the thing about grief is...

Recently one of my pet birds, Daisy, was very ill.  We tried several different medications, over a couple months, and it seemed like she was recovering.  And then she took a downward turn, and nothing was working.  She was suffering, struggling to breathe, and we couldn’t get her any relief.  After several visits to the vet, and further decline, the agonizing, heartbreaking decision was made to let her go.  To end her suffering as painlessly as possible. 
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I sing to my birds every night before they go to bed, and whenever we make a visit to the vet, I sing to them in the car.  It helps to calm them on the ride there and back.  But this time, I would be singing to Daisy as we prepared to let her go.  Singing through tears, Daisy and I made the trip to the vet. And I sang to her, holding her in my hands, as she quietly passed away.  I was glad for her release from suffering,  but mourned her loss from the flock. 

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​I’ve been thru this more times than I want to admit. But when you love fragile creatures, sometimes, no matter how much great care they receive, you cannot keep them from dying.  And always, grief is part of the relationship.  There is no fast forward.  No looking on the bright side.  Still, thankfully, the flock carries on.  Hours after singing farewell to dearest Daisy through tears, I sang goodnight to the rest of the flock, through tears again. 
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The thing about grief is, every time you are confronted with it, old losses come to the surface. And it is like grieving everything anew.  It may not last as long, or be as intense, but the grief is there, and it requires attention.  Old loved ones are whispering hello, and memories  and moments come forward once more.  More evidence that we never truly lose those we love. They are not here with us in the flesh, but they reside in us. It's painful, but it's true.

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​In grieving Daisy, I was reminded of a dear aunt that passed away many years ago.  A ceramic angel she owned hangs as a guardian from my rear-view mirror,  and accompanies me wherever I go. Sometimes, when I am feeling anxious, sad, or worried, I hold it in my hand. I try to absorb her kindness and positive energy through it.  Through the memories of her it conjures.
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After my mom passed away in 2010, my heart was broken.  The connection to my aunt was a gift to me at a time when sorrow was the defining condition of my days.  Even though we were not near each other, we kept in touch.  Letters, cards, and conversations with her were such a comfort to me.  She always encouraged my interests in art and music and travel.  

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Later on, her health was declining. I spoke with her. And with her children, my cousins.  There wasn’t much time left.  I really wanted to see her in person before she passed away.  So, I made the trip to visit her in hospice.  I spent an afternoon with her and my cousins.  We sang songs, reminisced. Laughed. Told stories.  The next day I was to return home, so I stopped to visit her again before leaving town.  The pain in my heart grew as I held back tears when we had to say goodbye; knowing full well it would be the last time. In a way, it was like losing my mom all over again. I left the hospice, rushing from the lobby to my car, where I burst into tears and sobbed until I was calm enough to drive away.
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A week later she had passed away, and I made the trip once more for her memorial service.  Spending the afternoon with family and friends who loved her so much was a comfort.  She had designated several items to be placed on a table for her friends and family to keep in remembrance of her.  I took the angel, and it has hung from the rear-view mirror of my car ever since.  Guiding me safely home.

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​Earlier in the year that my aunt passed away, my husband gave me a ukulele for Valentine’s Day.  I had wanted one for some time, and it was one of the best gifts I’ve ever received.  I had it with me on the trip to visit my aunt.  In fact, the songs we sang were accompanied by my very limited ukulele skills.  On the trip there, from Milwaukee to Minneapolis, contemplating the situation, and the scenery of the drive, I wrote a song about it called “Stillwater Goodbye”.  I would be staying in Stillwater, and, well, I had come to say goodbye.  

​I’ve been grieving Daisy, my aunt, my mom, and several others as of late.  It’s as if they follow me throughout my days.  Sometimes just whispering behind me, sometimes fully present and accompanied by tears.  Always missing them. But glad for them, too.  I won’t part with these feelings. They are mine to keep. Love continues, no matter what. Sounds like a song…