Tuesday, July 20, 2010

In grief, we are all the same ...


Hands group
Originally uploaded by SHRCC

Death is becoming more a regular part of the cycle of life in my world as of late. Two AA members, a former client, soon-to-be among them my former dog. All of this in just a 3 week period.

Yesterday afternoon, I was asked to facilitate a group with the staff and roommates of a former client of mine who died a week ago. He was doing a trial run of living independently by staying wth some friends, also people with Schizophrenia; during a heat wave, these guys did not have air conditioners. Nor did they have any fans. Their ability to rationally deal with the heat came down to closing all the windows in their house. Two were found dead after several days, from complications of the heat.

Entering this situation, I was already feeling the heaviness of getting the news the night before of a friend in AA who had died over the weekend. I did not know what I was going to do for this group, given the weightedness of my own heart. Before I went there, I prayed and asked God for guidance to help me channel what would be of use to this group who were, like me. grieving.

Upon arriving to the group home, I was told that the air conditioner was not working in the meeting room and that everyone had gathered outside in the backyard, under the gazebo. This already felt like God's work in action -- to be touching the earth and surrounded by the sky and the trees was simply perfect. Two of the residents with mental illness came up to me and nervously asked: "Hey lady, what do you have planned for us today?" I smiled and replied: "I don't really know. What did YOU imagine the day would look like?" One man eagerly said: " I want to tell stories about J and our time with him." I couldn't have thought of a better way to begin and so we did.

The stories were funny and poignant and sad and alive. You could feel our deceased friend's spirit there -- as several people actually named aloud that this was their experience. As I scanned the large circle, there was such diversity among us: people with mental illness and people who were paid to care for them; administrators; case managers; therapists; all ethnic backgrounds and ages; some with lots of education and others with incredible street smarts.
In grief, however, we are all the same. We feel loss and separation and sadness and a longing for the one who is gone to return. This too was expressed among the group members. People cried openly, men and women, and tissues were abound. Some staff were comforted by their co-workers who put a loving arm around them or an outstretched hand for them to hold. There was no judgment about how people shared or the fact that some of the folks with mental illness said the same things twice or said things that were about another subject --- everyone was allowed to show up as they are.

All I did in this session was hold a space, recognizing that there was nothing to do but allow the process to unfold and meet each moment. At the end, when no words were left, I asked how they wanted to close; a resident quickly raised his hand and said he wanted to say a prayer. We all stood, hand in hand, heads bowed and he led us in the best way he could. And it was beautiful.

I hugged nearly every person before I left and they, in turn, hugged one another. God was present in every way possible. I was reminded about the power of asking for God's help and saw the rewards right in front of my eyes. I felt like in my own surrendering to my own powerlessness and the recognition of my own grief allowed me to step out of the way and to let God in to do his job.

Driving home, I felt my own container stretched to its limits. Thankfully, I had a healing exchange already set up in advance with a classmate. It was only 15 minutes into our exchange when I let myself, literally and figuratively, collapse into her healing arms. I tearfully understood that I did not have to do all the holding and that I could ask to be held -- just as I watched some of the people today lean into others when they could not do that for themselves. It was liberating and tender. I allowed myself to fully receive nurturing in a way that was a complete and conscious letting go. Afterwards, the weight around my heart was lifted.

When we have loss, we want to be comforted and reassured and held in some way. We want to know that we are not alone in the experience. We want to know that it is okay to feel our smallness and our humanness and our own tender heart.

In grief, we are all the same ...

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