Thanks to everyone who responded to my column last week about the anniversary of my dad’s passing.  I am touched by all of the kind messages and even more impressed by my fellow family caregivers.  I received messages from people who have lost loved ones from one week to fifty-three years ago.  One theme that runs throughout all of the messages is the strength of feelings that the writers still have for their loved ones.  I received messages from some truly fearless caregivers who tell of how they developed partnerships with the professionals who care for their loved ones.

A few days after last week’s newsletter was sent, I found myself reflecting upon the nature of loss with some new friends in a truly unique setting.  I was in San Francisco for the day to speak to a professional group and after the session, a small band of adventurous attendees somehow talked me into taking a little walk – across the Golden Gate Bridge.  The day was clear, cold and the sky was cobalt blue. As we started walking across the bridge (which I do not recommend doing in dress shoes), the United States Navy’s Blue Angels were performing aerobatic exercises over the bridge. They were flying so low over our heads as we walked, I felt that I could almost reach out and touch the jets’ fuselages.   I spent some time on that walk, talking with one of my comrades whose dad had recently passed away about how long the grief of loss is meant to take. 

One of the things I realized through all of the messages sent last week, was that our loved ones never really do leave us once they pass and that there is no “correct” amount of time to process the grief, as long as you do start the grieving process. My friend, who lost her parents fifty-three years ago, still feels their presence and I feel warm and comforted knowing that my dad is always by my side, which was certainly the only thing keeping me warm that chilly day on the bridge.    

Join us next week in Louisville for our Fearless Caregiver Conference.

 

Gary Barg
Editor-in-Chief
gary@caregiver.com