that I am living in the midst of profound life change. That the only way out is through. That I need to be like the tortoise and believe that “slow and steady wins the race.” And, that starts by doing one simple thing. By using one small word: NO. 





And the first person I need to say it to is myself.







“We do so much, we run so quickly, the situation is difficult, and many people say, ‘Don’t just sit there, do something.’ But, doing something may make the situation worse. So you should say, “Don’t just sit there, stop, be  yourself first, and begin from there.”

—Tich Nhat Hanh, “Being Peace”






			

	


			
				


	

							
Where Did My “Happy Place” Go?
						

			 / Julie Gentz						 / Leave a comment
								

			


		

		






It has been a long time since I have written. I have missed it. Somehow, I have found myself stuck in the swamp of grief. Not all day. Not every day. Not even in the same way. Just off balance. Running down dead ends. Falling down. Getting up. Feeling confused and, oh, so very, very tired.





It’s been just 17 days since I passed April 1, the two year mark of Brian’s death, even though it feels like a lot longer than that. And here I am, stumbling my way into year 3 without him. Still tripping over my own feet. Continuing to get in my own way while seeming to be looking for the “secret passageway” out of the abject sadness and feelings of hopelessness that sometimes sneak up on me and temporarily highjack an up mood, a feeling of “Hey, I think I am going to be OK — eventually.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m still actively trying my hardest to somehow work myself back onto the road of life. I just didn’t realize how many potholes that path had. Some days, much to my disappointment, it’s harder to move forward. On those days it’s more complicated to unpack the baggage that grief left me with. It slows me down so that I’m unable to stay in my lane once I finally claw my way back there. 





I know what I need — and that’s to show myself some kindness. I know it won’t fix anything, because that is not how this works. There is no “fixing” my way out of grief. There are going to be days — weeks — when something sets me back. It’s on those days, in particular that I need to show myself kindness for what I’ve lived through to haver gotten this far. In her book, “It’s OK That You’re Not Ok,” Megan Devine says:







“Self-kindness is seriously difficult. We can talk all day about how other people deserve kindness, but when it comes to ourselves? Forget it. We know too much about our own shortcomings, the ways we’ve messed things up, just how badly we’re doing everything. We treat ourselves far more harshly than we would ever allow anyone else to treat us. Everyone struggles with this; it’s not just you. For many people, being kind to others is far, far easier.”

p. 113





And so, I’m going to work harder at doing just that. I’m going to, as it says on the base under the little wooden heart that sits where I am sure to see it every time I walk into my bedroom, “Do more of what makes your heart happy.” I’m going to practice self-love. Stop demanding so much of myself. Stop trying to be everything and do everything. Perhaps, as Megan Devine says, I need to write a love letter to myself. Whatever it is, I need to get at it. Actually, at the very top of the list of things that feed my soul is exactly what I am doing now — writing on this blog. Sharing my thoughts. Huh, I guess that means I’ve already started. Good deal. Now, to keep it up. I can do this.





“Let me be to my sad self-hereafter kind.”





Perter Pouncey, Rules for Old Men Waiting: A Novel










Self-compassion is simply GIVING the same KINDNESS to YOURSELF that you so freely give to others. 





                                                                              ~~Sarah Schneider





You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love & affection.





                                                                                                                            Buddha





Self-compassion is a more effective motivator than self-criticism because its driving force is love, not fear.





                                                        Kristen Neff





Talk to yourself like you would someone you love.





                                                                        Brene Brown





Remember, you have been criticizing  yourself for years and it hasn’t worked. Try approving of yourself and see what happens.





                                                                                             Louise L. Hay





“You have peace,” the old woman said, “when you make it with yourself.”





                                                                             Mitch Albom

			

	


			
				


	

							
Flashback
						

			 / Julie Gentz						 / Leave a comment
								

			


		

		











I have been on a journey of remembrance since March 19th, the day that Brian fell for the final time, ended up in the hospital, and died 14 days later, at home, on Hospice.  April 1 will be the second anniversary of his death. A lot, of course has changed since then. Some of it in the way I see his death. Some of it in the way I see my life. The good thing is that I’ve learned to not fight Grief when she comes to visit. I’ve learned that if I spend enough time with her, simply letting her be, not making more of her presence or less of it, that I discover the secret she carries with her . . .  the secret of love. Love. Because, if there were no love, there would be no grief once someone leaves this world for the next. And, the greater the love, the stronger the grief.  But I don’t have to let that grief take center stage in my life. I can take all the love with me and go on with my life, letting grief sit quietly in the wings, waiting for her next entrance. So, that is what I have been working on these last 24 months since Brian died. I’ve had my ups and downs, my regressions, and my sad times. But I have also found laughter, smiles, joy, and hope. I plan to keep living and moving forward, taking the love along with me, and letting grief bide her time in the wings. 





Part of doing that involves remembering. Taking a journey back to where I was so that I can better appreciate where I am right now. So, in my next few blog posts I will be journeying back in time, finding the love, hope, and acceptance in those 14 days two years ago that altered the course of my life. Remembering the love, and celebrating life both before and after Brian’s death. It all starts with a letter, written after he had been in the hospital for 10 days. The doctors had exhausted all of the possibilities of what might be causing his pain and rapid decline, but could find no way to remedy it. I asked him if he wanted to come home and have therapy come there to help him manage pain and hopefully gain back some of the ground he’d lost in his hospitalization, or if he wanted to go to skilled care at a local facility where his therapists were based. To my surprise he chose the latter. I wrote the following letter after he had been at the rehab facility just two days. Little did I know that in the next two following days he would wind up in the ER with a temperature of 102 and a blood oxygen of 80, and come home on Hospice, dying just three short days later. Days that were some of the longest and hardest days of my life.





           **********          **********          **********          **********          **********          **********          ********** 





Friday, March 25, 2021





Dear Brian





How did it come to this? You, lying here in the bed in the nursing home, me sitting in the chair beside you. Holding your hand in mine. Watching you sleep. Not a restful, soul restoring sleep, rather the kind brought on by nearly two weeks of pain killers whose job has been to numb the throbbing pain in your back. But they are not doing their job, so the pain keeps you from resting. And when you do sleep it is fitful and unnatural, not sleep that is restorative. The times in the last 10 days when you were awake, your once sparkling, sometimes mischievous eyes were glassy and unresponsive, reflecting the pain that seemed to be elusive and unsolvable. Unfixable and unending. Eyes that seemed, much of the time, to be focused far away, somewhere only you knew.





Do you know how much I love you? How much my heart aches to see you this way? How helpless I feel because there is nothing I can do to change the trajectory of where I see you headed? Do you know how empty I feel already without you in my life? Each day when I leave you and return to our house, every step I take echoes through the void created by your absence, each one reminding me over and over again that I am alone. The silence is deafening. No one calls my name. There are no dishes from a meal to wash, because there is no longer someone to cook one for. And I am not hungry. At night, I sit on the bed, the letters you wrote to me nearly 27 years ago when we were dating, spread out in front me, each one a precious memory of how we began. I have read them all. Slowly, deliberately, savoring every word and memory that goes with them. And I answer my own question, because of course you know how much I love you. You knew it then and you still know it now. I don’t know where all this is headed, but I am scared that you are leaving me soon, and my mind and heart are having a hard time accepting that. Still, I wouldn’t trade the last 27 years with you for anything. I love you, Brian Gentz. I will always love you in some way. Oh, God. . . I miss you already.





Love,





Julie





Love . . .
Do you feel it?
Sometimes it's as easy as a simple hug.
Other times, as difficult and complicated as a long goodbye.
More times than not, it's hard to put your finger on. . .
Elusive, ethereal, unquantifiable, mysterious.
Love. . .
Who do you love?
Your best friend? Your spouse? Yourself? The unborn baby you have yet to meet?
Perhaps you feel it's no one.
Or maybe it's everyone.
Or maybe, like me it's THE one.
Love . . .
It can be given, and sadly, not returned.
Worse yet, it can be unrequited, rejected, returned to the sender
damaged and degraded.
If you are lucky enough to find it, hold it close.
Nurture it.
Bask in it.
Cherish it.
Love . . .
It's such a small word, yet it has so much power.
It can change the world.
It can change your life.
It changed my life.
Love . . .
So all-consuming.
So divine.
So very lovely.
Such a gift.
You.
My Love.

by Julieanne Gentz Feb. 2021