Grief Fatigue

 When I was pregnant I would experience periods of extreme fatigue where nearly every day, generally sometime in the afternoon, I would become so tired I could barely function. The only solution was to lie down and take a nap.  Now, I’m not pregnant. But a few times outside of pregnancy I’ve experienced that prolonged sense of fatigue and I haven’t been able to kick it or figure it out.  In January of 2017, I had that. It went on so long without reprieve I asked my prayer group to lift me up and a couple suggested I go see a doctor and maybe have my thyroid checked. My doctor checked me out and things looked normal. As she asked me questions I began to share and started talking about losing my mom 6 months earlier and my grief and then it burst. I just started crying and had this moment of clarity.  It wasn’t my thyroid. It was grief. With that awareness I started doing more to actively grieve (psa: grief isn’t just crying or being sad, there are lots of ways to actively grieve—things you can do—to help move through the emotions of your loss). And lo and behold with awareness and intentionality my state of being improved. 

 

And then it happened again. I was still a little slow on the uptake, but multiple days of that weighty fatigue I’d ask myself, “what is going on with me?” And then slowly it would come, “Maybe it’s grief.” I’d find it was around birthdays and anniversaries….my body was remembering even when my mind was not.  Again I’d engage some of those grieving practices and again I’d find relief.  

 

Over the years I’ve found the most effective practice for me is telling stories about the one I miss.  

 

Last month was a really hard month with lots of things coming to a head and a pretty extended illness (not covid). I thought I’d be able to regroup on vacation (and in many ways I did) and at the same time we said goodbye to my dear uncle, and we entered the anniversary month for my mother’s death.  

 

I’ve been so so tired.  I sleep at night. I eat well. I exercise. I drink water.  And still so much fatigue, sometimes where I simply can’t do anything other than lie down and try and nap.  I wonder how I might get better and then I remind myself…it’s likely grief. You need to tell some stories.  

 

So, in an effort to heal my heart and spirit I’ll be telling stories.  I’ll keep them on my blog (even though I hardly ever blog anymore) for myself and anyone else who might want to read some.  

Susie's Surprise

This is a classic in our house…the stories…not the recipes.  lol.  I can hardly say “Susie’s surprise” without laughing. And if you have my brother, sister, and or dad and I together, we can generally all start to giggle, at least a little, at the memories.  

Let me start by saying my mom was a good cook. She cooked a lot of meals for all of us for a lot of years.  Most of those very good meals left no imprint on my brain.  I’m sorry mom.  

The meals that will live forever (in infamy) are those called “Susie’s Surprise”.  These were generally meals that came together as my mom tried to use up leftovers and clean out the fridge.  Maybe mom’s downfall was that she could find a use for just about anything…including a montage of food.  

I was particularly mindful of Susie’s Surprise yesterday as I excitedly planned meals to use our ham leftovers from Easter. I could make fried rice, mac-n-cheese and ham, split pea soup, quiche and navy bean soup.  I look forward to each of those meals and consider each of them fairly normal in the food categories.  I’m certain my mom made similar meals with left overs.  Sadly, I don’t remember those.  

I can’t even tell you all the weird Susie’s surprise concoctions she made. Just that they were weird.  Really weird.  Not like pot pie, or fried rice, or turkey soup….weird…like some odd combination of already combined foods (like casseroles) re-combined to be a “Surprise!”  I do remember a salad with all kinds of things including tuna, olives, and kidney beans.  I’m not even sure what else.  None of us were thrilled to eat it and we definitely thought it was too weird to be shared with the neighbor.  Sorry Ada.  

Spirit of Helping

My mom was a helper. She enjoyed filling a need and could step in to most any task at any point and help it be successful.  Do you need a cook? She could do that. Do you need a florist? She could do that! Do you need a childcare provider? She could do that. Do you need a prayer person? She could do that.  Do you need a scripture reader? She could do that. Do you need your pants hemmed? She could do that.  She could do most anything and she would to help most anybody.

My list of the ways she helped me over the years could go on and on (and probably should).  But in this Holy Week, I am thinking of her help in leading worship.  My first appointment was to Hemet UMC. In my first year, I was assigned to leading Palm/Passion Sunday.  Liturgically, the Sunday before Easter can go either way...focused on Palm Sunday or focused on the Passion.  I hated to choose.  I didn't want to skip Palm Sunday and I hated that people wouldn't come to Maundy Thursday or Good Friday and wanted them to have to sit with the sorrow of the Passion.  So, I did "Palm to Passion Sunday" and used the liturgy to explore the various events of that week.  The final element was to turn off the lights and hammer nails into a cross and let the sound echo in the sanctuary.  Then it was silent.

My mom was there for that service and was more than happy to help. So she hammered the nails.  The liturgy had been powerful and then the darkness, the silence, the hammering, and more silence, it really spoke to people.  And I remember how it spoke to her and how even in the busyness of orchestrating the liturgy, she was touched.  I am grateful she was always supportive of my ministry and willing to lend a hand in so many ways.

Give of Yourself

Mom was always thinking of others. Always.  I don’t know that she knew another way of operating.  (One ironic and poignant example was when she was needing to be up and walking and exercising in order to gain back strength.  Yet, we could barely find a single way to motivate her.  At the same time my husband was needing to push himself to do more exercise.  In true Sue fashion, she volunteered to do a measure of walking for every measure of walking Rick did.  They weren’t equal, but in an attempt to encourage and motivate him, she offered to be an exercise buddy of sorts.  She wasn’t ready to do it for herself. But she was ready to do it for him.).  She always was thinking about how to do what would be good for another.  

One particular blessing she gave me was when I was a new mom with Ruth home from the hospital.  Each night I would nurse her and then my mom would take her and rock her for a few hours until she was ready to nurse again. Then she would bring Ruth into my room so I could nurse and put her down.  You could argue it was selfish (or at least not totally self-less) since she got to hold her granddaughter.  But her true motivation was to help me and let me get some good sleep.  Sure, she enjoyed it, but she was thinking of me.  

I am grateful for that gift and the memory of her holding Ruth and rocking her to sleep.   

Do the unexpected

As a parent, my mom was wonderful because she was consistent and, in most ways, predictable.  If you were refusing to finish your dinner, she would ask you your age and after you replied, say "5", that was how many bites she assigned (if you were particularly lacking, she might assign 5 bites of meat, and 5 bites of vegetables.  But, it was still consistent (and seemingly fair since 5 is a good number for 5 year olds).  Similarly, if you were acting out, you might earn 5 minutes of time out (unless you were 8, then it would be 8).  It was predictable and consistent.  It wasn't based on how well or poorly her day had gone, but on a specific strategy of parenting.

Then, sometimes, she would do something totally unexpected. Like the one time she served us waffle cone bowls and let us make ice cream sundaes for dinner. Not dessert. That was dinner.  Once.  It only happened once, but man did it stick!  It was a beautiful thing.

She did special things for us and by making them out of the ordinary, they became extraordinary and that was awesome!

Remembering the markers

Happy anniversary!  

Today would have been this lovely couple's 46th anniversary.  

I can hardly imagine what it would be like to spend the day, after over 46 years together, without your beloved.  What I do know is that they shared a lot of love over the years, both with each other and with others.  In 2015, then into 2016, she spent about 6 months in rehab, then a little time in the sun in San Diego before heading home. They'd only been home a couple of days and she still managed to arrange a surprise party/dinner with friends at a local restaurant.  She loved to plan surprises (though really preferred to anticipate the joy for herself), to buy gifts, and to spend time with friends.  

I'm grateful for the amazing example of love, care, support, encouragement, trust, generosity, and service that I have in my parents.  They didn't fight in front of us.  They communicated regularly and openly. They were intentional in showing love in various *languages. They proved that marriage takes work and it's worth it.

Parenting advice

Parenting is hard work. If you’re a parent, you know that.  If you’re not, you should know why the parents around you are exhausted and sometimes at their wits-end!  There is love, snuggles, cuteness, and laughter—all of which are awesome.  And there are tantrums, power struggles, food battles, and learning wars that are not so awesome.  

I have to say my parents (yes, both of them) are amazing, stellar, cream of the crop parents.  They are amazing people too. But as parents, they rocked it.  They were consistent, even keel, affirming, loving, kind, and a wonderful example.  I cannot remember one instance where either of them yelled. Not once.  As a parent myself, that’s pretty miraculous.  I wish I could say the same about myself as a parent.  Instead I’ll just say I’m a work in progress.  

Before I was a parent, I was a youth leader, youth counselor and youth pastor. I worked with teens at summer camp and in the church for years. And from time to time I would need advice about how to work with one.  Regularly, I’d call my parents to ask for their input.  Almost without fail, if I asked my dad, he’d say something like, “You should ask your mother; I learned everything I know from her.” And he’d pass the phone to my mom.  

Always, she’d have an answer. She was an educator who had both her masters and extensive continuing education training.  She and my dad took ELEVEN parenting classes before my brother was born.  (He was the firstborn).  ELEVEN classes.  That’s a lot.  I mean, parenting is hard, I get that, I’m grateful I’ve had 3 classes.  I could benefit from 11, maybe it’d help the yelling thing…anyway.  She knew a lot. She understood behavior from a developmental perspective, as well as a social one, and even an intelligence level one.  She could identify the underlying issues and offer a dozen options for how to handle it and work with the student.  

And then once I had Ruth, she continued to offer good wisdom.  It’s a bit different as a grandparent because you don’t want to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong (or isn’t solicited) and as a parent you don’t want to be seen as a failure (or at least that’s my issue) and so you (I) don’t always ask for advice when you should.  

In January we started a new stage, it’s super *fun*.  I don’t know which stage it is exactly…my mom would have been the one to tell me that.  But it’s where my kid asserts her independence by ignoring, arguing, or defying most every bit of instruction I give.  I wish I understood it so I had more patience for it.  And, I wish I had my mom’s dozen options for how to curb it before it drives me insane.  

I miss her. I wish I could call.  It makes me sad she’s not on the other end of a phone ready to answer.  But it also makes me grateful that I was raised by someone so amazing.  

Missing My Mom

My grief has been hitting particularly hard.  The day my mom passed, I sobbed. Hard. For a long time.  While her death wasn’t unexpected, it was unreal that she was actually gone.  And then I quickly fell into the doing…thinking about her service, writing liturgy, helping sort at the house.  The busy work of grief.  And I didn’t feel it much.  I missed her, but it didn’t sting like grief often does.  And then January came and my grief hit like a ton of bricks.  Grief is funny that way. It comes in all kinds of shapes and sizes, often unpredictably for things we’d never imagine.  

I’ve been remembering a lot and savoring various memories.  And still the sadness lingers.  And that’s ok. I’d certainly tell someone I counsel at the church that it’s ok to be sad.  At the same time, I hope for something beyond the sadness.  So, I thought I’d start writing and sharing memories, hoping that something more fruitful might happen, or at least that it would provoke the tears to do the healing work. 

It will likely be a series of posts, memories and lessons from my mom.  I like assonance as a communication tool, so I’ll stick with “Momma Mondays” and share my stories of her.  

Cheer for them all

Yesterday Ruth had the "Turkey Trot" at school.  The kids (k-5) are divided into teams with a child from each grade.  Then each grade group is taken one at a time to run their leg of the race.  At "go!" They run the perimeter of the school yard and as they finish they're given a popsicle stick with their finishing place (Ruth got 11th out of nearly 75 kindergarteners). Each grade level runs together and at the end,  their stick numbers are added up to find the team with the lowest score. 

The night before we were talking to Ruth about it and encouraging her.  She, of course, wanted to win the free turkey,  which we said would be great,  but we offered that the most important thing would be for her to be a good team mate and cheer for her team no matter what. 

As the kids gathered and lined up,  they were full of excitement and anticipation.  When they were called, the kindergarteners ran up the hill to the starting point.  And then when the coach yelled "go!" They charged down the hill and along the path. And I started to cry. I have no idea why.  Maybe their exuberance?  Their joy?  Their little legs running?  And then I saw Ruth about 3/4 of the way back running along.  And I cried more.  She just kept running and she kept passing other kids and got all the way up to 11th. My heart burst with joy. I was so proud of her. 

As she ran by me I shouted, "Go Ruthie, go! You can do it!  Keep going!" And it was like hearing my mother straight out of my mouth.  She was a cheerleader.  Not the pom pom kind (though she acquired those along the way) but the cheer-them-on loud,  crazy kind.  She cheered and she cheered for everyone. And she just kept cheering right from my heart for all the kids behind Ruth.  "Good job guys! You can do it!  Keep it up!  You're doing great!  You're almost there! Just a little farther!"

And my heart bust with pride for how my mom cheered on everyone and it broke with grief that she is gone.  It made me miss her so much.  And it made me overwhelmingly grateful for her example and who she raised me to be. 

I hate to say it

Lots of people ask how I'm doing in dealing with my mom's death.  Most of the time I can say "I'm fine" or "About like you'd expect." And when I do I can keep it together and hardly feel the weight of the grief. I'm good at compartmentalizing and at deflecting. It's a practiced art. But sometimes I'm forced to name it outloud. I'll be sharing with someone who doesn't know and I'll have to say it.  Actaully say it.

"My mom died this summer."

And that's when it's hard.  That's when it's really real and I can't just gloss over it and pretend I'll be able to call her up tomorrow.  And I hate it.  I hate to say it because then the wall that holds all those emotions at bay cracks wide open and there they are in all their teary snotty splendor.

And yet as much as I hate it,  I know it's important and necessary and good. ..it's a part of the grief.  And my reality,  our reality,  is she's gone.  She's not with us.  She's not there for advice,  or support, or encouragement. And I hate that even more than I hate saying it. 

Saying goodbye to a saint

Today we had to say goodbye to my beloved mother, Sue Camphouse.  We weren’t surprised by her passing as she has struggled with her health for a couple of years now; and was recently diagnosed with stage 4 cancer, and just this week took a turn for the worst.  But it’s still hard to know we’ve said our last “goodbye” and “I love you” (at least during our earthly life).  As I’ve thought about my weekly e-spire, I’ve wondered whether or not to share about her.  It felt crazy not to mention her death and yet a bit selfish at the same time.  

Finally I decided I needed to share, not only because it’s the most pressing thing on my heart today, but also because I need to live what I believe.  I believe that we are called to community as we follow Christ, and that means more than showing up and putting our best foot forward. It also means being honest and real with one another. It means letting people through the door when the house is a wreck or we have yet to shower.  It means receiving a hug when we know it will only elicit tears (and maybe a snotty, sniffling nose).  It means confessing our fears and our doubts.  It means daring to trust even when we’ve been hurt before.  It means accepting grace when grace is offered.  It means all of that and much, much more.  

So, today, I share, with tears streaming down my face, that heaven received a wonderful woman.  I wish you could have known my mother.  But since you won’t have that chance, I will share just a little about her. She was amazing. I couldn’t dream of capturing her in a few short sentences, but I will say, she was one of the most kind-hearted, generous, thoughtful, caring people I have ever known.  She was always thinking of others. She wanted them to be happy, safe, provided for, and to know they were important and loved.  She had a heart for the marginalized. She dedicated her life to special education and serving students with physical and mental challenges; in doing so, she also taught others to be kinder, more understanding, and more caring toward those same students. 

She was outgoing and gregarious.  She never met a stranger.  She loved people—young and old, regardless of any of those things that get in the way of our relationships. She was creative, talented, and incredibly faithful.  She taught me to pray publicly and over the phone. She modeled Christian disciplines, leadership in the church, and above all else, loving like Christ.  She was incredible and played a huge part in shaping me into who I am today.  For that I am eternally grateful.  

Her service will be in my hometown in a few weeks.  In the meantime, we will be here, supporting my father from a distance and working through our own grief.  Please know we are grateful for your prayers.  And know, even when my heart hurts, I am still here to be your pastor.  I look forward to sharing the Word on Sunday mornings, to visiting with you and getting to know you, praying with and for you, and preparing for the beautiful ministry to which God has called us.  I am here for you and am grateful for that privilege.

*While this isn't the most recent photo of her, it does capture her well: joyful, smiling, playful, and full of life.