The Term Single Mom

(or Dad) Sucks

The term, “single mom” just won’t suffice anymore. The time has come to place a jauntier hat on our heads and upgrade this worn-out title to “independent mom,” or dad. For the last few years, I’ve called myself a single mom as way of explaining that my marriage dissolved and the bulk of parenting rests on my shoulders. The term encapsulates the responsibility of raising kids without another adult with whom to make family decisions. Yes, the role can be exhausting and sometimes piercingly lonely. But, I strongly believe words matter, and the coupling of “single” and “mom” increasingly makes me uncomfortable and sad.

For starters, the word “single” attempts to define a person through division. It describes us solo parents as half of what we once were, when in fact almost everything about life has doubled. Raising kids alone means assuming dual roles. We are both the comforter and disciplinarian, the scheduler and minister of fun, the chef and dish washer, the home decorator and garbage person. Each of us can ramble off moments that required us to draw on unknown reserves of energy and skill, like standing tip-toe on ladder in the middle of the night to change a smoke alarm battery that won’t f*ing stop beeping. That’s because we exist at 200 percent almost all the time.

Then there’s also the ick factor of defining a person through partnership. Instead, why not place emphasis on the reward of raising kids autonomously? Within my home decisions aren’t split. The days flow like a semi well-oiled machine. Well, sometimes. And through necessity my children entertain themselves for long periods, and are responsible in ways never imagined. Now don’t get me wrong, if a stunning individual appeared in our lives, he would be welcomed with open hearts and arms. That said, I don’t want my role as a parent to be defined by having or not having a partner. I want my role as a mother to be defined by my relationship with my children and my relationship to the role itself.

I love being a mom. I adore the increasingly complex ideas and emotions my children verbalize. Their loud and restless bodies fill the house with kinetic energy. And they constantly remind me to laugh, play and be silly. At the same time, I’ve grown adept at managing a home and being the boss of almost all decisions. So, as the Chief Everything Officer for my household, I’m giving myself a promotion to independent mom. Independent, not because I don’t need anyone else, I certainly do, but because I’m reveling in my own freedom and strength. Strong, independent moms and dads raise strong, independent kids. More power to you.

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Robynne Boyd is the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss. It is now available for free in the iOS App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

Returning to Life

Huntington Bay feeds directly into the Long Island Sound. I live here. Salty air, beaches, and marinas each add to the beauty of this town. As summer sets in, the waters of Long Island’s north shore are full of life. Boats reflect the vibrant energy of the long summer days and serve as the backdrop to sunsets. On every drive past this shoreline and with each summer sunset, I’ve learned to appreciate the serenity.

Overnight, as summers turn to fall, the waters empty. Boats disappear from the landscape as they are stored away and then the darkness of winter rolls in. There is a barren feeling as time moves through the long cold winter. It seems like the short days and colors of grey last forever. I hardly notice as the boats return. It feels like one day I drive past the bay and like magic, it is full of life again.

This is so much like grief. Life before loss is vibrant and full like the bay filled with boats. When loss happens, an immediate emptiness sets in and all of the things that signified warmth and sunshine are gone. The long cold darkness rolls in like winter. It feels like forever. Just like the boats, the return is tough to notice. Hindsight helped me to recognize that it happened little- by- little. A smile. A laugh. Quick moments when the ache felt less and happiness was easier to reach. And then one day, a look in the mirror reveals a person who is once again full of life. The seasons of grief vary from person-to-person. But just like the boats, we all come back. Warm summer sunsets and serenity will return.

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Kim Libertini is all too familiar with grief and the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss. It is now available for free in the iOS App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

Loss Monsoon

Like the approach of monsoon clouds, I felt the words move rapidly toward me. Just like a monsoon, I got caught off guard. I’ve been in monsoons before. They rain fiercely, heavily, pack a mean punch and appear to never let up. As I felt the strength of the words hit me, my heart suddenly pounded into the base of my stomach. It’s that moment when the bottom of the world as we know it drops out and everything is washed away with an immeasurable ferocity. We frightfully grab and cling to anything and everything we can with the hope of reversing the damage. We’ve all been there.

Swept up by the words and desperately trying to navigate, I struggled.

Scientifically, a monsoon is a seasonal reversal accompanied by corresponding changes resulting from asymmetry. In this way loss, of any form (marriage,relationship,friendship, family), is much like a monsoon. The body is somehow expected to maneuver the corresponding changes from prevailing emotional reversal. No matter how many occurrences or how hard we try, we just can’t mentally or physically prepare.

I wasn’t prepared.

As with most storms, there is always collateral damage. For me, that came in the form of lost friendships and altered familial relationships, but most significantly, the slippery slope of depression and anxiety that I now battle daily. These monsoons changed my self perception and grossly underscored an internal feeling of inadequacy. Each storm offering my mind the rationalization that I was simply “not enough.”

This time was no different.

Storms are followed by both a cleanup and rebuild. We hastily tuck things away as a preventative measure, in the anticipation of future storms, with the hope that they won’t be unearthed again. Unfortunately, the next storm quickly reveals the weathered weaknesses of the past. Old wounds exposed. New wounds made. Suddenly, it’s impossible to avoid that slope of depression.

I am submerged in the familiar darkness once again.

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Kim Libertini is all too familiar with grief and the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss available FREE for download in the App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

Email: good.grief.app.2017@gmail.com to find out how to help us help others and become a supporter.

I Talk Aloud to My Dead Mom.

My mother is dead. She’s been gone for almost three years now, and yet, I still speak to her. Aloud.

My lone voice greets the air with a “Hey, mom,” when her presence feels particularly strong. Or an “I love you,” after her memory springs vivid. Her spirit lives in and around me and so our conversation continues on a new subtle level. I find it comforting in many ways.

I have a feeling this is more common than I realize. Does anyone else speak to their dead loved ones?

I’d love to hear from you.

~Robynne

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Robynne Boyd is the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss. It is now available for less than the cost of a latte in the iOS App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

Waking Up To Grief

There’s a surreal moment that happens again and again when grieving. It occurs after sleep. Falling asleep is hard enough, and yet waking up feels harder still. That’s when reality comes back into focus. The reality of a life you don’t want. The reality that you’re in free fall. The daunting task of making it through another day when even simple tasks turn challenging. Getting dressed. Work. Kids. Eating. Holding it together. Falling apart. And finding one’s way into sleep again.

It’s the nightmare version of Groundhog Day where panic, dread and anxiety play on repeat. At the very beginning of my own grief, I remember waking up already out of breath, my body in a constant state of fight or flight. Later on, the dread turned into exhaustion as my brain struggled with the hard task of adjusting to my new situation and trying to forge meaning from uncontrollable circumstances. Nothing’s quite as tiring as the heavy lifting of carrying a broken heart. Over time my mornings became lighter and easier to face. These days, dread doesn’t descend frequently. Anxiety doesn’t grip my stomach. My breath travels in and out more easily as I’ve slowly shifted into a new reality.

Looking back, it makes sense there’s cognitive dissonance between the old and new life. There’s so much new information for the body and mind to assimilate as we struggle with acceptance and eventually crawl towards joy. Waking up to grief is process. Please be patient with yourself.

-Robynne Boyd

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Showers of Tears

I turned the handle, waited and then reached to feel the water temperature. I stepped in.

The task itself felt arduous. Before… it was simple and routine. Who would have thought the simple act of showering in the acute stage of loss would be this taxing.

As fast as the warm water pelted against my skin, my tears broke and ran down my face. I leaned in. My body slowly slid downward until I found myself tucked into the corner where the shower walls met. My chest began to heave from my deep sobs and my shoulders shrugged up and down.

Was it the warmth of the water or the pressure against my skin? What was it about the shower that triggered my tears? In my daily life, as I navigated the fog of new grief, I desperately tried to hold my emotions in check. Simultaneously, I deeply longed for an embrace that could never happen again. Maybe this was why the shower became my place to let go. Maybe there in the warm steam, I felt embraced. I can only hypothesize. I will never really know why. This happened daily. Physically, I was incapable of stopping it.

Thankfully, my cries were muted from the ears of my children by the sound of the pelting water. Sitting on the floor of the shower, knees tucked close to my chest I painfully cried out,

        “Why?”  

          “I miss you.”

          “How could you leave me like this?”  

         “It’s so unfair! I can’t do this!”  

         “I would give anything to have you back here by my side.”

I’d lost track of how long I had been weeping on the shower floor. Something brought me back into my current reality. I shut off the water. Still in a fog, I exited the shower, eyes puffy and red, feeling completely drained. I had no choice but to cover up my grief- stricken face with makeup, get dressed and muster both the courage and strength to go to work.

This shower scene was on repeat for what seemed like forever. Was it a year? …Maybe more. And then one day the pattern broke. Perhaps that was the point where the fog began lifting? Did it mark the moment when I became “unstuck” between the life before and the life after loss? It’s unclear. The frequency of shower tears diminished after that. Now years later, I can tell you that although seldom, every once in while, a strong sensation of sadness strikes in the shower and the tears roll. For me, it’s evidence that I carry a sadness for this man who will forever be missed and always be loved.

Mom Memories

Crisp cool air meets the skin on my face. The distinct smell of freshly fallen leaves permeates my nose and I briskly walk to the car to avoid the chill to my spine. My thoughts revert to the sweetness of home. A small town nestled in the Hudson River Valley of New York State, Red Hook is an area noted for its beauty during fall foliage. For me, autumn screams cinnamon apples, pumpkin picking, apple orchards and the smell of my mom’s hearty, warm, aromatic and delicious fall meals. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and I can see my mom in the kitchen of my childhood home. These thoughts bring a smile to my face and warmth to my heart.

Suddenly, without warning, my mind flashes back.

My car is traveling the roads that take me home. The landscape of the autumn Catskill Mountains on my driver side, my mind deep in thought, the sound of my friend’s voice on the phone, I make the longest three-hour journey of my life. My old high school pal meets me for both a cup of coffee and some courage as I arrive home to say a final goodbye.

Seven years have passed since that fall day. Seven years since I caressed my mom’s hair, whispered my words of goodbye, gave her a kiss and squeezed her hand to let her know… it was okay to go. I drove away from that small town that day, my heart heavy, my eyes filled with tears, bearing the title of ‘sole survivor,’ with nothing but my memories to cling to. It’s ironic that a season noted for beauty and filled with warmth also emotes such sadness. Perhaps it’s life’s way of offering me balance for survival? These days, I hold those memories tightly and shed less tears. This time of year will forever remind me of my mom.

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Kim Libertini is all too familiar with grief and the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss available for less than a latte, for download in the App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

Facing the Grim Reaper

My mom lifted her shirt and asked me to look at her ribs. I was on the couch. She sat in her wheelchair. “It hurts,” she said, “Can you see anything?” Leaning closer I searched where her fingers pointed. There was a patch of skin tinted the purple of a fading bruise. Skin I’d known for 39 years. Skin that smelled like home. Skin that housed more love than I’ve ever experienced elsewhere. Skin that aged years in months. My fingers brushed the surface. I felt silk over bubble wrap. “They’re probably some of the tumors, mom,” I said gently.

Earlier that week she had met with her oncologist. What must have started years before as an imperceptible division of cells within her breast now had a foothold in her lungs, liver, kidneys, and bones. The tumors overlaying her ribs were the most unsettling proof of the disease’s progression. Her doctor suggested immediate radiation. The treatment could slow growth. It could buy time. If not, the tumors might mushroom through the skin leaving her seeping and in agony. Even so, my mother gave the doctor a firm no.

Refusing medical treatment takes steel. Something even stronger is required in the face of a possibly painful end. My mom had this impalpable metal – forged from an unwavering faith that life and death were part of life itself. Both a mystery. Brimming with good. Replete with bad. All natural. Through this lens, she opened to a mystery beyond the expertise of her doctor. And like in Zeno’s paradox of the tortoise and Achilles where one can only ever approach a destination, my mom and I grabbed each other by the hand and tried to cross the great divide.

I’m not suggesting anyone else should follow suit. I’m trying to be specific about how my mom chose to live and die. This choice was her right, and right for her. And, it became one of her great gifts to me. Because in her own gentle way my mother revealed that the grim reaper has always been in the room. At her side. At mine. At yours. And her response was to meet death eye-to-eye and say, be not afraid.

So I searched death’s face with trepidation. Death is solely unforgiving at first glance. The unknown, terrifying. Yet, in walking side-by-side with my mom those 22 months, I began to glimpse a different visage. A skull covered in eternal spring. Because even while the reaper shadowed my mom’s every move it whispered “life, life, life,” beseeching us to suck the marrow from time itself. It was the gift of truly living.

“She outlived her disease,” is what her hospice nurse said when my mom passed away many months after her oncologist predicted. That was October 26th, 2016. On this almost two-year mark, I’ve come to an outlandish post where I believe death deserves a seat at this beautifully laid table of life. I want its power to give and take to be part of a brave conversation. One we hold eye-to-eye, and heart-to-heart. Maybe then when the grim reaper does come, always too early, we will have forged enough of our own impalpable metal to help us choose “life, life, life,” as we shake from saying goodbye.

Much love, Robynne

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Keeping Time

Our life is measured in time from the moment time note’s our birth arrival.

I’ve been unfair to time with my expectations of how it should behave

constantly oscillating between extremes.

Speed up through the work week.

Slow down through the weekend.

Stop during a moment so I can breathe it in for all it is worth.

I want time to change with my demands.

As a result, time has disappointed me often.

When grief struck,

I was angry with time for not having given me enough

Yet simultaneously happy for the small amount of time granted.

I was frozen in time,

stuck between the time before his death

and incapable of moving into the time after his death.

In that year, as I sat in the valley of grief, time escaped me.

I lost time.

There are the days I’m envious of missed time

And the days when I wish I could turn back time.

Time measures age and milestones.

Time tracks progress, molds memories and notes the end of a life.

Time marks anniversaries of a loss.

Time has this unique ability to seem like just yesterday and forever ago all at once.

We are constantly keeping time.

I worry that the longer time moves on, time will erase.

I fear time will lose my recollection of events

or steal my ability to hear the sound of his voice.

As I honor the anniversary of his death,

I’ve learned we don’t have infinite time.

I’m thankful for the ability to look back in time,

conscious of being present in time,

and careful to capture time in photos.

All the while making the best of the time I have.

In loving memory of Adam and his time here with us.

April 23rd,1977 to July 26th, 2015

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Waves of Life

“Life comes in waves,” my mom used to say regularly. “Sometimes those waves last years.” She was referring to the crests and troughs of life. The ups. The downs.

On the downside, her mantra arose from being an only child who was frequently in trouble. It grew when leaving South Africa with a young family in tow to begin a new life in New Jersey. It strengthened flying between continents to say goodbye to her aging parents. A mid-life divorce nurtured it. So did working outside the home for the first time in many years. The refrain solidified when refusing metastatic breast cancer treatment to live her best life even when that meant fewer days.

On the upside, my mom’s catchphrase expanded when listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, her eyes closed and time stopped. It warmed on walks when pausing mid-step to gape at a flower’s beauty. It thrived from bursting into song in public (much to my chagrin) because she didn’t give a damn. Her unceasing love was the fuel.

In short: it came from perspective.

Suffering is everywhere. Incredibly, the same applies to beauty. That’s the antidote. Seek it and you shall find. “In a world that is filled with pain and loss and sadness and war and trash- actively seek beauty,” says Jennifer Pastiloff, a female empowerment wunderkind, who coined the term “beauty hunting.” Though my mom didn’t invent a viral phrase for her outlook, she was a huntress nonetheless.

What my mom saw so clearly is that pain and joy are twins – forever conjoined. One cannot preclude the other. In fact, each may be a symbiotic experiences meant for the heavy lifting of life. Each allows the other to be felt more strongly and weathered more gently. Pain creates an appreciation for beauty; beauty enables a softening around pain. For all we get is this one beautiful, and sometimes tortuous, life. These are the waves. Up and down we go…over and over again. It’s to be expected.

Thanks mom, Carol Wertheim Boyd (1948-2016)

~Robynne

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Grief Is Like A Cup of Coffee

Grief is like a cup of coffee. In the beginning, it’s painful to hold and difficult to grasp.No matter how you carry it, it spills everywhere leaving a sloppy stained mess for all to see. Some days, it’s bitter and leaves an acidic feeling in your stomach. No matter how hard you try, on those days, it is impossible to sweeten.

It burns.

As time passes, you mostly learn to carry it so it’s less likely to spill.But there are moments when it sits beading over the brim very capable of pouring over at any second. You know those days. When that happens, you shift your grasp and hold on tight. Hopefully you manage to stop the spill. But not always.

Sometimes people watch and you can feel them thinking,“Why can’t you balance that. Why is it still spilling out?”If they only knew how many days you’ve managed to carry it and not let it cascade.

Maybe we shouldn’t try so hard to contain it. Breathe it in. Hold it the way we feel most comfortable. Walk with it at our own pace and if it should spill, let it. Maybe an understanding hand will reach out and help us clean it up.

~Kim

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Kim Libertini is an avid coffee drinker all too familiar with grief and the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss available for less than a latte, for download in the App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

The Void

Loss left a chasm in my chest. Do you have it too? It begins at the base of my throat and circles down near my ribs. Sometimes it feels like heartburn, an irritation from swallowing a ghastly morsel of life. Other times, it more closely resembles a window where the world blows through. Mostly though it’s just a dull ache; proof there’s a puncture at my epicenter.

The void, that’s what I call it, because, it can’t be filled or shored up. Trust me, I’ve tried. But not busyness, friends, flirtations, counseling, books, or hundreds of downward dogs have shrunk its size or impact. The hole remains. And anyway, it is so very tiring trying to change one’s shape to be something it is not.

So here’s the new tactic: acceptance. I imagine it like a new organ, something foreign yet essential that needs to be incorporated into the body. Time to study it. Familiarize myself with its sharp edges and bottomlessness. Perhaps in this way I can welcome this new body part that is more empty space than anything else. In other words, perhaps the solution is there isn’t one. There’s nothing to fix. I am now a body and a void. So be it.

~Robynne Boyd
Co-Founder Goodgrief App

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