In August of 2022 our family began arranging and attending a series of funerals. Some of our losses were due to complications from Covid, while others were the result of unknown causes. During the first week of August, we attended two services. The first was in Albany, NY and the second was in Syracuse, NY just three days later. Both decedents were young men in their 50s.
There was something else funky going on that summer, I myself had Covid. And long Covid at that. My flu like symptoms of aches and pains, temperature regulation issues, severe cough and overall feeling like garbage persisted nearly a year after I contracted the virus. One of the major symptoms that I still find hanging around intermittently, was at the time extreme: It was brain fog.
Mostly, this brain fog would show up as me forgetting what I was talking about, forgetting what someone else was taking about, or a combination of both. While this rarely happens anymore (mercifully) during August of 2022 I was at the height of experiencing all of these long Covid symptoms, including forgetfulness. Packing and traveling for memorial services is not an easy task under the best circumstances. And these conditions were far from best.
But pack it up we did. Once we got ourselves together, we left our home for roughly a week and unlike some trips we take, we knew exactly where we were going, what we were going to wear, and when, including accessories. And by accessories, I mean jewelry.
I am not a big jewelry buff, but I love to wear my pearls whenever I have the chance. And on this trip, I would certainly have the chance. In addition to my pearls, I was traveling with a bracelet gifted to me by my mother on my 50th birthday, and a few other sentimental items that don’t get worn much but mean a lot to me. As foggy as my brain may have been, I managed to get the accessory (jewelry) thing together.
Until we returned to Maryland.
A few days after coming home, I was looking for my pearl bracelet at Zach’s house and did not find it. At the time I was still living at my condo and figured it must be there, or maybe hadn’t quite been unpacked yet. A few days after that, I had the same experience while attempting to wear that 50th birthday bracelet. I couldn’t put my hands on that either. I didn’t panic, but they hadn’t just eventually shown up as I’d told myself they would.
So, I searched. I looked in every possible place I could think of: The car, my toiletry bag, a travel bag that carries electronics, chargers and emergency battery packs. I checked every pocket of every suitcase, purse, backpack, cooler and any other carrying device I found. I called the hotels. They checked the safes and closets. No luck. I was sick to my stomach. My humble but sentimental jewelry was gone.
Weeks and months passed. I continued to look around for it every once in a while. As I thought back through our steps on that day we returned home, I vaguely remembered trying to get into the car to drive back to Maryland feeling terribly sick. If you have ever tried to pack or travel while your body is under the weather, you know what I am talking about.
It’s the kind of feeling that leaves you with only one choice: Get everything of ours in this hotel room, into the car, somehow. The vehicle becomes one big cargo van, but we know it will get sorted when we are home. I vaguely remembered holding my jewelry thinking “I have to put this in a safe place” but the place was so safe even I could not find it.
Continued searches were an exercise in futility. All the clothes had been washed, all luggage emptied and put away. There were no more places to look. Eventually I shared my experience with the people who’d given me the various pieces I’d lost. I was disappointed in myself, that I’d not been a better steward of these items. Since they were gone, I decided to let people like my mother know what happened.
It was hard. But I did it. At least they would know why I didn’t wear that stuff anymore. I started thinking about the specific pieces of jewelry: Pearl earrings that my family had given me when I graduated from nursing school (1999); a pearl necklace my Godmother built over my childhood by adding a pearl for each birthday; a pearl ring from China from my mother, and a set of aquamarine necklace and earrings gifted to me by my cousin. It was one of those things that truly challenged my equanimity.
But, as I often do, I tried to coach myself through it by reaching for gratitude and other levels to pull. This looked something like:
- “Well, some people never get to have beautiful things, not even one, and I was able to wear and enjoy those pieces, as well of the love given with them, even if only for a short time.”
- “Well, someone needs that jewelry more than I do, for whatever reason.”
- “Well, nothing lasts forever.”
- “I wonder which, if any of them can be replaced.”
And in fact, I did replace at least two of the lost items by locating the original jewelry designer on-line. But the whole thing just left such a bad feeling in my gut. The funerals sucked to begin with. Taking that trip (and another that followed later that Fall) with long Covid was nearly impossible. But really? I had to let my sentimental pieces of jewelry go? This was really challenging my work of going from “theory to practice to mastery” with some of the coaching concepts I’d been playing with. Forget that. Can’t I just be mad?
And there it was, my old familiar pattern and I knew it well. So often I try and make the best of things and this has been true even with the deaths of my own children. When our daughter died, I went to nursing school, after which I worked as a PICU nurse to “give back” to other families what nurses had done for ours.
When our son died, I became a runner. First, I trained to run the Army Ten Miler, then a half marathon, and eventually I completed three full marathons.
The celebrations were short-lived. With every accomplishment, I noticed that I was still a mom without her babies. And despite my attempts to be superwoman, that fact did not change. Eventually I had to stop focusing on what was lost and become enamored with the life that is here. And there is a lot here to fall in love with.
But in the meantime, I had to tackle this thing called acceptance. Similarly to the lost jewelry (though not suggesting my children and jewelry have much in common) I had to shift my perception. Instead of constantly noticing all the ways my heart was broken, I allowed myself to feel grateful for the gifts of their lives, and that I got to know them at all. I appreciated all the families who don’t get to have children at all, for whatever reason. I’ve looked at Zach a million times, and just said “Thank you.”
My acceptance didn’t bring back my daughter or my son. It didn’t take away the pain. It didn’t comfort me when I could smell their clothes and wished they were in them. Acceptance didn’t numb me the way some of my other coping strategies seemed to. But it just felt more like a relief to acknowledge that this was our situation and we had to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
So, I was already practiced at this acceptance thing. And when the jewelry was missing it took me a little bit, but eventually I just allowed it to be true. The jewelry was gone. I prayed that the lovely and sentimental pieces were bringing good fortune and health to the person wearing them. I knew it would not bring them back, just like acceptance didn’t bring my babies back. But I wanted the relief, and so let it go and forgot about it.
Fast forward to packing for another trip a few months later, also for a family funeral. As I pulled out all the bags and got organized, I was reminded that there might be a pool at the hotel, something Zach loves! So, I reached for his swim bag in addition to all of his other gear, and there it was.
At the very bottom of this blue, mesh, nylon bag carrying sunscreen, water shoes and Zach’s swimming vest I felt with my hand, the soft material of the silk, drawstring bag that contained my jewelry. The tips of my fingers touched this small bag delicately at first, and then suddenly I just yanked it out of the swim bag and my heart about stopped. It had been there all along. It was in the safe place that I must have put it when trying not to faint on my way from the hotel to the car. And I have enjoyed wearing these items and admiring them every single time I have seen them, as if they were all brand-new gems!
Acceptance does not change the circumstances that surround us.
Acceptance is just a choice we make internally. Making this choice helps us move from “F*— THIS!” to “What needs to happen here?” It is an empowering alternative. And its one that is always available to us. No one can prevent us from accepting what has happened. And no one can keep us from mentally positioning the experience in any way we see fit in order to give us the best chance at experiencing a life of quality and richness.
I am not saying acceptance is easy. But I am saying it is one of the few things we can control when our loved one has died. Choosing to create a narrative we can live with in the face of profound loss is just a smart thing to do. Resisting reality is a losing game no matter how many times we try to do it.
If you are grieving, and you are frustrated that you have tried everything in the world to recover, give “acceptance” another look. You won’t be the first person to hate it. Nor will you be alone if you surrender your resistance of “what is” and find reprieve. Acceptance gives us a shot. It’s not a guarantee, it’s just an opening door. Resistance leaves us stuck in the mud, wheels spinning and going no where. (Think My Cousin Vinny)