Resolution to yourself

I remember the first time I heard it.  As a teen probably.  It seemed to hold such promise.  And truth.

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life”.

But when you are learning how to live life again, much less a new life, with the death of someone you love, I think these words take on new meaning.

“Today is the first day...”

January 1st brings us the opportunity to take stock, if we are able.  Willing.  In life.  Our own.

Where am I headed?  What am I creating?  Who am I becoming?  If I were able/willing to trust, to dream (again), what would that dream be?  For my life?

These are my suggestions for this new year.  2011.

21 years after the death of my daughter, Erin.  11 years after the death of my wife, Trici.  And now six years after my son Rory died.

I give these to you.   As my gift.  Hoping to light your tunnel this new year.

1.    Set the intention to heal.  Even if you don’t believe healing your “broken” self is possible,  repeat the phrase, “I am healing” as often as you can.  Let it become your mantra.  “I am healing.”  Lean into your healing.

2.    Commit to active mourning.  “Go public” with your grief (the internal, automatic response to loss).  Find a therapist, a support group, a “grief buddy.”  Healing occurs when you find a safe place where you can excavate, explore and express your grief in the presence of others.  Being stoic, pretending, repressing, rejecting, ignoring all that wells up inside of you is not a path to healing.  Mourning, in the presence of others, is.

3.    Commit to creating a safe, sacred space for you and the people you love.  A space where everyone gets to feel exactly what they feel.  A space where every single corner of your being is loved and loveable – by you and everyone you let into that space.  A space where you are seen.  Heard.  Honored.  Most importantly by yourself, and, of course, by everyone you allow to enter your space.

4.    Commit to going outside and walking in nature every day.  Even if it is only for five minutes.  Even if  you have to force yourself.  Build up to ten minutes.  15.  20.  Connect with nature.  Feel yourself in your own body.  Pay attention to your feet hitting the ground.  The breeze on your face... notice.

5.     Commit to finding ways to release the heavy, burdensome energy stored in your body.  A massage therapist can help you physically relax and he/she can help your body release stored energy and memory that no longer serves you.  If you are living in a cold climate… consider a massage with hot stones on a cold winter day.  Work with a Reiki master, a Craniosacral therapist or any other energy worker.  At the very least, the physical touch will be healing.

6.    Commit to spending quiet time with yourself every day – to simply BE with yourself and your new life.  If you have to force yourself to be quiet and alone for five minutes – do it.  If you keep running from yourself and your new life, how can you live it?  How can you consciously participate in it?  Your own life.  Pray.  Meditate.  Ask.  Listen.  Receive.  Allow.  Surrender.  Feel.  Cry. 

7.   Commit to writing in a gratitude journal every day.  First thing in the morning or last thing at night.  Write 5 things you are grateful for every day.  Every day. 

8.   Commit to asking and answering life’s fundamental questions.  Questions such as: Is there a God?  If so, what is he/she/it/they?  What happens to people when they die?  Do they still exist?  Where are they?  Is the person I love who died still aware of me?  Can he/she communicate with me?  What role did “God” play in my beloveds’ death?  Then listen.  Listen as the answers bubble into being.  As you heal, these answers may change.  Be open to change.

9.   Commit to identify and question all your beliefs that are causing you pain.  Unless you want to marinate in pain.  You, and only you, get to decide what you believe.  It’s your unexamined beliefs that are causing you great pain.  Beliefs that may include:  “He shouldn’t have died.  She died too young.  I could have saved him.  I will never be happy again.  Life is no longer worth living.”  Replace these painful beliefs with life-affirming beliefs.

10.  Commit to being gentle with yourself.  Really gentle.  Trusting life enough so that you are willing to create new dreams takes time.  Lots of time.  Healing is a process.  It’s a journey.  Be gentle.

As this New Year unfolds… set the intention to heal.  Set the intention to consciously participate in your own transformation.

Commit to a plan. 

A New Year.  A New Life.  The life you were born to live.  Starting now.

From Father to Father

Dear Dad,

I am sorry your child died.  When my own 18-month-old daughter Erin died suddenly in 1990 I did not think I could physically survive, the pain was so real and intense.  Emotionally and spiritually, I did not want to survive.  When my 13-year-old son Rory died from brain cancer in 2005, I knew I would survive physically.  I had done it before.  I knew I could survive emotionally and spiritually.  I just wasn’t sure I wanted to.
Learning to live with the death of your beloved child (regardless of your age and theirs) is possible and may very well be the hardest work you will ever do.  Make no mistake about it.  It is work!
These are a few things I’ve learned along the way.  If they resonate, grab on to them.  If they don’t right now – keep moving.  But come back to them.  Perhaps they’ll speak to you another day.
1.    You will always be your child’s father.  Always.  The bond is eternal.

2.    You will always have a relationship with your child.  You get to decide if it is a healthy relationship or an unhealthy relationship.  Does the relationship bring you peace or pain?

3.    Your child is doing everything possible to connect with you.  To let you know he is happy.  To comfort you.  She is trying to assure you that she felt loved by you, is in no pain, and loves you with a love that is beyond your comprehension.  You will be together again.  Try and open to that communication and possibility.

4.    Not only is it okay to cry, it is healthy.  And if you are able to cry in the presence of your wife and other children, you open a path for family healing.  Crying is a good thing.  It is not a sign of weakness as many men have been taught.

5.    Grief, the internal, automatic response to loss, is not meant to be experienced alone.  In order to heal, we must share our grief.  Consider seeing a grief therapist.  Ask around for recommendations.  See the therapist three times before you decide if it’s a good fit or not.  Find a support group.  Again, visit the group three times to get a good feel for it.  If it’s not for you, find another.

6.    “Staying strong” for the sake of your wife, your children, your family and friends does no good to anyone.  Grief that is repressed, stuffed, ignored, pretended away, will resurface in one way or another.   Grief must be mourned.  We must “go public” with our grief in order to heal.

7.    Healing is possible.  I promise.  I don’t believe we “move on.”  I do believe we can each learn to “move with” the death of our children.  When and if we are ready.  And I know it requires tremendous work.  But it is worth it.  Joy can be yours again.
To learn more about my own 20+ year journey living with grief, please visit my website at www.tomzuba.com.

Hope and peace,
Tom Zuba


Living With the Holidays As you’re learning to live with the death of someone you love A Virtual Journey to the Heart

What: Join us this holiday season on a virtual journey of friendship, camaraderie and transformation from the comfort of your own home.
Who: Anyone who is learning to live with the death of someone they love, regardless of whether the death occurred yesterday, six months ago, five years ago, or fifteen years ago. All are welcome to participate – for a few days, one week on – one week off, or for the entire 2 ½ months. Consider participating with your family, a group of friends or an established support group.
When: November 1, 2010 to January 15, 2011, whatever time during the day or night that’s convenient for you.
Why: The grief journey is not meant to be a solitary one, yet it so often becomes one. Healing occurs when you mourn. When you “go public” with all that is occurring inside of you, pushing the grief up and out. Healing occurs when you find a safe, sacred space to be with your self and your new life.
The holidays can be especially lonely, confusing and painful for people who are learning to live with death. There’s no reason to “go it” alone. Join a supportive, understanding group of fellow-travels around the world as we make this journey together. Day-by-day, hour-by-hour, minute-by-minute.
How: Home central for this journey will be my website, www.tomzuba.com. Daily, I will post suggestions, ideas, reflections, and even a homework assignment or two, on the homepage of my website. Each daily post will be supported by frequent posts on my Facebook fan page which will also allow us to have discussions about the topic of the day, or anything we like. Follow me on Twitter and receive gentle nudges, helpful reminders and things to think about during the day.
If you want to immerse yourself in the total experience, visit my website every day, “like” my Facebook fan page, and follow me on Twitter (It’s easy, just go to www.twitter.com and set up your free account. I am…TomZuba.) If you don’t “do” Facebook and/or aren’t able to access Twitter, that’s okay. My website’s Daily Journal will provide you with enough information to make your journey worthwhile.
Where: Wherever you are. Wherever you are most comfortable. At home. At work. Pull up a chair. Grab a cup of tea. We’ll accompany each other. You don’t have to navigate the holidays alone this year. Together we can learn. Grow. Heal. Together.
Cost: It’s free. You’ll benefit most if you have a willingness to lean into the transformation that awaits you. To open to possibilities. To step into your new life. If that’s not possible right now, join us anyway.

Would I be willing to hasten (to cause to be quick; speed; hurry) my child’s death if I knew he was in pain?

The relationship I had (have) with my 13-year-year-old son Rory has always been sweetly complicated.  Rory was born one year and six days after the death of his older sister Erin, our first-born.  Erin died suddenly at 18-months-old.  The news of Rory’s presence from an EPT my wife took on Thanksgiving morning was the beginning of “the rest of our life.”  Awareness of his tiny self brought hope and possibility.  When he was three and standing in front of the television conducting the orchestra in the Disney movie “Fantasia,” I knew he was not your average kid.  At five he asked his mother and I to promise that whichever of us died first, would ask Einstein - when we met him in heaven - to visit Rory in a dream.  Rory had some questions for the scientist.

When my wife died equally as suddenly when Rory was seven, he asked if I thought “the womb was the portal of the soul?”  Probably, I answered. 

By default, he became co-parent with me to his younger-brother-by-four-years Sean.  A role he happily and naturally stepped into.

In time, my eyes reopened, my heart stopped clenching, and a pattern of steady breathing returned. Life with my brilliant, sensitive, most amazing son Rory Brennan Zuba became an adventure.  He was our tour guide; our docent, if you will.  He knew answers to all of our questions.  “Ask Rory,” became the family mantra.  With humility and grace he grew into his role.

When the “hot spot” on his left temporal lobe morphed into a diagnosis of Glioblastoma Multiforme in November of 2004, I committed myself to creating a treatment plan for him that combined the best of western, eastern and alternative treatments.  We travelled cross-country from our Midwestern hometown and availed ourselves to everything out there – a low salt, organic diet; daily juicing; supplements; additional vitamins; cumin added to every food; acupuncture and Chinese herbs; crystal bowls; chanting; praying; hypnotism; ashes from India; water from Lourdes; holy oils; massage; reiki; craniosacral therapy; and guided imagery.  You name it, we tried it.

And following a rapid weight loss due to an inability to keep food down.  A body that could no longer support itself physically – no walking, no talking.  A spirit that was clearly turning inward, finishing up (or perhaps beginning?) work that needed to be done…on Monday night, February 21, 2005 Rory’s blood pressure skyrocketed and his caregivers panicked.  We called 911.  Paramedics rolled him out the front door on a cold winter night racing to get to our hospital in time.  “He’s stopped breathing,” she yelled.  “I’m going to bag him.  Change of plans.  We’re taking him to the nearest facility.”

And when the ER doctor gently asked, “What would you like me to do?”  From my gut I pleaded – Keep him alive.  I’m not ready to let him go.

And they did, transferring his body-on-a-ventilator to a room upstairs, nurses encouraging me to get right in the bed with him.  Where I stayed till morning.  Cradling my little boy genius I had raised by myself since he was seven as if he were still a baby.  My baby.  Stroking his hair.  Smelling his skin.

And in my heart, and in my head I pleaded.  “Don’t die.  Don’t leave me.  Spare my son dear God.  Heal this child.”  And I screamed at my wife, dead now for over five years, “You can’t take him.  He’s mine.  Leave him alone.  Let him live”

And the screaming and the pleading had little to do with Rory’s future.  I knew he would be fine.  Fascinated by time-travel, black holes, time-space theories and alternate universes, I knew he was about to begin another adventure.  A small part of me was envious.

It was me I was worried about.  I knew I would survive.  That wasn’t the issue.  I had done it twice before.  I didn’t think I wanted too.  Not without my most amazing son by my side.

And the morning of February 22, 2005, I made the decision.  “Take the tube out of his mouth.”  They did.  And his body stopped.

And the next chapter of our relationship began.



What kinds of support has your family received that was not helpful?

When my son Rory was diagnosed with incurable brain cancer in 2004 I was faced with what seemed like ever growing, insurmountable medical expenses.  I declined a traditional western treatment plan of chemotherapy and radiation because it offered no hope and instead looked for alternative treatment methods.  That search took me from my home in the Midwestern USA to Seattle, Washington and Houston, Texas.  Friends and family helped me pay our enormous medical expenses by raising a tremendous amount of money for us through a variety of fundraisers.  Airfare was not an additional financial burden for us because people donated their air miles, allowing us to fly to Seattle and Houston (two times) for free.  Not having to worry about the financial part of our journey with cancer allowed me to focus on the more important issues – my son with cancer and his younger brother who often got lost in the shuffle.

When my wife died suddenly on New Year’s Day 1999, community members rallied around my two young sons and I.  People I hardly knew immediately created a schedule of neighbors and community members who volunteered to bring us dinner every night.  That schedule continued for several months and really helped me walk through the darkness of winter that year.  The knock on the door each evening, accompanied by a smiling face and a hot meal let me know we were not alone and that people cared.