Hospice Peterborough

By: Rachelle Kennedy, Hospice Peterborough Facilitator and Volunteer

There was a biting cold and wild wind that was gusting off the shores of the great lake that day. The waves were wicked and relentless. It was as though all the pent-up coldness of the season had risen to unleash itself on the tiny beach. It was hardly the sort of weather that makes one want to ramble and beach-comb, but that was exactly what we had come there to do.

I had driven to the lakeside town to meet with Annie*, a 10-year old girl I met through Hospice Peterborough only a month earlier. Annie came to Hospice with her mom, in search of grief support after the death of her best friend, Lara*. Lara had waged through a lengthy battle with a rare form of cancer – a struggle that brought with it long stays at Sick Kids hospital, the amputation of her leg, and eventually the inability to speak. Annie was by her side every step along the way.

I have been continually humbled and amazed by the bravery of the children I meet through my work at Hospice. Meeting Annie was no exception. From our first session together, as we sat on the floor of the hospice library, surrounded by paper and pastels and shelves of books; as she walked me through her experience of Lara’s diagnosis and illness and death, it was clear that Annie was a brave heart. At ten years old she had made the choice to walk through the fear and the unknown that cancer brings; to brave hospitals, to push wheelchairs, to sit bedside. She chose to learn to name the disease that was killing her best friend, to talk about it and to face it. Even after Lara’s death, Annie was brave enough to want to reach out for someone to help her make sense of what she was feeling, what she had lost.

So, on that day I drove an hour to meet brave Annie on the beach in her hometown. The weather was wild but we were both feeling strong. With all the force of the wind against us, we struck out with faces down and hoods pulled tight, searching the blustery sand for smooth pebbles and ever-treasured sea glass. Annie wanted something physical she could touch or do with her hands to help calm her mind when it started to burst with grief, especially when at school. A stone in the pocket is a simple idea that can be surprisingly grounding. Rather than give her one that had no context or meaning, it felt right to search for one together in a place she could return to whenever she needed.

With our fingers turning frosty red and our cheeks whipped with wind, we paused only once from our pebble hunting, to stand side-by-side as close to the waters edge as we safely dared. I have learned that sometimes the unwieldy storms inside of us can only be outdone by the rugged wildness of the natural world around us. Sometimes turning my cold face to the blowing wind and crashing waves can bring a breath of calm to my unsettled mind. So, Annie and I stood face-to-face with the waves, and counted to three, and yelled together at the top of our lungs, trying to loosen some of the anger and sadness that settles in our bones, and release it to the billowing wind.

When our pockets were full and faces too cold, we found a bench with some shelter and spread out our beach-combed treasures: a mighty handful of smooth colorful stones, a generous trove of sea glass, and even one rare big pebble with a hole worn right through the center. Annie thought she might tie one to a string so she could wear it around her neck, have it with her all the time. I kept one for my pocket so I wouldn’t forget the brave and wild beauty of the day.

Hospice work is about many things – some of them practical, some of them painful, some of them incredibly challenging and exhausting. Too often, when people have learned of my work with children and hospice, they have responded by praising me for “being a good person”. If only they knew.

If only they knew what an honor it is to keep company with someone like Annie. If only they knew how humbled I am by her courage, by her willingness to trust; if only they knew how lucky I felt to stand beside her and yell into the wildness, knowing that the story she carries inside her is sacred and huge.

That time with Annie on the shore of the great lake was a potent reminder for me that sometimes courage is all about just showing up, and that maybe the strongest thing we can do some days is to not turn away from the wildness around us, but rather count to three and howl our story into the wind.

*All names have been changed for confidentiality

Raechelle Kennedy is a Hospice Peterborough Facilitator and Volunteer who has worked with our children’s grief group program for several years. She is an expressive arts practitioner and spends the winter months in Australia with her partner, writing and enjoying life down under. You may read more of her writings by checking out her blog http://www.blackbirdstudio.ca/?p=3167

By: David Kennedy, Bereavement Coordinator at Hospice Peterborough

He stood in the chaos of boxes and paper – the reminders of the holidays that brought a trail of family and people into his house. Everyone was trying to make this Christmas better than it could be. “It’s over and I survived.” He spoke it slowly out loud not because anyone was there to hear it but as if congratulating himself.

It was true what his grief group leader had told him that the expectation can be worse than the reality. The worry and anxiety of this first holiday without his partner of 15 years had certainly brought more than its share of anxiousness and dread. But here he was – a survivor. It was not all easy sailing though. It is true that Christmas day passed without a major meltdown and in some ways it was great to have his siblings come and go that day. There were times of laughter and expressions of love that made him realize that he still had things worth living for. What he wasn’t ready for was New Years. In his mind, getting through Christmas was the challenge. He never really thought about New Year’s Eve. Oh not the question of what to do – he had all kinds of options given him. There were private family functions he was encouraged to be part of, there was the party from work that he was invited to and there was the regular gang that he and his partner had shared this night with for the past 10 years who had encouraged him strongly – perhaps too strongly, to join them again this year. Even the option to be alone and do nothing was there for him. No it wasn’t the question of what to do that caught him. It was only as he thought about it later that he realized why he was blindsided by this and so unprepared.

Jack had met his partner 17 years ago after each of them had come through a marriage breakup. His was bad enough, but his partner’s story was enough to fill a chapter in a therapist’s book and to pay for a house in the Caribbean for the lawyers involved. Neither of them had been looking for a relationship but when they met at a party of mutual acquaintances there was a spark that just wasn’t about to go away. They tried – both of them – both gun shy but the love they found in each other was finally the kind of relationship they had longed for. Two years later they made the commitment and the past 15 years have been without a doubt the happiest years for both of them. Then that dreaded “C word” and within 14 months here he was alone again, only this time the pain of being alone was almost unbearable. It had been 6 months since he had said goodbye to the love of his life. Six months and now he felt the obligation from others that he should be okay and that while Christmas would be difficult it should be manageable.

It was only on reflection that he realized the depth of the challenge of this season. Christmas was connected to the past – all the memories and shared experiences with his partner – the collective joys, laughter, tears, hopes and disappointments. They were shared with someone and now that someone isn’t here to share, to reminisce, to recall, to laugh and to remember. New Year’s is about the future, a turning of the calendar, the writing of new digits to reflect the new time frame and it is the fact of facing this New Year without that partner by his side, in his bed, creating memories – that he will have to live this coming year without his beloved partner – that is what blindsided him. He spent all his energy bracing himself for Christmas and the flood of memory that accompanies that holiday, but he wasn’t ready for the gut wrenching awareness of a new year to be lived alone. That almost did him in.

That is the journey of grief. When we are first thrown into the chaos of a person dying we are flooded with the memories, the experiences and the relationship that we had with that person, no matter if it was wonderful or dysfunctional. Grief for a while is looking behind us at that moment of death, that moment of ending of all that we had known. But grief is a 180 degree experience. Soon we find ourselves oscillating between the pain of what can no longer experience and the pain of “what now,” how can I go on living without that person here? Eventually and moments such as New Years, put that future right smack dap in our face and we are forced to look at the reality that I will need to live this year without that person here. Then the weight of this perspective turns our attention to now facing ahead. Every now and then we will need to look back and remember and so this back and forth of grief. Finding a healthy way to live and carry our grief will mean that we will always experience this 180 degree living to some extent.

In time we will find our way again and look ahead but it will always be accompanied by those times when we choose, or are chosen for us, to remember, be thankful and be sorrowful. Yet even in those moments we are reminded that we have life to live and that we can and we will, be open to all that life may bring with gratitude, grace and 180 degree perspective so we will never forget, but we will continue to live.