Putting a H.A.L.T. to Grief

September 29, 2011 — Pat Bertram

It’s been eighteen months since my life mate — my soul mate — died of inoperable kidney cancer, and I’m still chugging along. I do okay most days, but still there are times when the thought that he is gone takes away my breath. His death was so final, his absence absolute. He never responds when I talk to him, never sits down to watch a movie with me, never seems to care when I get angry at him for rejecting me. (I know it’s not his fault, but still, death is the ultimate rejection.)

During this past year and a half, I’ve learned a lot about grief. I learned the importance of facing the pain head-on, accepting it as part of the process, and waiting for it to diminish, which mine has — significantly. I’ve learned how to find peace in the sorrow (or perhaps despite the sorrow). I’ve learned that grief cannot be hurried, that months or even years might pass before we bereft find ourselves again. And most of all, I’ve learned the secret of H.A.L.T.

People who make major life changes, such as alcoholics who give up drinking, smokers who give up cigarettes, diabetics who make diet and exercise changes are often urged to watch themselves so they don’t get Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired. That’s what I mean by H.A.L.T. Did you think I actually meant putting an end to grief? You should know by now I’m letting grief wear itself out, whenever or however that might be.

Hunger, anger, loneliness, and exhaustion make us vulnerable, which makes it easy to backslide into old behavior patterns.  I recently noticed that grief often surges when I am tired, so I’ve been trying to steer clear of these vulnerabilites, but the trouble is that all of those states are effects of grief, so exhaustion and loneliness and anger causes grief and grief causes exhaustion, loneliness and anger. A sad cycle. But now that I’m aware of it, I can try to be more careful. Although I’m willing to let grief take its course, I have no intention of letting grief rule the rest of my life. I intend to be as bold and as adventurous as possible, a wildly inappropriate woman who just likes to have fun. But not quite yet. I still have some sadnesses to deal with.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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Halt and I’ll Shoot! (Adventures With Firearms)

September 26, 2011 — Pat Bertram
Pistol target.

In an effort to add adventure to my life and to challenge myself to experience new things, I went to an NRA Women on Target Gun Clinic last Saturday to become familiar with firearms. As an author who has killed way more than my share of characters — approximately 510,010 in my four published books combined and another 6,000,000 in my WIP — I figured I ought to know what my characters feel when they shoot a weapon. (Okay, only a couple shot a weapon so far. The others used strangulation and bioweapons, but I have no interest in learning how either of those feel.)

I expected the guns to kick. I expected to be knocked off my feet. I expected to be unable to aim the heavier caliber pistols and revolvers, rifles and shotguns. I expected to be humiliated by missing the target completely. None of that happened. At first, my arms shook a bit as I aimed the handguns, but that could have been due to being past my first youth (and perhaps even my second youth) or else it could have been due to the unaccustomed stance. Still, I managed to aim, managed to hit the target. Managed to get a bullseye even. Kept on my feet the entire time. Didn’t even rock. The shot came as a surprise, but not a shock.

Deadly with a rifle! Not bad for the first time

After the pistol range, we headed to the shotgun range. There we shot stationary clay discs, and I got three out of three. Then we tried the flying discs (they might have been called clay pigeons, but they sure looked like mini dayglo orange and green frisbees to me). I never quite the hang of it. Mostly shot too soon. The problem women have that big men don’t have is that to balance the shotgun properly, we have to lean into the stock to keep it balanced and to allow the force to travel up through our arm into our body mass. This is fine while shooting stationary discs, but leaning forward to shoot while following the disc with one’s eye and hopefully one’s arms, turned out to be difficult for me. Still, I did manage to kill one of the suckers, but one out of twelve tries isn’t anything to brag about.

Then we moved on to the rifle range, and there I was deadly!! Hit the 100 yard target three out of three times. Hit the 200 yard target three out of five times. Hit the metal animal targets ten out of ten times. Hit the 50 yard paper target every time and even got a bullseye.

Besides learning how it feels to shoot, I learned how easy it is to forget firearms are deadly weapons. Several times after hitting the distant paper target, I was so excited I wanted to run out to see how I did. Of course, I managed to contain my curiousity or I wouldn’t be here talking to you. I’d be in a hospital or a morgue — there were a lot of people shooting that day! I’m also ashamed to admit that after killing my clay disc, I lifted the shotgun in the air in impromptu exhiliration. So not the thing to do! Eek.

I also know why in books and movies the good guys always yell, “Halt!” before they shoot. Perhaps, like me, they can only shoot stationary targets and want to make sure they hit their man.

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Letter to a Grieving Friend

September 25, 2011 — Pat Bertram

Hello, my friend.

I understand what you said about the continuity of attachment even after death. At the beginning of my grief, I held to the thought that I was sparing my life mate — my soul mate — from ever having to grieve for me since he died first, then it occured to me that if, in fact, we continue to live somewhere beyond this earth, maybe he is feeling as lost as I am, as disconnected, and as lonely. That took away the last bit of comfort I had. My other thought was that even if something of us survives, I will never see him again. When he and I met all those years ago, I had the strange notion that he was some sort of exalted being come to help me find truth and reality (when the student is ready, the teacher will appear, they say). I’m not sure why I thought I was so special, but the time when we met was steeped in mysticism for me. I sometime wonder if perhaps my grief is so difficult because our separation is truly forever, that by the time I die, he will have taken his rightful place somewhere high up in the pantheon of radiance, and I’ll still be muddling along without him. Such strange thoughts that beset us bereft!

I’m beginning to realize that in some way my grief might always be a part of my life. It’s too immense, this thing called death. Too hard to deal with the reality of it. Oftentimes when people mention how the loss of their mate helped them become the person they were meant to be, it makes me cringe, as if the loved one was an adjunct to their life, not a life in itself. But we all deal with life and death the best we can. My grief has two parts: my missing him and his being missing from this world. Both feelings will be with me forever. And through it all, grief really is molding me into what I will become. I thought I’d have arrived at that place of becoming by now, but it’s still a long way away.

Supposedly, people who deal best with the hole in their lives are those who continue to have a connection to the person, such as still talking to them or writing to them. What is the difference between that and a fantasy? Either way, the person has no physical being (except, in the case of the dead, as dust in the ground or pulverized bone — cremains as the funeral business so cutely calls them). But perhaps that attachment even after death is what makes the difference.

I’ve decided that a life of fun and/or adventure is the only thing that will make the coming years tolerable, yet I have no idea how to have fun. Don’t even know what fun is, except perhaps doing new things or learning new things.

I feel as if I am disappearing, though. So many friends, even friends I made after his death, have disappeared from my life, and I worry that I will disappear, too. Perhaps that’s not a bad thing. I’ve been looking at photos of me as a child, and I am no longer that person, can’t even remember what I was thinking or feeling when the photos were taken (can’t even remember having my picture taken) so that youthful “me” has disappeared. Maybe when today’s me disappears, I’ll be not simply old and decrepit, but different somehow, and able to handle the challenges that the future will bring.

I hold to the idea that maybe someday you and I will have a grand adventure together.

Your sister in sorrow,
Pat

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NRA Women on Target Instructional Shooting Clinic

September 21, 2011 — Pat Bertram

I’ve killed off hundreds of thousands of people in my books — generally by impersonal means such as diseases — but at least one character shot off a gun. I just guessed at how it would feel, and apparently I got it right, but still, if I’m going to continue my lethal activities, I should know what to do, how to do it, and how it feels. To that end, I’ve signed up for a shooting clinic. The clinic is this Saturday, and I am looking forward to the adventure. This is what it entails:

Agenda: 8:30 to 9:00 am Sign in at the Clubhouse
9:00 to 9:30 am Introduction and safety brief at the Clubhouse
9:45 to 11:30am Range Instruction (2 stages)
11:30 to 12:45 pm Lunch catered by a local Mexican restauran
1:00 to 2:45 pm Range Instruction (2 stages)
3:00 to 3:30 pm Debriefing & Certificates

What to Bring: We will provide all firearms, ammunition, safety equipment. We provide foam ear protection you insert in your ears and clear safety glasses. Wear your prescription glasses or contacts and safety glasses can be worn over them if necessary. Sunglasses are recommended if you wear them. If you have earmuff style ear protection and wish to use it, please feel free to do so.

You should wear light colored, loose fitting clothing that will offer some protection from the sun as it is likely to be hot and we will be outdoors most of the time. Scoopneck or v-neck blouses are not recommended for the range. We suggest a men’s style t-shirt with a high neck line. We will receive a visor at the event but may wish to bring your own hat or visor to protect you from the sun. Bring sun block if you are sun burn prone. We are in the desert and are subject to winds, be prepared. You will be walking on gravel and concrete so wear shoes that offer some traction and protection: hiking boots or running shoes work great. Don’t wear open toed shoes, flip flops, or sandals.

Bottled water will be available at all stages of the event. Restrooms are located at or near each range.

What you will be doing: You are going to learn to safely handle and fire rifles, pistols, and shotguns. You will also learn to hit the target. You can expect one on one instruction and coaching, and we will maintain a pace of events that is comfortable for you. We encourage you to try everything but your comfort level will be respected. This event is designed to take a novice shooter to a level of comfort with firearms that will allow that shooter to pursue further instruction. We replace fear of shooting with knowledge about shooting and apprehension about guns with respect for guns. At all times, we will maintain safe conditions and will instruct you in the safe, responsible and ethical handling of firearms.

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S.O.S. — Dance Therapy

September 18, 2011 — Pat Bertram

A few days ago, I started doing what I call “dance therapy.” I thought it was my own idea, but today I discovered there really is such a thing. It’s been around since the 1940s and was created as a way for the mind and body to work together. Supposedly, by dancing, people can identify and express their innermost emotions, bring those feelings to the surface and create a sense of renewal, unity, and completeness.

But that’s not what my “dance therapy” is about. I know what my feelings are. (And so do you if you’ve been checking in with this blog occasionally.) I’m still grieving the death of my mate of thirty-four years. We were soul mates: partners in life, in business, in ideology, in exercise — in fact, years ago, before he started losing health, we used to do aerobics together, which for us meant free-style dancing around the living room. I continued by myself for a while, but as he got sicker, I had to stop that form of exercise because most song lyrics made me cry. Even happy songs — especially happy songs — brought tears to my eyes, and I couldn’t deal with that. Not being a natural optimist, (maybe as a Wednesday’s child, I really am full of woe) I needed to fight to stay positive, to focus on what I had rather than what I was losing. In my current situation, though, the loss is so great, it’s not a matter of seeing the glass as half empty rather than half full (if you’ll pardon my use of that odious phrase). It’s a matter of trying to glue a shattered glass back together and hope it holds together as I fill it drop by drop.

I’m not in nearly as much pain as I was seventeen and a half months ago when he died, but I’m still feeling sad and empty despite the friends I’ve made and the trips I’ve taken. (My most recent excursions included a Route 66 Rendezvous, a couple of major county fairs, and a trip to Seattle — so see, I really am going on with my life.) The world still feels different with him gone. I still feel different, knowing he’s not somewhere in the crowd. I will probably always miss him, always yearn to talk with him, always long for the sight of his smile and the sound of his voice, but I don’t want to — can’t — be enchained by my own sorrow forever.

Most songs still bring tears to my eyes, but it no longer matters since many things make me tearful now. Besides, without a song or a dance, what are we? And so, I’ve begun my version of dance therapy. Today I danced to ABBA. (Why is that more embarrassing to admit than that I still cry at times?) I’m not looking for a sense of happiness or even optimism. Nor am I looking for exercise. (For that, I walk, lift, stretch, air bicycle.) My hope is that by moving in rhythm to a few peppy songs most days, I can train myself to feel lighter in spirit. Maybe even learn to have fun — whatever that is.

It’s the best I can do.

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What Your Doctor is Doing While You’re Sitting in the Waiting Room

September 10, 2011 — Pat Bertram

Actors and actresses with accents that are part of their persona, such as those from England, Germany, or the American South, often have to work with voice coaches to keep from slipping into mainstream American English (whatever that might be). Even the accents of people who learned English as a second language eventually become homogenized if they live among the general population long enough. Apparently, it is very difficult to keep one’s accent with two exceptions: if the person lives in an enclave with others who have the same accent or . . .  the person is a doctor who has been in this country for more than two decades.

My 94-year-old father was recently hospitalized for cardiac problems and a touch of pneumonia. Before he was released, his doctor (who was not born in this country, did not go to medical school here, but has practiced here for more than twenty years) called me to explain the new medications he was prescribing. His accent was so thick, I had to make the guy repeat his instructions ad nauseum and spell the names of the drugs so I could get them right. I did fine until he started talking about hisspern. He kept saying that my dad already took hisspern, but that now he was supposed to cut that down to a quarter of a tablet. Hmm. Hisspern? That drug was not one my dad was taking. Then I remembered that he did take aspirin. So I asked, “Do you mean aspirin?” The doctor got testy, and said, “Hisspern! Hisspern!”

The nurse took the phone from him then, told me she’d give me a printout of the new drug regimen, and hung up. Later, when I checked the list, it was right there: aspririn — 81 mg.

This doctor often has his patients wait for several hours (even his almost-centenarians) before he sees them. Well, now I know why he makes them wait so long — he’s out taking voice lessons to make sure he remains un-understandable. (I won’t even mention his handwriting. Yikes.)

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What to Say When You Remember a Word You Couldn’t Remember

August 26, 2011 — Pat Bertram

One of the many things you lose when a dear friend or a spouse dies is your stock of private jokes. All the words and phrases the two of you used, the amusing shortcuts to speech, are gone because there is no one left who knows the personal meanings. I’ve decided it’s my mission to pass along one of these private jokes to keep it alive because it is so perfect and it fulfills a needed niche. This word is “ostrich.”

In the movie Sodbusters, written and directed by Eugene Levy and starring Kris Kristofferson, there is a scene where the character Shorty is trying to tell the other sodbusters that they’re acting like ostriches, but he can’t remember the word. What ensues is a hilarious comic routine of his trying to describe the bird to people who don’t believe there is such a creature. Later in the movie, the sodbusters go to the saloon to confront the bad guys trying to force them off their land. They burst through the door, and Shorty yells, “Ostrich!”

A few days after we watched Sodbusters, my friend — my mate — and I were talking, and he couldn’t remember a particular word. Later that day, he came into the living room and exclaimed, “Ostrich.” Then he said the word he’d just remembered. Cracked me up. And so, until his death, “ostrich” replaced the phrase, “I remembered the word I couldn’t remember when we were talking before.” See how convenient “ostrich” is? One word in place of twelve. What a deal!

I worried that making this private joke known would bring me unhappiness, but the opposite turned out to be true. At a lunch with a few friends, I told this ostrich story. During the same meal, we mentioned the football player who gave up his career and enlisted in the army, but no one could remember his name. Later that evening, I got a text: “Ostrich! Pat Tillman”. Made me smile.

So, when you remember a word you couldn’t remember, remember to say — ostrich!

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Joylene Nowell Butler Likes DAUGHTER AM I!

August 18, 2011 — Pat Bertram

If you haven’t yet met Joylene Nowell Butler online, you should. She is a delightful person, wonderful author (Dead Witness, and Broken But Not Dead), and marvelous blogger. Her blog is a great site to browse. She posts gorgeous photos of Cluculz Lake in Canada. She offers valuable information such as how to beat writer’s block. She often has guests on her blog, other authors you either know or want to know, such as A.F. Stewart, who talked about the 5 best ways to promote your books on a budget during her latest visit.

And she writes insightful book reviews. She says, among other lovely remarks, that my novel “Daughter Am I is a character-driven page-turner. Every person has a distinct and endearing voice. Their very persona jump off the page. Even the character of cold-blooded killer Iron Sam comes alive in a way most writers can only dream of creating. The dialogue is sharp and concise and very believable. The descriptions are familiar, yet crisp and original. The prose are smooth and straightforward, and not once did Miss Bertram use terms or language that pulled me out of the story. I was her captive audience for three days. I could have read it faster, but frankly, I didn’t want to say goodbye to these wonderful characters. ” (Read the entire post here: Review of Daughter Am I. Be sure to read the comments! I got such a kick out of seeing people talk about my book.)

How can you not like someone who loves your book? You can find Joylene at her blog, A MOMENT AT A TIME ON CLUCULZ LAKE. Tell her Pat sent you.

Posted in blogging, books, internet, life, writing. Tags: , , , . 3 Comments »

Is the Glass Half Full or Half Empty? Who Cares?!

August 14, 2011 — Pat Bertram

It’s time to bury the glass half-full/half-empty metaphor. Here is the truth of it: If you are filling a glass, when you get to the halfway mark, the glass is half full. If you are emptying a glass, either by drinking it or pouring it out, when you get to the halfway mark, the glass is half empty. The amount of liquid in a drinking glass is an example of action not perception. And you know the truth of this. If I tell you a waitperson brought a bottle of wine and two glasses to the table and that a woman held out a hand when her glass was half full, you immediately presume the server had been filling the glass. If I tell you a waitperson brought two glasses of wine to the table and that a woman waited until her glass was half empty to begin to place her order, you immediately presume she’d been drinking the wine. In neither case does the partial glass of liquid leave you with a perception of optimism or pessimism. It’s merely a result of the action.

Even if it were a matter of perception, why is a “glass half-full kind of guy” considered to be a more upbeat, positive person than a “glass half-empty kind of guy”? Take for example a glass of very rare wine, so rare these are the last few ounces of its kind. While you are savoring every sip, delighting that half of a glass still remains, you can at the same time be experiencing the bittersweet knowledge that this glass of precious liquid is half empty. Which makes every remaining taste even more precious. In this case, the amount of liquid in the glass has nothing to do with positive or negative feelings and everything to do with appreciation.

If a glass with liquid in it is sitting on a table unattended, is it half full or half empty? I don’t care, and you shouldn’t either. You don’t know what it is, how long it has been there, who it belongs to, so it has no bearing on your state of mind. If this orphan glass is your responsibility to deal with or if you are a neat-freak who cannot bear to have unknown liquids lurking about, the glass is half empty because you will pour it out. Unless of course, you are so desperate for a drink you down the liquid despite its dubious origin. In which case, the glass is empty . . .  and so is your stomach after you throw up.

So please, let’s bury this particular metaphor in the graveyard of moribund cliches and be done with it.

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500 Days of Grief

August 9, 2011 — Pat Bertram

It’s been 500 days since the death of my life mate, my soul mate. It’s sounds pathetic, doesn’t it, to still be counting the days as if I’ve been crying endlessly for more than a year? But grief isn’t always about mourning. A great part of grief is trying to make sense of the senseless, trying to comprehend something the human mind is not geared to understand. Trying to find a way to continue despite the noncomprehension.

The agony and angst of the first months have passed, and I do still cry at times, but the tears come and go quite quickly. (The sadness, however, always remains.) I’m going through a waiting stage right now, letting everything I have experienced settle into my being. Other stages of grief are waiting for me, such as finding a new focus or finding the bedrock on which to rebuild my life. Even if those don’t seem like stages of grief, even if they aren’t accompanied by tears and tantrums, they are still part of the grieving process, still part of learning how to be whole again.

Most of us have grieved the death of a loved one, some of us have grieved many losses, but the loss of someone with whom you have spent every day for decades is especially hard to deal with. Every minute of every day after such a death, that person is absent from your life, and somewhere inside, you continue to search for him or her. I think of him way too much, trying to hold on to him, though I know I can’t do anything to keep him with me. He’s already gone. I yearn to talk with him once more, hear his voice, see his smile, and part of me cannot understand why he isn’t here, cannot make sense of his absence. Cannot understand forever.

People assure me I will see him again in an afterlife, but that is scant comfort. This is the life I have now. This is all I know. And this is the life I have to deal with. If it were just about my missing him, I could deal with that, but I feel sad that his life was cut short. That his dreams never came true and now they never will. Perhaps he is happily ensconced in a new life of radiance, but his death dimmed the light in this world. And this is what I cannot understand. He is gone. And I am still here.

I am filling my days, trying to make each one matter. I’ve been taking trips and making excursions, most recently to a fair (where I did not eat deep-fried Twinkies, deep-fried butter, or chocolate covered bacon, though such delicacies were offered). When my mate and I were together, whatever we did was part of our life, and each day, each event flowed into the seamless whole. Now that I am alone, events such as the fair seem like punctuation marks in my ongoing life rather than part of the text. Perhaps one day, when I’ve lived long enough, done enough, my life will feel like a seamless whole again.

Until then, I’ll continue to count the days of grief.

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