Jo Firestone mourns the loss of a beloved friend, and recommends not reading that Joan Didion book. Once again, we see how people struggle to offer support -- and to accept it.

Someone is gone. Perhaps this is the first year you had to get used to it, or maybe you’ve had years of practice with how the calendar keeps going, and it’s still hard.

Either way, for right now I recommend getting in the bath.

Lie faceup if you want. I prefer facedown, coming up for air every few seconds like a nervous snorkeler. On a personal note, my bathtub is short, so I am forced to choose between submerging the top half of my body or submerging the bottom half. I always choose the top half, leaving my legs out of the water, looking like the first dolphin to live in an apartment.

Now onto a jigsaw puzzle, or doodling, or just stacking your mail into a Jenga-like pile. Anything that uses your hands more than your head. Stay in your robe all day, or if that’s too warm, try a shirt with no pants, like Winnie the Pooh. Eat something. Tell one of those people who keep saying, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do” that there is something they can do and it’s to bring you more pretzels — the good kind, or really any kind but the ones you bought last time, because those were bad. How can they make a pretzel bad? I don’t know, but they can, and they did and last time you bought them.

Tell Me One More Time What to Do About Grief

Don't Tell Mourners to "Stay Strong" -- Another in the What Not To Say To Sad People List

Megan Devine says:

It isn’t easy, but if we really want to support a grieving person, we’ve got to listen to his or her pain, rather than try to correct it. Pain, allowed expression, doesn’t have to turn in on itself. Given room — and validation — grief finds its right place, alongside the life that is built in the wake of loss.

'Stay Strong,' And Other Useless Drivel We Tell The Grieving

Peter Rosenberger: There Used to be M&M's

Many thanks to Peter Rosenberger, author of 7 Caregiver Landmines and How to Avoid Them for permission to publish this touching article about the bittersweet experience of caring for his father. "I’ve often heard that, “… There’s no pain like watching your children hurt.” Watching your parents hurt must run a close second." As the Talmud says, "When the father helps the son, both laugh. When the son helps the father, both cry."

There used to be M&M’s

For as long as I can remember, when my father came home from Reserve duty in the military, he brought each of my brothers and my sister and me a pack of M&M’s. Stretching past his military service as a chaplain, he and my mother extended the treats to when we returned home from school. Each time we arrived with our luggage (sometimes filled with dirty laundry), we’d walk into our rooms to find a bag of M&M’s waiting on the pillow.

When they moved away from the house where they raised five sons and a daughter, their new home carried the tradition. Bringing our wives, then children, and now even our grandchildren, the familiar brown-bagged treats (sometimes the yellow bags of peanut M&M’s) from my parents awaited every family member.

Except this year.

Nearly succumbing to congestive heart failure, my mother endured a dramatic and difficult year — as did my father. A U.S. Navy chaplain (Captain) and pastor for nearly 60 years, my father stepped into the role of caregiver for the first time, and I watched the process take a toll on him.

It felt odd. While I’ve cared for my wife with severe disabilities for more than 33 years, I’ve never seen my dad in this role. I found myself placing a hand on his shoulder much like he did for me many times following my wife’s now 80-plus operations. He sat with me in countless ICU’s, hospital rooms, and waiting rooms. Now I sat with him.

His seasoned faith remains intact and strong, yet he struggled to wrap his mind around the relentless assault of continued medical setbacks. With the same gentleness and encouragement he offered to me over decades of caregiving, I returned the favor.

I’ve often heard that, “… There’s no pain like watching your children hurt.” Watching your parents hurt must run a close second.

With a herculean effort by medical staff, along with my mother’s grit, she pulled through. While not where she’d like to be, she’s further than most expected. After a couple of months away from them, we returned to their home for Thanksgiving. They looked tired, older, but optimistic. The family pulled together, and the house looked great. The only significant difference I noticed was an oxygen tank in their bedroom. 

Yet for the first time in my memory, no M&M’s waited on the pillows. The absence of those treats indicates a passage, and a farewell to parts of who they used to be. Their home stands in a heavily wooded area of upstate South Carolina. As we prepared for the holiday, the trees surrounding their home continued shedding an entire color palate of leaves. The loveliness of autumn is a sad one that brushes hearts the same way the wind grazes branches.

So it is when watching those who loomed large in our lives diminish in vigor, but not in beauty. As many will attest, it’s the shedding of smaller things — the wisps of common things taken for granted — that often bring a tear.

Deep feelings often rise to the surface faster during holidays. For many Americans, a difficult season of slow goodbyes, bittersweet celebrations, and, for some, the ache of absence. 

Yet, not all is sorrow. Slowing our lifestyles to the pace of our hearts, we can cling to each other a bit tighter. After dinner, we can pause a little longer at the table — or sit quietly for an extra couple of minutes with those we love. If a chair is empty, we can choose to fill that seat with cherished memories. 

The treats I’ve enjoyed for a lifetime no longer await me, but the loving hands that placed them are still here to hold. Placing that candy on their pillows instead, I now possess a greater understanding of the joy they both shared — for a lifetime. 

A joy in something as simple as … a bag of M&M’s.

Peter Rosenberger hosts a radio program for family caregivers broadcast weekly from Nashville, TN on more than 200 stations. He has served as a caregiver for his wife Gracie, who has lived with severe disabilities for more than 30 years. His new book is 7 Caregiver Landmines and How You Can Avoid Them. @hope4caregiver

Jon Pavolvitz on the Hidden Grief Anniversaries

Most people think that grieving is about the big annual events—about Christmases and birthdays and the like, and of course it is. But the brutal truth (one that only those who continue to live after someone dear to them is gone can rightly fathom), is that these other quiet anniversaries are equally devastating and far more frequent.

In the wake of losing a loved one, everything in your life becomes a potential surprise memorial. Out of nowhere you are broadsided by days of the week or times of day or numbers on the calendar, or songs that were playing or cologne you were wearing or the feel of the grass beneath your knees as you fell at the news. These seemingly incessant reminders force you once again to observe the loss anew.

And since these days and times and triggers aren’t obvious to most people in our lives (and since we don’t have the time or the words to describe them all), they are usually unaware of just how much and just how often we mourn. Even those who are closest to us and care for us greatly remain largely oblivious to our recurring sadness. Our grief can feel like a very lonely journey, which in many ways it is because it is specific to us and to the one we’ve lost. It is a customized but hidden wound.

Acknowledging our Grief Anniversaries

Peter Rosenberger: The Orientation and Disorientation of Caregivers

Many thanks to Peter Rosenberger, author of 7 Caregiver Landmines and How to Avoid Them, for permission to publish this insightful article.  "Suffering and sorrow tend to put differences into perspective."

The Orientation and Disorientation of Caregivers

Walking into Waffle House for breakfast, I held the door for two men. The younger man awkwardly helped his older companion with a walker and oxygen tank. No stranger to these things myself, I waited for several moments while nodding to the younger man. Mustering a sad smile, he expressed his gratitude for my patience.

As they slowly exited, I stepped in—only to be stopped by one of the longtime servers. “Peter, go out there and talk to that young man! His name is Randy, and I ain’t serving you breakfast ‘til you do,” she stated forcefully.

Decades of Waffle House visits with her taught me that disobedience usually involved a tongue-lashing. And, she really wouldn’t serve me until I talked with him.

Dutifully returning to the parking lot, I approached Randy, stuck my hand out and said, “I was told to come out here and talk with you—and Judy won’t serve me breakfast until I do. What’s going on?”

Randy’s eyes instantly filled with tears while sharing that this was their last breakfast out before hospice came that afternoon for his partner. Listening, I understood why Judy sent me back to the parking lot.

I speak fluent caregiver.

Randy added, “We’ve been together for 24 years, and I am just so upset. I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid I’ll go into my room and cry—and won’t be able to stop.”

Chatting for a while, as Randy’s companion quietly sat in the car with the engine running, I offered things learned from a lifetime of caregiving for my wife who lives with severe disabilities. Giving Randy my card and sharing he could call anytime, I prayed with him, hugged him, and watched him breathe a bit easier. Returning to the restaurant, Judy, with brimming eyes, nodded her thanks and served me breakfast.

Strengthening and encouraging my fellow caregivers serves as one of my deepest passions. I understand the brutality of the journey in ways few do. I also understand that the caregiving burden borne in the gay community is all too often compounded by judgment from people of faith. People who share my faith.

Caregiving respects no sexual preference, creed, politics, religion, or race. The harshness of caregiving saves all its assaults…to wage on the bonds of love. In the face of a chronic illness or disability, that love isn’t sexual or about sexual orientation. The love compelling one person to put themselves between a vulnerable loved one and even worse disaster—is something far different and worthy of respect.

Suffering and sorrow tend to put differences into perspective. The ministry of grace vividly displayed from the cross of Christ, can flow from us without this incessant need to fix, change, or dispute those who live differently.

In that parking lot, Randy and I were not gay versus straight. Nor were our doctrines and creeds discussed. While I remain devoutly evangelical with deep convictions, I never asked Randy’s beliefs. I just saw a fellow caregiver grieving as he ministered to a suffering loved one. Randy and I have that in common.

Caregivers struggle. They deserve care—not judgment for their fears, mistakes, or even their lifestyle. No one has ever argued me into a relationship. But there are those who loved me into one.

When the AIDS epidemic crashed upon society, all too many in the gay community were shunned. In the process, a vast number suffered with a horrific disease without the comfort of Christian ministry. That tragedy can’t be undone. Yet, that same community stands in need now, as they grieve while caring for aging and disabled loved ones.

Acceptance is not agreement. In order to care for someone, one is not bound to condone a lifestyle operating in contrast to Scripture. Yet, ministering hands reached into my grief and trauma to help me get to safer ground. I would be a poor steward of that help …that grace …if I didn’t offer it to others as they journey down the heartbreaking path of a caregiver.

While I’ve learned to speak fluent “caregiver,” it’s my Savior’s native tongue.

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Peter Rosenberger hosts a radio program for family caregivers broadcast weekly from Nashville, TN on more than 200 stations. He has served as a caregiver for his wife Gracie, who has lived with severe disabilities for more than 30 years. His new book, 7 Caregiver Landmines and How You Can Avoid Them releases nationally Fall 2018. @hope4caregiver

Sandra Bullock on How She Handled Losing Her Dad and Dogs Within Weeks

The First Holiday Without a Loved One -- The Atlantic

After Maryanne Pope’s husband, John, died in September 2000, the first Christmas without him, just a few months later, was a struggle. She used to cherish decorating a Christmas tree in her Calgary, Canada, home, but that year, there was no joy to be found.

“Putting up a tree didn’t feel right to me. There was absolutely nothing to celebrate,” says Pope, the author of A Widow’s Awakening. “Plus, I may have had the intuitive wisdom to know that unpacking all the familiar decorations would be a disaster.” She tried again the next year, but “every ornament was like unpacking a land mine,” she says. “The memories were extremely painful.”

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Instead, she tried something new.

“I put up a string of white lights on the hearth of our fireplace, where there were some photographs of John,” she says. “I did Christmas very differently.”

As the years went by, Christmas got a little easier to bear, and she began to love the season again, especially the lights she would always put up in honor of her husband. “I finally began to realize that I was going to have to toss the traditions that were causing me even more anguish,” she says. “I had to learn how to set boundaries so that I could celebrate the Christmas season the way I wanted to.”

The First Holiday Without a Loved One