Night of Rememberance and an adult art therapy class

I went to an event put on by the Sutter Hospice team called "A Night of Remembrance." We were asked to bring a framed picture and submit a digital photo for a slide presentation. I RSVP'd and it was my only scheduled event on the calendar for months. I went alone. It was my first social outing in a while. I have been having many nights of remembrance at home, but I wanted to see what the hospice nurses and staff would cook up.

Specifically, I hoped to see people who could remember Sharon with me, such as Gina and Susan, who were among her recent nurses. Susan showed up, Gina didn't. It didn't seem to be much of a night of remembering the people, actually, but a night of talking about the general subject of grief and loss. There were songs and snacks and a slide show. If there was remembering going on, it was done silently.

I have to say, without prejudice, that Sharon's picture was the most lovely one in the bunch.

I was approached by the grief support coordinator and somehow wound up agreeing to attend their adult art therapy class. I suppose it was due to my complete lack of any activities that I found myself without an excuse. I could have just said no, I suppose, but these days I don't have much fight in me.

I don't like driving at night. My vision is bad enough but 2 lane highways in the darkness are the worst. Oncoming headlights blind me to the point of near panic. I stay focused on the white line on the shoulder called the "fog line." I thought I would be late because of Marysville traffic, but I wound up being the first person there. Big deal. I survived the drive there, move on.

It was a mixed age group, I was neither oldest or youngest. It began with more discussing of grief and loss by the group coordinator. We moved on to making a "mask" that represented our outward projection to the world. People made either happy plaques or some kind of representation of the positivity they knew they were expected to portray, but with subtle clues about the fragility of this image.

My lump of clay looked like an unformed skull with hollow eyes and a fracture on the top of the dome. I wasn't going for subtle. When asked to share about the idea behind it I said that I'm not really wearing a mask, I'm wearing my grief on the outside. I suppose that could constitute a mask. The mask of a broken, grieving person. Not sure what would be under the mask, though, if anything.

The coordinator kept asking if I felt safe. It is such a catch word these days. I hate it. Safe from what? I am not safe. No one is. It is a fiction we keep telling ourselves in order to not freak out because reality is so harsh and uncertain. I had to assure her that I would "try my best" to make it to the next class and that I wasn't actively suicidal.

I guess my mask is pretty scary.

Anyway, since my schedule is clear for the foreseeable future, I guess I will try my best to make it to the next class. I'm not sure if I'm going to get anything out of it. The other grief group, which was mostly seniors didn't seem too effective. Most of those people had religious beliefs that gave them some kind of comfort. I felt out of place with my non-committal, non-dual, non-ideology. My skepticism and doubt wouldn't be helpful to this group of grannies who just missed their loved ones. Sure, we had that in common, but I can't relate to the God and heaven consolations. I wish I could.

Anyway, I spend most of my time alternately distracting myself and actively indulging my grief. I still find that tugging at my own heartstrings is the only rewarding activity I engage in. And the reward is that I feel something, rather than nothing. I've given up on the idea that a happy side to things exists for me. So, sad is my new happy.

I so wish that I could remember Sharon and not feel so sad and horrible. Part of me knows that she wouldn't want it this way. The rest of me knows I'm getting what I deserve and even she would agree with that. I can only hope such a thing as forgiveness exists in this or some afterlife. I don't forgive or accept myself. I'm having a hard time believing in unconditional love or forgiveness.

Maybe somewhere.

Someday.