“We get it” Supportive Blog (email:blog@studentsofamf.org to share your story or to email with one of the writers below)

This is the first in a series of three posts from AMF chapter leaders who attended the Association for Death and Education Counseling (ADEC)’s annual conference in April 2013. Meghan Kubric, chapter leader of Northwestern’s AMF chapter, shares her experiences below.

 
First of all, thank you to Students of AMF and ADEC for giving me the opportunity to attend this conference. I had a great time, and I met so many interesting people. I also learned much about death, grief, and dying, and I’m able to incorporate my new knowledge both within my own personal experience and within my future career as a doctor. It was liberating to be in an environment in which talking about death and dying was not inhibited—it was encouraged. Normally, I discuss grief within a support group setting, and those conversations have been central to my own healing process. However, this was the first time I had discussed grief in an academic setting, and I discovered that that too, has opened up new avenues of healing. It allowed me to look at the experience of my mother’s death from a more objective standpoint, and in doing that, I was able to understand my experience from a different perspective. This has been and will continue to be, invaluable to the development of my character and my identity.
 
I attended many lectures while at the conference, some more interesting than others, but I can honestly say I learned something new at each and every one. However, one of the most important lectures was a talk entitled “Remember Conversations with the Dying and the Bereaved” by Lorraine Hedtke, PhD. In this talk, Dr. Hedtke posited that death ends a life, not a relationship. Until this lecture, I had not even considered the possibility that I still have a relationship with my mother—the relationship did not die along with the person. Dr. Hedtke also introduced the concept of “re-membering” to describe the ways in which people tell stories and construct narratives about the deceased in order to maintain that relationship. This is important because these stories enable loved ones to grieve in a healthy way, and they enable loved ones to feel emotions other than sadness and loss while grieving. These narratives introduce a positive aspect to what is typically (and erroneously) considered a sad, depressing, and debilitating phenomenon.   As one attendee stated, using the techniques of “re-membering” allowed him the “opportunity to say how much he [the deceased] means to me.”
 
I will never forget this: that death ends a life, not a relationship. It is a great way to summarize grief. After all, what is it that we are really grieving? What is it that we have lost? It is the relationship. It is that connection to another human being that was so central to our lives and in some cases, even to our identities. While grief is often difficult to put into words, I believe this is it. This is what I have been feeling. This is what I have been missing. And this is what I have been longing for. The relationship. I feel I now have a much better understanding, and I am much better able to help others through their own personal process, both through AMF and during my future career as a doctor.

By Bethany Armstrong
 
The last Tuesday of February marked the date of my parent’s wedding anniversary. If my Mom were alive, this year would have been their 30^th wedding anniversary.  30 years of marriage, struggle, love, children, marriages, grandchildren- so many family memories missed and remembered.
 
I never know how to remember or celebrate, so I write a Facebook status; which seems like an empty way to mark something of such significance, but this is what I wrote:
 
“30 years ago, the best man and best woman I’ve ever known got married. She wore a dress covered in lace, with puff sleeves, made by her grandmother. He wore a simple suit and tried to tame his unruly hair. They had no idea how much this date in history would change their lives and the lives of their 8 kids. Dad, thank you for exemplifying honor, living out your vows, and showing us what your love meant in a tangible way. Today, we remember and we celebrate.”
 
My dad later told me it encouraged him, and for me it was heartfelt and just. However, I felt sad, nothing could take away my pain or loss.  I missed my mom. Usually, that feeling is a passing moment- it comes, I embrace it, and it passes. But, this time, I was upset because I was missing out on celebrating a huge milestone in their marriage.  I am sure my mom would have celebrated with family, friends, food, and probably a trip with my dad (his treat, of course) for just the two of them. It would have been an over the top celebration.
 
Instead, there was only a Facebook status.
 
It is moments like this, I realize that despite how far I may have come through my grief, I will still miss my mom, so much so, that I will at times ache and be sad. This is a welcoming realization, but it doesn’t change the fact that there are things that should have been, that aren’t….like an elaborate anniversary celebration for 30 years of faithfulness.
 
Grief is a journey and the people that we love and miss, we will always love and miss. It’s a beautiful, if bittersweet reality, but we move forward with courage one day at a time.

The Best Antidote

 
I receive some pretty confused reactions from people when I tell them that I am currently grieving my father’s death from 13 years ago. They’re quick to offer suggestions though, as if everything I’ve been doing thus far has been a total failure, and I should count myself lucky to have finally met someone who holds the cure to my grief. Some of the antidotes I hear are:
 
“You don’t have a lot of friends, do you? See, that’s it. You wouldn’t be so sad if you got out more.”
 
“Why don’t you take antidepressants? After all this time, you should probably consider them. Then you’ll be fine.”
 
“Just focus on school and achieving your dreams; once you’re accomplishing your goals, you won’t have time to be sad.”
 
And as I’m sure you know, the list goes on and on.
 
Throughout all the advice I’ve been given, there was one that was never offered, except by my therapists, and that was to talk about it. It’s really no wonder that I’m dealing with unresolved grief when I’ve never been encouraged to freely express myself to someone other than a licensed professional.
 
In the summer of 1999, my dad was killed in a shooting spree while my mom and I were in Iran. It wasn’t until we returned when my mom found out what happened. But the family collectively decided to wait a couple of weeks to tell me. Therefore, I wasn’t at his funeral nor was I able to grieve with everyone else.
 
Even after I found out, I didn’t mourn his death because everyone was trying to make life as normal as possible for me, as if nothing had happened. It felt like a huge cover-up, like they were trying to hide the fact that this person used to exist in my life. In order to erase that part of my life, a new life was created for me. I started 3^rd grade at a new school about a week later, and my mom and I moved into my aunt’s house because it was too painful for her to stay in our old house. Then, she signed me up for therapy, which became the only acceptable place to express my sadness.
 
My family was still determined to keep things looking stable and normal, so they didn’t encourage me to openly grieve with them. My mom told me recently that family members discouraged her from saying my dad’s name around me, so I wouldn’t get sad. In retrospect, I now comprehend that my family was trying their best to create as normal of a childhood as possible; however, it taught me to suppress my emotions and made it exceedingly difficult for me to articulate my grief as I got older. I only ever released my sorrow late at night behind closed doors, where I would light candles and scrutinize every article written about the shooting.
 
My mom kept me in counseling for a few years, and although once a week I was physically present in Ms. Julie’s office from 3:30-4:30 every Tuesday, I had checked out emotionally after my first year there. Because I got the impression it wasn’t okay to express my emotions with the people closest to me, I withdrew from my counselor and sank into a deep state of denial.
 
By the time I was in high school, I attempted to fill my father’s void with countless boys who further encouraged me to bottle up my emotions. One of my boyfriends used to tell me all the time that there was no point in crying because there was nothing I could do to bring him back. He also let me know that his parents felt it unsafe for him to date me because I was fatherless, and they didn’t want him to have to deal with my daddy issues.
 
I became severely ashamed of being fatherless. I would immediately leave the room anytime someone would bring up my dad’s name. I never talked to my friends about his death because I thought they would distance themselves from me.
 
My depression worsened once I entered college. I was so disconnected from myself and my emotions that it caused me to detach from my outside world. I became a zombie. I wanted so desperately to be like everyone else, to lead that normal life my family worked so hard to build for me. But the more I chased normalcy, the more numb I felt on the inside. The days got darker, I became more withdrawn, and I stopped seeing a tomorrow. My plans for the future were replaced by suicidal thoughts, and it wasn’t until I screamed those thoughts to my friends in a rage that I realized something had to be done.
 
The next day I went to a treatment facility for a week. Being there was an experience I’ll cherish forever because it really saved my life. I never acknowledged that suppressing my grief had been affecting my mental state so greatly. I didn’t even think that bottling my emotions was unhealthy; I thought it was how everyone grieved.
 
So I let it out. It certainly was no easy task, and I was taking baby steps, but at least I was moving. Each day I did something new to embrace my grief, and each day I was waking up with more clarity and serenity. I started going to a therapist twice a week, I read books on grief and fatherless daughters, and most importantly, I talked about him. I focused significantly on being open with my mom and sharing my pain with her, and the more I talked, the more connected I felt to not just her or myself, but to my dad as well. My mom and I both had an incredible relationship with him, so whenever we expressed our sorrow to one another, I felt my dad’s presence, and it made me feel alive. He was the light I had been frantically searching for.
 
So then I branched out and began talking to my relatives. I made a picture album of my dad and shared
it with them. They still believed they knew what was best for me and offered suggestions, but all I was thinking was been there, done that. Their way didn’t work for 12 years, so I think it’s time to try something new. I communicated that the way his death was handled really affected me, and they agreed that they should have dealt with it differently, but they were so lost themselves.
 
It was also a huge comfort to know that I wasn’t alone; they all still missed him and thought about him all the time. I felt really isolated during my childhood and teenage years. I was so uncomfortable with my emotions, and I thought I was the only experiencing it. But I would have never known had I not expressed my pain. I wouldn’t have known that my aunt still struggles with his passing, but because I befriended my grief, I was able to open up with her, and as a result, we help each other out in our grieving processes.
 
The relationship I had with my dad didn’t end just because his time here did, and I’ve found in the past two years that the best way to keep the relationship alive is by communicating my grief. Yes, the other cures are great outlets, as well, and I incorporate a combination of them into my life, but I would probably still be chasing normalcy if I never talked about the loss I experienced.

By Bethany Armstrong
 
During college, AMF helped me not to feel alone. Grief is hard. It is consuming, it is lonely, and it is overwhelming. But, AMF gave me purpose and courage. It gave me purpose to see life beyond grief. It also gave me courage to realize there were others, just like me in college, who had lost someone so dear to them. These people understood the ache my heart felt. Their ache was different, but they understood.
 
Giving back can sometimes feel easy in college. You go to classes, you study and you may have a job, but you have time to give back. Also, you want to give back; especially when something as significant as death redefines your view of the world. That was my life in college: school, work, and AMF.
 
Then, I graduated. In the midst of finding a job, I wasn’t sure how to give back. I’d given back mainly through my grief – learning to grieve, learning how to help my peers with grief. My grief redefined who I was in college and then made me feel lost once I walked across the graduation stage with my diploma in hand.
 
Now in the real world, it has been difficult to figure out where I fit when it comes to grief. There aren’t as many grief support groups for young adults in the “real world”. So, in the midst of my inability to find a good place to “fit”, I have worked hard to keep a heart of compassion as I have watched friends and family members lose someone dear to them. By remembering my pain, when I hear of others who are grieving, I am able to reach out to them – to let them know I am thinking about them and that I am available to listen, if they need to talk. Being sensitive to their grief and acknowledging the myriad of emotions they are experiencing can go a long way. Sometimes all that is needed is someone who will sit in silence.
 
I also give those who are grieving permission to feel. I always wanted that after I lost my Mom. I wanted someone to tell me in the middle of my darkest moments, “what you are feeling is okay.” Since I didn’t have that, I am always quick to tell someone that their feelings are valid. And it makes a difference. Validity is another gift we can give to someone who is grieving.
 
Over the years I’ve realized that being there in these ways for those I know who are grieving is a way of giving back. And I’m looking forward to staying involved in AMF’s Alumni Network, which is just getting off the ground. If you are interested in connecting with other alumni who are still connected to AMF, join our Alumni Network! Email Executive Director Lauren Kase for more information: lauren@studentsofamf.org.
 
I would love to hear from other AMF alumni – how have you continued to give back after college? Let’s share our experiences so we can grow as a community!

By Bethany Armstrong
 
It became apparent to me not long after my Mom died that I had two known days when I would especially struggle in my grief journey: Mother’s Day and the anniversary of my Mom’s death. I call them trigger days. They were guaranteed days I would end up immensely sad, grieving, crying and generally, missing such a significant person in my life.
 
In the beginning, I ran away from society on these days. Literally, I would take off work, leave town and go somewhere where I knew no one and where I had no memories associated with my Mom. A couple of years after my Mom passed away, I tried to stay and face one of those days. It was Mother’s Day and because I’m religious, I decided to attend church. The second they began to honor the moms, I got up and walked out as tears streamed down my face. It hurt too much to feel left out, to know I was not able to celebrate my Mom with her.
 
I am not sure at what point I went from dreading these days to learning how to deal with them, but I have learned pointers to make my trigger days more successful.
 
Here is a list of different ways that have helped me cope.
 

-          Buy a card: (This could be applicable for birthdays, special days, etc.). A friend of mine did this for me first. He bought me a Mother’s Day card and encouraged me to write out how I felt about my Mom not being there or simply how I felt about missing her. It took me weeks to actually get up the courage to write in the card, but I felt so much peace and comfort when I actually did it.
 

-          Wander the card aisle: I may never buy another card for my Mom, but when those trigger days are approaching, I like to wander the card aisle and read the fun ones she would have liked or the “Hallmark” ones that would have made her cry.
 

-          Do something special:  On the anniversary of my Mom’s death, I like to go out to dinner.
 

-          Help someone who reminds you of your loved one: If I hear of a struggling mom, I jump at the opportunity to help. I can’t always help, but I always try. If your significant person was a sibling, grandparent, aunt/uncle or friend, who can you help and in doing so feel that you are remembering and honoring your loved one?
 

-          Remember the good memories: When trigger days come, it is so easy to remember and replay the day we lost our loved one. For a change, I like to remember the good memories. The memories that make me smile…even if I am smiling through my tears.
 
These coping mechanisms help me feel encouraged and less like these days will consume me. The truth is that I know, despite my loss, I am stronger than these trigger days. Doing something productive is a good reminder of my inner strength. What helps you with trigger days?
 
 

By Bethany Armstrong
 
I lost my mom in college as a sophomore. It was, without question, the hardest thing I have ever experienced. I worked diligently to sort and process through my grief in a way that was healing and healthy – I helped start an AMF chapter at my college, I went to counseling, I read books, etc. Each semester that I survived without Mom’s friendship and support was one that I would mentally pat myself on the back. I had survived. AMF was a huge help to me. It gave me the ability to meet with other students who understood how I felt, as well to process and work through my grief in a safe environment.
 
It has been six years since I lost my mom and I have spent that time facing new challenges of “life without mom”. It has included: graduating from college, my first job out of college, getting engaged, getting married, losing my job, getting a new job, finding out I was pregnant and having my first child. I am at the point where I have learned to live without her longer than she battled with cancer.
 
In a lot of ways, my grief has come full circle. I have learned how to live and thrive without the presence of my Mom in my life. There are days I get sad and I miss her more than other days, but the ache doesn’t rip my heart apart now. Instead, it only whispers what I am missing instead of screaming like it did right after she passed away.
 
The ways I miss her now make me smile; where once there were tears, there are now fond memories. I gravitate towards Mexican food when I feel nostalgic for her input. (That woman loved Mexican food!) And as I learn how to balance life as a new mom, I remember how much my mom loved her children and how much she enjoyed spending time with them. That definitely influences how I parent on a daily basis.
 
I still have rough moments and days. They still sneak up on me, but I don’t dread them anymore. For instance, just this week, I realized how much I miss buying my Mom Christmas presents. How much I wish I could still do that! But, 6 years later, missing my Mom looks more like smiling at the good memories instead of crying at what I am missing. For once, that is a welcomed and refreshing change in feeling. As I read in another’s blog post about grief, “we move forward, taking memories, precious faces and stories, and the things we’re learning with us.”

When you are grieving, the holidays can be an emotionally overwhelming time. How do you get through? How do you find ways to enjoy the holiday season again? There is really no single answer on what one should or shouldn’t do. The Hospice Foundation of America stresses one guiding principle and we agree: do what is comfortable.

 
Some people find it helpful to be with family and friends, in a familiar setting. Others might wish to avoid those familiar sights and sounds. Here are a few tips as you discern what works best for you:
 
1.) Take care of yourself. Caring for yourself will help you care for others.
 
2.) Recognize that the holidays will not be the same.
 
3.) Plan ahead. Think about situations that might be emotionally tough for you.
 
4.) Be careful not to isolate yourself. It’s alright to take time for yourself; but try not to distance yourself from those who want to support you.
 
5.) If it’s comfortable, spend some time thinking about the one you have lost and think about ways you might honor that person during the holidays along with others who also loved that person.
 
6.) Be patient with yourself. You may not always understand your emotions – that’s OK.
 
7.) Ask for help. Don’t be afraid to reach out to get the help you need. Remember AMF is here for you if you need us.
 
Click here for tips on how to support a friend who is grieving.

When I started at National Students of AMF three months ago, I looked forward to connecting with our students. What were they experiencing? How was AMF impacting their lives? How could we do more to support them? I knew the students would inspire me. And I was right. Our students are dedicated, courageous, and thoughtful, amidst some of life’s most challenging circumstances.
 
They are also increasing in number. After our coverage in CNN and the Chronicle of Higher Education, we’ve received more than thirty inquiries from students, faculty, and staff, about starting new AMF chapters. I’ve had the privilege of connecting with these individuals, hearing their stories, and finding ways for us to work together.
 
Thanks to our dedicated team of volunteers, including chapter director of development Kiri Thompson, we currently have 62 chapters active on colleges nationwide! And we’ve been working hard to support them through these main efforts:
 
1.) Chapter Tool Kit: We’re upgrading our online chapter resources for students, including new marketing materials, an AMF awareness project (with AMF awareness wristbands, email Lauren if you’d like some!), and more content-rich grief support resources.
 
2.) Chapter Evaluation: We’re in the midst of developing an evaluation of our program to identify best practices and student outcomes, in partnership with our Board of Mental Health Professionals and Wharton Community Consultants.
 
3.) National Webinars: We’re planning a webinar series to begin in 2013 to support students across the country who may not have access or be ready to start an AMF chapter on their campus, but still need support.
 
4.) The Alumni Network: We’ll launch our alumni network in 2013 to continue connecting and supporting our students and alumni.
 
5.) AMF Resources: We’re in the process of expanding our funding base, so that we can build the programmatic infrastructure to support our rapid growth.
 
6.) AMF Partnerships: We’re forming key partnerships with other bereavement groups, such as the National Alliance for Grieving Children, to expand our reach.
 
7.) VOICES Campaign: In 2013, we’ll launch a national awareness and fundraising campaign to:
1.) Educate our country on the needs of grieving college students (an average of 1 in 3 loses a loved one each year);
2.) Raise awareness for AMF so that students who need support can find it;
3.) Raise funds to support AMF’s national expansion.
 
As part of VOICES, we’ll be collecting testimonials from our supporters. Please email Lauren if you are interested in sharing your story.
 
National Students of AMF is a strong network of students and supporters. I’ve been touched by those who are involved in our cause, many of whom volunteer tirelessly on a regular basis, and I’m looking forward to the years ahead. Please reach out to me at any time with questions and ideas (919-803-6728 or lauren@studentsofamf.org). None of our operations or future plans would be possible without you.
 
 

By Dori Eisenhauer
 
I was engaged in my usual evening routine, my usual consistent system for news gathering and synthesizing. First, I undertook a superficial check of human activity and information by careful process. That is to say, I read the weather forecast (umbrella or not tomorrow?) and monitored the shenanigans of mind-numbing pop culture (where I discovered I have aged enough to wonder “who is this person with purple hair and why is this news?”). Once warmed up to the ramblings of this tantalizing nonsense, I was fortified enough to submerge into the depths of the serious reports which use words like “hegemonic”, “quagmire”, and “leverage”. I sought to be informed by these articles, but more importantly I needed to assuage my soul by confirming that we human beings had managed to go yet another day without entirely eradicating our peace on earth. This latter part of my reading intimidated me the most, as most reports frequently unveiled pugilistic political activity driven by senseless wrath and fear. However, being a person of stubborn faith and permanent pinkish lenses, I somehow always managed to uncover “serious” news offering at least a tenuous, if not significant assurance of humanity’s love, strength and resilience. Sadly, some days required more digging to unearth such accounts, but this summer day was different. CNN offered a video news report that resonated with my heart, mind and soul.
 
CNN featured a video clip spotlighting David Fajgenbaum, and the organization he started called Students of AMF, a student organization formed to help college students deal with the grief of losing a parent. As I had some experience with this type of loss, I could not ignore this news story or relegate it into any category like sophomoric gossip, pedantic editorial, or fearful global exposé. This story unveiled a vital purpose, and I was moved to be part of it; in fact, I felt I already had been a part of it.
 
Right now, in 2012, I am 43 years old. Other than a pedestrian ascent into middle age, this stunning year marks the 25th year I have lived without my father, and the 15th year I have lived without my mother. I was 17 years old when my dad died, who left me just a few months shy of my entrance into college. While I cannot say that I had an emotionally fulfilling life with my parents, I had been raised with my dad’s inspiration to love scholarly pursuit. From this man, a genetically encoded facile mind was passed down to me and to all my siblings. Always believing in the highest value of developing one’s mind, he ardently encouraged education as a critical part of my well being as well as a road to a better life. I believe his drive for education and adventure is imprinted in my DNA. With our love of scholarly pursuit being our strongest bond to each other, the loss of my dad just months shy of entering college was more earth shattering than I ever shared with my family.
 
I had no outlet for my grief. My three siblings are 11, 13, and 15 years older than I, and in 1986 when my dad died, they were buying homes, diving into careers, starting families, fostering their marriages and leaning on their spouses and mature circle of friends. I did not feel comfortable or close enough to them at the time to share, nor did I understand how to talk to them as I felt their priorities were so far off from my young life stage of the college admission process. My mom sank into a deep depression after the exhaustion of caring for my dad’s two-year battle with cancer and was suppressing her own confused grief, withdrawing from me and lashing out at my aspirations and dreams. Both she and I lacked the vocabulary of how to address loss to seek solace. I was left with an internal mess that I had no idea how to handle.
 
Being my dad’s daughter, though, I was determined to set my sights on the adventure of higher education to pursue my life’s interests, and I packed up and went off to college in the fall of 1987. I was still feeling very much alone while simultaneously apprehensive and exhilarated by the concept of devoting myself to a fruitful collegiate life. All the while, grief was clenching my heart, and I felt intimidated and fraudulent amongst my peers whose lives seemed so normal; while my school friends were my lifeline and saving grace, I felt I could not share my sorrow with them, either. They kindly doled out love to me, but I enviously watched as they went home to two parents and siblings close in age. I could not comprehend a life at 18 where the most stress they endured was fretting about yearbook pictures and negotiating curfews and driving privileges. I lived without the scholarly support of my dad, and with a mother who could not get out of bed and was barely living her life. I could not relate to anyone. I felt alone.
 
In many ways, I decided I would have to be my own parent, and my fierce independence combined with the subterfuge of anger and profoundly deep sorrow confused everyone, including me. My saving grace during that time was schoolwork and extracurricular activities, the shared love of a wonderful and extended group of school mates (despite the confusion and guilt over envying their seemingly peaceful lives), and the knowledge that I wanted to live up to my father’s dying request. Verbatim, he asked me to “be all that you can be”.
 
College beckoned, and I could not wait to begin to fulfill that quest. The adventure and challenge of college was all that I dreamt of and more. My grief was overtaken with excitement as I began performing in an a capella group, studying the texts of Shakespeare, deciphering the mindset of gloomy economists like Malthus and Ricardo, reading holy texts from around the world, and debating the frailty of human nature in an open forum.
 
I discovered grief was powerful, though, like a strong virus that you can’t see or predict when it will overtake you. The sight of a leaf falling from a campus tree, or the passage of text in an anthropological study unleashed a torrent of tears and physical pain in the center of my chest that I could not understand. With a resounding and painful, ‘WHY?’, I could not begin to perceive or accept how I should be without the person who would have wanted to share this time with me. My passion for scholarly pursuit and learning was the one significant bond I had shared with the only father I would ever have, yet he was inexplicably (and unfairly) taken from me, so it seemed. The injustice of the loss also angered me. I just could not comprehend.
 
At the start of my Sophomore year, I met a friend who is still one of my dearest and closest friends, despite differences in familial lifestyles, career choices and an ongoing lack of propinquity. What united us was the shared grief over losing our fathers. While my loss was through death, her loss was through divorce. It was not an easy divorce (not that any are), as her father had walked away from her family stating that he did not want to be a dad anymore. While our differences were profound in the form of loss, the love I shared (and continue to share with this friend) saved me. At last, I found ONE PERSON, MY AGE, AT MY SCHOOL, WHO UNDERSTOOD SOMETHING ABOUT THE PAIN AND GRIEF I HELD IN MY HEART. We provided respect, care, integrity and a safe soul where we could share the common experience of loss. My college friend, L.M. O’C. aided my spirit from grievous despair.
 
All it takes is one person to “get” you. The value of that one is so encompassing, so powerful, so relieving, that sorrow and grief and anger and confusion and guilt find a pathway to drain from your heart and flow back to you as love. Grief is not to be understood by the intellect and therein lay the conundrum of my dad’s bond. The development of my mind that he encouraged would not allow me to understand the loss of his presence.
 
And so, the story of AMF on CNN grabbed me and would not let go. I know, from experience, and not from intellectualizing or theorizing, the power of sharing loss in order to gain. I listened to the story and was so moved to hear such spiritual and emotional strength and maturity that I felt filled with gratitude by David and his mom who have given this energy and kindness where it is needed.
 
I know this. This is good news.
 
If there is one thing I have learned these 25 years of coping with loss, it is this; my heart understands the process, my mind cannot. The less I intellectually fight with grief when it approaches (and it still does), the more gentle and humane my relationship becomes with it, the more peace I feel underneath the painful process. In the way I don’t deny an oncoming cold (certain sniffles intuitively inform me to drink more Orange Juice, take some Ibuprofen and lay down for a long nap when I can), I now don’t FIGHT grief.
 
When it arrives, I let it settle, I cry, I reach out to my network of support to share, and instead of trying to understand it, I simply accept it. Grief knows nothing of time, only your mind knows that, so I let go of timelines and parameters of how one should feel and when. Grief is a part of you, it is not all of you. Grief is a process, and in a culture that requires plans and deadlines, it is anomalous to our current popular worldly demands. Grief, when channeled, will allow you to take stock of all that you have left after the loss, which is quite an enormous list if you take stock honestly. In fact, grief requires you to be a very honest person, allowing yourself the permission to express a myriad of emotions without any judgment of yourself (or others). It is what it is.
 
Finally I know that grief touches everyone. I have never met one person who did not experience a loss. When one is open to talking about loss, one senses how united and frail and tender and loving we all are. If I have shared anything that may have touched anyone, anywhere at any time, then I have indeed lived up to my dad’s final request to be all that I can be. Whereas I used to think I had to nation-build, run corporations, rescue all needy children, win an Oscar or earn millions of dollars to be all that I can be, I now know differently; touching another life in a positive way is my only way to be all that I can be, and both John Henry Eisenhauer and I are grateful to AMF for granting us the opportunity to share our experience, fulfilling a family legacy.
 
– Dori Eisenhauer
Brooklyn, NY
September 26, 2012

Our Florida A&M University AMF Chapter Leader Chelse Collins published a moving piece about losing her mother in the The FAMUAN in advance of Florida A&M’s first support group meeting:
 
The morning of March 29, 2011, I received a phone call from my brother. The sound of the phone ringing as the sun rose was like nails on a chalkboard.
 
“Hello?” I answered curiously.
 
In a quivering voice he shouted, “Mommy died!”
 
My heart dropped. My body became weak and my soul numb. The glue that held my family together was gone. I dropped to my knees and began to pray for understanding and comfort.
 
I would no longer hear her witty advice or feel my mother’s unconditional love. I yearned to be in her presence one last time.
 
My family is no stranger to health problems. At age 40, my mom suffered from a paralyzing stroke. She spent months in the hospital. She gradually learned to move her toes and eventually walk. After years of physical therapy, she was able to regain full movement in the right side of her body.
 
Nine years later, a second stroke took her life. Her death that morning was unexpected.
 
Hearing her gasp for air, my cousin Derrick rushed to her bedside. He began CPR. Not receiving a response, he called the paramedics. Shortly after their arrival, they announced my mother’s death. I replayed our last conversation in my mind.
 
“Chelse, I am mad at you,” she said softly. “Why?” I asked.
 
“I haven’t spoken to my best friend today,” she responded.
 
I neglected to call my mother that Sunday. She was calling to remind me that she was not going to let the sun go down without one of our daily hour-long conversations.
 
Without my mother to keep me grounded, I lost my determination. Recognizing my lack of motivation, my sister introduced me to the National Students of Ailing Mothers and Fathers, a peer-grief support and community service organization.
 
David Fajgenbaum created and named AMF after his mom, Annie Marie Fajgenbaum, when she died from a brain tumor. There are over 44 AMF chapters in the U.S. providing support for students dealing with the illness or death of a loved one.
 
Founding an AMF chapter at FAMU was one step toward dealing with my loss, and gave me an opportunity to display the strength and motivation my mother gave me.
 
The first FAMU AMF meeting will be at 7:30 p.m. on Wednesday, Sept.19, in Sunshine Manor. My goal is for AMF to inspire students as it has done for me; to leave behind a legacy that my mother would be proud of.
 

Chelse Collins on the left, her mother, Sandra Collins, on the right.