Grief

I’ve thought long and hard about if I wanted to share this part of my journey.

Since I wrote about the post about life’s lemons, I realised that to have a truly transparent journey about health and wellness, I’d have to write about the one thing I’m not good at. And that’s my feelings.

This blog is dedicated to grief and how it shaped my journey. It’s a really pulpy –  grief, and if you aren’t careful, can turn you bitter and sour.

You might want to grab a drink, and get comfy. I’ve broken it down to specific people and their passing’s as I think each one changed me.

Mourning the loss of the living

Everyone who knows me knows I’m part of VERY big family, and my immediate family is made up of a combined family. I have the most amazing step father, sure he drives me mad. But as I’ve said before how lucky am I? Every day he chooses to love me as his daughter, and I choose to love him as my dad.

Our papa, along with Steve, our god fathers and our two very special uncles, were the stalwarts of men in our lives growing up. Our papa taught us to ride horses, our stepdad to ride a bike or how to sea biscuit, our uncles on how to build, fix or mend things.  They taught us how to love each in their own way. They continue to teach us patience and then there are some fundamentals they teach you – that will stay with you from now till you leave this earth.

So the grief, comes from mourning the loss of a “real father” who’s somewhere, living his life and isn’t a part of mine. It’s taken me almost my entire adult life to admit that this is a type of grief.  Dealing with that real pulpy shit at the bottom that I talk about – is him, it’s this. However you look at it, it’s not right for a man to pack up one day and leave without saying good bye to his kids. If you come from a split family, you’ll understand the fear that you won’t be good enough? Its shapes the person you become when it comes to relationships. You rely solely on yourself. Because then it’s all on you. I used to think he’d come back. I’m not sure why, but I thought he would. He didn’t, he actually still hasn’t. I haven’t spoken to him in almost 15 years.

As I’ve gone through life, I’ve realised that he must be a very sad man, he missed out on some of the best moments in our lives. Would I let him through my door? Would I have him sit at my table – offer him a cuppa? I don’t think so. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to a ghost of a man? The man I no longer know. I had this fleeting thought, that if I can spend time working to be a better version of me, then maybe he may have changed? Then I realised. He can’t come into a page in my book of life, and think he knows me. The person he knew – she was 15 when he knew her. I’m all grown now Joe. Plus I’m not sure how’d I’d deal with the possibility that he may not want to know me. I’m tough. But I’m not sure that my heart would survive that sort of break.

I, my sister and brother are amazing humans. We are soulful, sassy, smart, funny we have unwavering love for each other, because for as long as our brother has been on this earth, we believe it’s the 3 of us. All we need is each other. Sure the apple never falls far from the tree, and there are elements of our father in each of us. But we are successful each in our own strengths and we lean on each other for our weaknesses. We support each other and our decisions. We pick each other up only the way we know how. And for that we have the village of people who helped raise us to thank.

I wouldn’t change my life for a second. I don’t feel like I missed out. I never wanted for anything, I still don’t. Those men along with the rest of our village, they are my world and It’s anything but lonely, its anything but the feeling of missing out.

The loss of the Matriarch

Maxine Moekotahi Tangihaere was and still is the Matriarch in our family. She’s been gone just on eight years and every day in some way shape or form I think of her. I think she visits my sister more often, but she is never far from me when I need her.

I was 23 when she died and right up until my last visit home to see her. I still slept in her bed. Even though she had 50 million blankets, tossed and turned and got up at 4am. It was my favorite place to be. It was a place where I could share my secrets, sit in silence or laugh until I cried. It’s where she’d impart wisdom; share her knowledge all things Maori and where I’d learn about the things you can’t see, but can feel, it’s where I learnt about my Wairua (Spirituality).  So I felt sad and lost. But most of all, I was no longer scared of dying. Because when it’s my time. She’ll be waiting for me.

Her death made me appreciate things more, I listened more carefully, I accepted people are different and don’t always think the same as you do, I looked to things like feather and spiders dropping on me as signs that whatever my gut and heart were telling me about decisions I had to make – were right – I also knew I had to love myself more. It just took time. My body confidence, it comes from her. She never spoke negatively about herself. She loved her for her. We’d stand next to each other in the bath, and there was never any shame.

If I can try to teach my nieces and their mothers anything in my life time – it is to try and love yourself. Because, she taught me about self love, every day of her life. She tried so hard to give me a confidence in myself that again took me until I was almost 30 to appreciate and understand. My grandmother was one of a kind. She was our family’s soul…… The name of my blog is a dedication to her. I always joke about my #Maxinethighs – so to call my blog. #Themthighs is tribute to the immeasurable things our thighs have carried us on through our life.

I love you Max. Thank you for everything you ever taught me, everything.

The loss of a Mother

Nettie –Ann Tana Ball was my aunt and godmother. She was also my second mum. I’m so lucky to still have my mum. But when aunty died a part of me died too. Her loss shaped me to who I am today. My autoimmune disease was already in its throws when she passed, but afterwards, I suppose to a degree I had a nervous breakdown. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do? My uncle was heartbroken, as was my papa and everyone else. I was supposed to be like her, I was supposed to be tough and solid and with it all for all of them. I was supposed to take care of them, like she did. But I couldn’t. I remember getting back to Australia, and sleeping. Hoping I’d never wake up. I missed our phone calls and text messages; I missed finishing our calls with “always” at the end. I missed going “home” to her house and sitting in her bed. Watching her tv program, us trying to race each other to the finish of a book. I missed her banana splits. I missed her laugh and smile. I missed her “eyes” the ones she gave when you were in the shit. But her parting taught me my greatest of lessons.

Before she died, though, the lessons had already started, I became more thankful. Because there were things happening to her, which meant she couldn’t do dome of her most favorite things. Like read during treatment, or remember things as her memory was shot or as some people refer to it she had “chemo fog”. Most of all though, for someone who loved her body. She felt incomplete. She told me it was like someone had robbed her of her feminism, and in her words “Babe, chicken fillets just don’t fucking cut it” it wasn’t until after she died, I truly began to appreciate what that had meant. I’d had a breast reduction 3 days before she was diagnosed, but what I thought would fix me didn’t.

I was so bad to my body and my soul; I really didn’t look after myself or have my shit together. But we know where I ended up and where I am now, and I think it was born out of fear that I would have to feel what she felt. That if I wasn’t careful, I would become another statistic. I also wanted her to be proud of me. To know that I could see something through, that I could tough things out, and get back to me or at least the new me. Because the light was still dim. And by taking care of myself, and becoming more aware of my body. I found a lump. (Well my GP did) and that would test me. I stubbornly – more like terrifyingly waited 3 months before I booked into the breast clinic. Because of fear, fear that maybe – if I had to fight I wouldn’t be as brave as her. I wouldn’t be as strong or tough. But then I thought about what she’d say. I had to give up my OCD traits and go in with an “it will be what it will be” attitude, because for all intents and purposes, things could potentially be out of my control, with one result.

My results came back fine. And after two consecutive years, I now don’t have to go back until I’m 35.

It is one very major under lying reason I have kept on in my journey.  If you find something, please don’t be stubborn or afraid like me, reach out and go. Two of my very best friends came with me, and I’ll never forget them sitting with me, through those first couple of tests I had to have.

I love you Mrs Ball – you along with the other amazing women in my life are my motivation, always.

The loss of the Tuakana – The loss of our Joe.

Te Tahana Hona Tangihaere – aka Joe. He was our papa, and the greatest man to us.

Every second word was fuck. He referred to many people as Joe or asshole. But he was the softest man you’d ever meet. Things where pretty black and white for him, I often refer to him as a toasted marsh mellow little bit burnt on the outside, but all gooey on the inside, because if he loved you, he loved you. If he called you “bub” you were special to him.

He taught me some of the greatest things in life, even if it was in a gruff way.

Animals and being outside was what made him happy, he was always tinkering. “The Farm” was his favorite place, and no one could make porridge or bread like him. He loved our grandmother even when she drove him mad, and as soppy as it is, when they looked at each other, their eyes used to sparkle. He taught me so much about giving when you have nothing to give, and if I really need to budget – I could do it with next to nothing to my name. I appreciate quiet because of him. I appreciate being outside at sunrise and sunset, and sitting under the stars.

Dementia robbed him of his memories and the use of his hands. He couldn’t talk to me about things anymore, and he was scared of the technology that kept us in touch. When papa passed. I was heartbroken all over again. He was the constant man in our lives. His cups of tea – they fixed everything. Standing at the kitchen sink watching him shuffle through the gate was priceless, and some days I’d give everything to have that back. I miss his smell – he was the smell of comfort. That oil skin, tabacooy smell mixed with horse from days outside, I think is etched in me to my core.

His passing taught me, the lesson of family. Of how much love, one man, who’s every second word was fuck – could receive when he’d left this life for the next, how much he was respected, faults and all.

It taught me, to accept and embrace the faults I have. Because that’s me, and people love the good the bad and the otherwise.

To sum it up – Grief’s a mother fucker. It can swipe you in both the darkest and happiest of times. It can get you in both loud and quiet environments. A smell can have you either smiling or crying. There’s sometimes no in between. For something as grey as grief, it can be as plain as black and white.

But you can’t not deal with the pulp that grief is – You have to sieve through it. You have process the pulp. Otherwise you can become very bitter. If you decide to do someone’s memory proud, you need make sure you are also doing it for you. You have to find a way to love yourself through the hard times and in the times when you are most un-loveable surround yourself with the best people. People who know you better than you know yourself, people who love you no matter what.

I’m surrounded by love, love that I don’t think I tell people often enough how grateful I’m for.

My siblings mean more to me than I could ever describe, my extended family and friends help me breathe and give me a reason to be positive – too look for the silver linings in life, because without rain there’d be no rainbows.

Most of all, I believe in the saying given to me by sister. Your speed doesn’t matter. Forward is forward”