Revolution on Standby: Bereavement and the DSM-5

“Do not close your eyes before suffering. Find ways to be with those who are suffering by all means... awaken yourself and others to the reality of suffering in the world.”
—Guatama Buddha

As the presidential election approaches, there is a quiet revolution on standby... 

We will not remain silent on behalf of the suffering. 

American Psychiatric Association
Dilip Jeste, M.D.
1000 Wilson Blvd
Arlington, Va 22209

Dear Dr. Jeste,

On behalf of the MISS Foundation's 75 worldwide chapters and our many constituents, our board of directors, and our advisory board, we write to publicly and emphatically oppose the proposed removal of the bereavement exclusion in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual version 5 (DSM-5). 

After lengthy evaluation by many on our clinical team and by the experts, our bereaved parent members, we have concluded that there is no empirical standing for the change, and this proposal not only contradicts good common sense but also rests on weak scientific evidence. In addition, we feel that bereaved parents are at an increased risk of being misdiagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder.  The literature is clear: long-term psychological distress is common in this population and other populations suffering traumatic deaths. The psychological distress in the bereaved parent population endures for much longer and is much more intense that other types of bereavement, yet this is congruent and appropriate in anachronistic loss (see Sanders, 1979; DeFrain, 1986; Qin & Mortenson, 2012; Cacciatore, Lacasse, Lietz, & McPherson, in press). Thus, we oppose its pathologization. As an advocacy organization, we feel that the DSM 5 proposal is radical, unnecessary, challenges what it means to be human, and is a dangerous move for our families who are already vulnerable to inappropriate and misguided psychiatric care. 

The DSM-5 would require a distinction between normal grief and depression shortly after the death of a loved one. This is often impossible to discern for even the most experienced clinicians.  This then increases the likelihood of false positives- and may cause further harm to an already vulnerable population. The proposed footnote will never satisfy our concerns nor provide enough assurance for the protection of our very vulnerable grieving families.

Should the DSM-5 stubbornly ignore the evidence and the mounting professional and public opposition, our only alternative will be to call for more direct action. We will join a concerted boycott against the use of the DSM-5 in treating bereaved families facing the death of a child.  We will make our outcry very public and warn our families and clinicians worldwide of these dangers. 

On behalf of hundreds of thousands of bereaved people around the world, we implore you to reverse this poorly conceived and unnecessary decision.  We await your response.

Barry Kluger, Chief Executive Officer                                      
Joanne Cacciatore, PhD, Chairman
Kelli Montgomery, Executive Director

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If you'd like to understand more about this history of this open letter, please follow the links below in order:

1. http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2012/03/relativity-applies-to-physics-not.html

2. http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2012/03/open-letter-regarding-dsm-5.html

3. http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2012/03/bereavement-and-snorting-seaweed.html

4. http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2012/04/96-800x600-normal-0-false-false-false.html

5. http://drjoanne.blogspot.com/2012/05/dsm5-mdd-and-reliability.html

6.  We also have some agreement from within the circle of psychiatry:
     http://www.psychiatrictimes.com/mdd/content/article/10168/2101460



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A letter from my colleagues at GRI to the APA:

The Grief Recovery Institute Educational Foundation, Inc.

P.O. Box 6061-382 - Sherman Oaks, CA 91413

Phone: 818-907-9600 Ext 12 - Fax: 818-907-9329

November 2, 2012

American Psychiatric Association

Dilip Jeste, M.D.

1000 Wilson Blvd.

Arlington, VA 22209

And via email: djeste@ucsd.edu

cc: jlieberman@pi.cpmc.columbia.edu  rogerpeele@aol.com

Dear Dr. Jeste,

We write to you as the principals of The Grief Recovery Institute Educational Foundation and on behalf of its extended family of 5000 trained Grief Recovery Specialists in the United States and around the world; and, as the keepers of a sacred trust with 500,000 people connected to our organization. We are aghast at the proposed deletion of the Bereavement Exclusion from the DSM5. We also write to you on behalf of the many millions of “grievers-to-be” who will be incorrectly diagnosed and buried under an avalanche of inappropriate pharmaceutical intervention.

Grievers have a difficult enough time in our society which consistently tells them not to feel bad or sad when those feelings are the primary and logical emotions attached to the death of someone meaningful to them. It gets worse when medical and mental health professionals are encouraged to pathologize normal grief as MDE. If that is allowed to happen, a perilous line will have been crossed. [Note: We believe that any good practitioner will already have identified “at risk” patients whose reaction to a death might plunge them into an pre-existing depressive condition, and react appropriately.]

Three critical points:

1. We understand that the field trials used to justify many of the proposed changes in DSM5 are deficient. That not only represents “bad science” but also weakens the APA’s increasingly shaky foundation. Credibility being what it is, you jeopardize the legacy of the prior DSMs and threaten to commit unintentional organizational suicide. Once you lose your cred, you’ll never get it back. And with it will go millions of dollars from non-sales of the book no one will wantor need.
2. The proposed footnote, while noble, does nothing to ameliorate our fears of misuse and misdiagnosis by untrained and unskilled doctors with nothing more than your criteria for a time-based schema to distinguish between normal grief and MDE.
3. We don’t know the level or degree to which those who have authored the Bereavement Exclusion deletion have had direct interactive experience with grieving people, but without being mean-spirited we can only guess it is minimal at best, and academic—not reality-based—at worst.

With 35 years in the field with many thousands of real grievers, we are the ones in the trenches. We are co-authors of The Grief Recovery Handbook and When Children Grieve [both from HarperCollins].

This letter is not a threat, but it does contain a promise.  If you insist on pressing forward on this collision course with catastrophe regarding the Bereavement Exclusion, we  will spare no effort to make it known that you have breeched your pledge to “do no harm.”

Sincerely,

Russell Friedman

Executive Director

and for

John W. James

Founder

"I'm having a baby girl" and a helicopter

It's been a week filled with the unexplainable.

Interestingly, just last week, I had a long discussion with some students about all things noetic, spiritual, and ineffable. We talked about how, in this material world, we sometimes have extraordinary experiences for which there is little or no scientific data to understand the how or why something happened. And why it is so important, as aspiring mindful clinicians, to accept those experiences as real for people. Because.they.are.real.

You know those little things, right? Seeing a butterfly at just the right moment or some kind of sign or symbol of your Beloved?

I've experienced many of these, and I usually, scientist-wanna-ninja that I am, try to explain them away empirically.

This time, like several other times, I couldn't.

I've sat with it now for more than 24 hours, and I am still in awe of the experience.

It all started here with a client of the MISS Foundation whose little boy died almost 1-1/2 years ago. She has two surviving sons and is currently in her second trimester of a subsequent pregnancy.  I haven't actually seen her in person for several weeks because she's been traveling.

Here is the email I sent her, and I'd like to note the time:

From: Joanne Cacciatore

Subject: WTH?

Date: October 18, 2012 6:45:09 AM MST

To: Dr. Jo's client who will remain unnamed

                 ...I dreamed we were getting into a helicopter.  You, me, your two living boys, and a little girl (who I had never seen). The little girl was very cute.  She looked like your son who died.  Then we all got into the helicopter... and we took off in the helicopter to go see your son who died... Then I woke up.  Wow.  

At 10:30 am, just a few hours later, I got a phone call from this beautiful mama, and she was crying. Really crying. She had received my email. 

"I'm having a girl, I'm having a girl!" she said sobbingly.

"Wait, what?" I said in disbelief.

"I'm having a baby girl!" she repeated.

What I did not know when I awoke from that strangely-placed dream was that she was getting ready, at that very moment, for an appointment with her doctor and within an hour or so, would find out that she was having a baby girl.

We were both... well, frankly, speechless.  I sat with it all day. 

Late last night I sent another email:

"At any point, did you tell me about the doctor's appointment today? I mean, did you mention it and maybe it was in my unconscious?"

Her immediate reply:

"I didn't tell you about the doctor's appointment. I just made it last minute..."

I don't know how to explain this but I know it happened. 

What is the nature of reality? Why do these things happen? What does it mean about non-materiality? 

I have no idea.

But for centuries, mystics have understood the meaningful power of synchronicity.  From near death experiences to to meaningful coincidences to just plain unexplainable phenomena, scientists and theologians have grappled to understand how and why these things happen.

I'm remembering the night Elisabeth, my best friend and mentor, died in 2004. Just before her death, she told me when she died, she'd send me a sign that she was "dancing in the stars". 

This is an excerpt I wrote from the book about her, Tea with Elisabeth:

On July 24, 2004, exactly one month before her death, I had a dream that Elisabeth died. In my dream, I was sobbing and mourning, feeling desperate to have my friend back. She appeared to me, surprised by my sadness. She told me to stop crying and assured me that she was fine. Then she told me not to worry, well-aware of my enduring tug-of-war with faith- she said reassuringly, “I’ll see you again one day”...

I came home the night of Elisabeth’s funeral services exhausted and aching. I already missed her so much and felt grief’s grip around my chest.  Around 11 p.m., I went onto my front patio and sat in my rocking chair. I leaned my head back and began to sob, talking to Elisabeth in my mind. With tears rolling down my cheeks, I asked her for a sign- for a very clear sign- I asked her for something like a shooting star, not really expecting anything miraculous. A few minutes later, I opened my eyes with my head leaned back and immediately saw a bright shooting star traveling from the east to the west sky... I realized that Elisabeth is, indeed, doing what she said she would be doing... dancing in the stars.

I still don't understand that experience either.

The connections we have with whatever is beyond this world may not be comprehensible within the context of our present minds. That's okay with me. 

But what I do know is that I don't have to understand these experiences. All I need to do is accept them for the beautifully mysterious. 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

And, I can't wait to meet this special little sister. She is already adored and loved by all three of her brothers. And, I feel like, in some unexplainable way, I already know and love her.

The Story of Benjamin: The fullness of love comes full circle

In my "being with Death" work, I meet the most amazing and beautiful and open-hearted people in the world. The stories I hear change my life and expand my heart. Oh yes, I cry - a lot - every day at some point, I end up crying. But, that's okay. I'm not attached to stoicism.

While I work mostly with bereaved parents and siblings, what I know is that every person on Earth is or will be bereaved at some point.

That includes students.

I meet a student or two every once-in-awhile who really gets it.  I don't always know why he or she gets it in such a big way- at least at first. But nearly always, what I later learn is that there is a story of deep loss behind the curtain of his or her life.

I'd like to share a truly profound story from a former student who opened her heart to me in a big way, and both she and her father Benjamin, gave me a tremendous gift of shared sadness, compassion, and gratitude.

This student's grandmother lost three of her six children, one was the student's father, Benjamin.

But, the grieving mother/grandmother did not speak of her children who died. No one spoke of them. It was forbidden, kept "secret", in "hiding... or lying through omission". These were secrets for which the student said the entire family now "pays the price".

So, for her own 28th birthday, the student generously asked for donations to the MISS Foundation in lieu of gifts in honor of her father, Benjamin, his two siblings who died, and their grieving mother, her grandmother.

She wrote her story and sent it to me in word-pictures:

In the words of that grieving little girl who became my student many years later:

"I do miss my dad, and I wish that I'd had a chance to know him... his family misses him. 

I wish that somebody in my family had been brave enough to talk about what happened to him and made it okay to talk about him with me. 

My cousin said that she was putting me to bed after my dad died 

and I asked why we didn't go to the hospital anymore 

(which is when my cousin realized that nobody told me what had happened - at least in a way that a four year old would understand). 

When she did, she said my response was immediately, 

"It's all my fault." 

I have no memory of this at all, but what a conversation to have to have. 

My cousin had no idea until last night that I already knew he died from AIDS; 

she was told by multiple members of the family that she was not to discuss it with me. 

The work of the MISS Foundation opened up my own family's hearts 

and reminded them to have a bit more compassion for others, 

maybe even to reach back into the past and understand a little more of our own history. 

And that it is okay to take out those emotions and stories and sit with them awhile. 

So in sum, I'd also like to say thank you, because I think it's a gift to feel truly connected to your past and to your loved ones, even the ones you think you lost... It was thru my work with MISS Foundation that I more completely understood how my grandmother must have suffered."

I cried with her when I read her email. I cried for the little girl who lost her father. I cried for the woman who lost her son. And I cried for Benjamin, a man who would never get to see his little girl grow up to be the beautiful and breathtaking human being she has become. The fullness of love is abundant in her.

Thank you student-teacher. You know who you are. Thank you.  I bow to your beauty and your pain.

A Part of Us... yesterday, today, into eternity

A Part of Us from Jimmy Carrauthers on Vimeo.

For more information on this event and to view pictures visit our site.

While all of October is Awareness Month, today is Infant and Child Death Awareness Day.  Please, share with grieving parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends around the world and light a candle in your time zone at 7pm in honor of all the children gone too soon and the families who mourn in their absence. We honor, remember, and MISS them together.

Recipe for Raw Grief

A grieving mama and her spicy monkey

It's a rare occasion when I admire a celebrity.

Today is one of those days.  Pop star Taylor Swift wrote a beautiful song for our beloved Maya Thompson's spicy monkey, Ronan Sean, called "Ronan." The song is absolutely breathtaking. And not every celebrity is courageous enough to talk about the death of a baby or young child. Simply, it's a topic that most will avoid...

Maya is the same grieving mother I wrote about back in March when my rant about the DSM went viral. Since Ronan's death, Maya has endured 16 months of agony, and has put her grief into action helping to build an infrastructure that will fight neuroblastoma and provide grief support to families in the process of this nightmare.

All the proceeds go toward helping families whose children have cancer. So, please, spend the $1.00 on iTunes and download the gorgeous song, Ronan, and help us to help families.

Six Feet, Three Girls, and Smiles

After working more than 90 hours last week, I decided to take a family day.  Stevie Jo agreed to drive down from NAU for a hike and some mother-daughter time.  She texted me last night.

SJ: Mom, I'm so excited! I made a new friend! She's from Hawaii. You're gonna love her.

Me:  That's great honey! You can certainly bring her with you to Sedona tomorrow!

SJ: I'm going to because she's never been outside Flagstaff! She had never even been outside Hawaii. Wait until she sees Sedona. Sunday I'm taking her to the Grand Canyon.

Me: She'll have so much fun! Can't wait to meet her.

------------------------------------

StevieJo and Deann arrived this morning around 10:30.  We chatted for a few minutes, 

Me:  So how do you like it here?

Deann: Oh, it's incredible! It's like a painting!

Me:  Yes it is! Hawaii is just as beautiful.

Deann: Yes, but in different ways.

Me: I would imagine! Someday we'll go there!

Deann: You'd love it. The beaches are amazing.

Me: Are you a freshman this year?

Deann: Yes, I just turned 18 and I've never left Hawaii.

Me: That's what StevieJo said! Are you scared about being here?

Deann: A little. I was really homesick the first few days, but I'm feeling better now...

and then they went onto the deck with Josh while I made them some drinks.

I looked out the kitchen window and saw them sitting there at the table. They were talking, giggling, and full-on laughing. I smiled.

Then, it hit me.

Wait. What did she just say? I shook my head side to side as if doing so would cause my brain to repeat her words. Must've worked because with great clarity I heard it again: "I just turned 18."

Oh man.

I stood there and watched. Tears filled my eyes. Good, good, good tears. This is what it would look like.  I just watched and watched in awe. It was about as strange a feeling as I've had in a very long time. I'm not sure I can put it to words, so I won't try. But... it was magical.

Deann has a deep love for nature. She loves anthropology and animals. She is spiritual and engaging and her smile is illuminating.  She loves going barefoot (she said one day she'd try my crazy barefoot hiking with me). She loves hippies. She loves sea turtles (for Z) and owls. She even meditates.

And she loves hiking too. So, StevieJo, Deann, and I went for a hike.

Three girls, six feet, and a smile on my face and happy tears on the edge of dispersal for nearly two hours at the tiny glimpse into my alternate-wished-for-reality (yes, of course, that's me, barefooted).

We walked up to the vortex and sat. Just the three girls in order of age.

I could tell StevieJo was feeling it too.  And seeing them together warmed my heart in ways I could never have imagined. I was bathed in immense gratitude for this priceless moment tinged with a dollop of sadness.

But so appreciative.

We came home and played our ritual card game, Spoons, and Deann was wild and fun and loud. She fit right into the place at the table that should have been Chey's. We laughed and laughed and laughed.

I'm uncertain if this is some remuneration for the excruciatingly difficult summer, but this was one of the best days I've had in a very long time.

Thank you... thank you... thank you. Bowing in deep, profound gratitude.

I hope they are friends for a very, very long time.

Cherry Trees in Winter and Too Many Dead Children

Dear Cheyenne,
I haven't written to you publicly for several years. But, it's been a long hard summer.  And something about sending this out to the world feels right.

In many ways, this has been one of the hardest summers in almost a decade.

There are so many reasons why.

Your prom. Graduation. 18th birthday. College. Hit after hit. And then there are the families...

So many, many new families. Really, the past 18 months I've noticed a significant increase in the number of families who have come to us desperately seeking help.  I'm not even sure how we've managed to help so many. It feels a little like the loaf of bread that fed thousands.

Oh, how I wish this didn't happen. How I wish children didn't die. American children, Italian children, Romanian children, German children, Irish children, Latin children, Canadian children, African children, Asian children, Russian children, Australian children, Maori and New Zealander children, Native American children, Arabic children, Indian children, Greek children, Spanish children, Icelandic children, all the children of all the world...

We are all connected. Their children are mine, mine theirs. When one child dies, it affects us all, even through the generations. I know this now, Chey. You taught me this.

Still, there are so many things about child death that I don't understand. Some of the most beautiful families are faced with life's most incomprehensible loss.

A student asked me yesterday how I "handle all the stress" of working with grieving families.

I really believe that the answer to that is through my mindfulness practices. They help me to feel you and remind me that you are with me, you and I are the same. We are one. Remember the first time I hiked barefoot? I felt you with me then. The first time I meditated? Then, too. The kindnesses? All you, sweet girl.

It's taken lots of time (they call it "practice" for a reason) but I've learned to tolerate uncertainty even about the big, unanswerable questions. I've learned to lean into my suffering and the suffering of others. I've learned to willingly turn into the darkness when it calls, not fearlessly yet still with some degree of courage. I've learned that I can truly love strangers and not fear being overtaken by their grief. I've learned that their grief is my grief. I've learned that it is our connectedness and integration that can heal the world. I've learned that if I still my mind, I can hear you...

I know my feet are yours. That we walk together. That all the children who belong to all the families walk together.

And so yesterday I meditated on cherry trees blossoming in winter.

I still cry nearly every day, mostly for us all, and I'm thankful for that. I'm alive.  The beauty and the pain live together in the same house. They, too, are one.

I love you and miss you every second of every day of every week of every month of every year of every decade.

Mama

Spinach Scramble and a Scone

Someone said something very recently that I accepted as incredibly hurtful and dismissive. The result was a long drive in the dark and frequent phone calls to a few beautiful friends to soothe my soul.  I sobbed. And I sobbed. And I sobbed.  And I sobbed.

It's amazing how a single word with just the right inflection can transform a day. Especially when its directed toward someone you love. Especially when that someone is your child. And particularly, when that someone is your dead child.

I grappled with why- why do people say such things? How could someone be so hurtful to another? What would that person have to gain from wounding another person?

But the whys are always met with tinning silence.

This morning, residual feelings of pain bounced up and down in my gut. 

"I get to choose how I accept this," I said to myself.

Still, my intestines felt twisted and past hurtful comments, to which I'd long since said farewell, returned for an invited visit.  But I had no time for wallowing...and,

This morning, I moved my 21-year-old daughter into her new university dorm (note that my 18 year old should have been moving in with her, but she can't because she's dead).  

I arrived a little before the office opened so I went to a coffee shop near campus.  I stood in line ahead of a lovely family with a beautiful, perfect little girl with Down's Syndrome. And she was beautiful and perfect.  Quietly, I bought an anonymous gift card to pay for their breakfast. I sat outside and watched them eat.  They were grateful, I knew. 

This gorgeous little girl kept looking at me, waving and staring, and I wondered if she knew something that I didn't know.

Two decades ago, I probably wouldn't have done something like this. But in 1994, my daughter came into my life and she shattered my heart open, sending seedlings of love and compassion (often through the Kindness Project) into the world. They are not my seeds, they are hers. 

This is who my daughter is... Cheyenne Cacciatore, beloved child, precious daughter, always loved and always missed. As valuable now as she was then and as she will always be. As worthy of dignity and recognition as anyone, dead or alive. And this is her fruition.

Done in loving memory of my own beautiful and perfect girl...

She is my baby, my child.

She is not a "just".

I finished my tea. I smiled and walked to my car, and I cried.

Don't forget to play.

Yesterday, I met with a bereaved person who is also a student.  After about an hour of talking- about all things good, bad, and in between- she said, "You know, you aren't at all what I expected you to be."

"Really?" I said in response.

"Not at all," she firmly reiterated.

"Hmmm," I grinned, "tell me more?"

She went on to say that she'd imagined me as a "depressed type", someone who'd be morose and down-trodden given the "serious and tragic nature" of my work.

"Oh?" I said. "And now you feel differently?"

"Well, yes," she continued, "you're rather... don't take this wrong, but..." She hesitated.

There was a long pause.

"Silly, " she continued after another long pause. "Almost childlike or playful or something that I can't quite put my finger on."

"So, you're saying I'm immature?" I smiled.

She apologized, and I said there was absolutely no need as I accepted that as a compliment.

I suppose I am a little immature for my age.  I do love the things children do, and I participate in these activities regularly despite the fact that my children are grown.

I love hiking barefoot. I love walking in hailstorms and getting wet (big) hair. I love playgrounds, particularly hanging upside down on the bars. Teeter-totters rule. Swings are even better. Sometimes I run in the store just because I can. I love to ride on the grocery cart downhill to my car when I'm finished shopping.  I make funny faces in the mirror, and I tease my kids incessantly (much to their chagrin). I start spontaneous 'tag-you're-it-and-you-can't-catch-me-now" games walking down the street with my daughter who calls me "immature"but then plays the game with me. I have an endless supply of immature behaviors in my repertoire of existence.

I even love squishing in the mud with friends' children.

Note: At first, the beautiful four-year-old (who would later join me in the mud party) looked at me like I was mad. I could see her mind working: Uh, mom... is this okay?

Soon after, however, she realized the glory of mud between the toes and joined me on the dark side.

Back to the conversation.

"Well, yes, I am, uh, less than adult-like at times," I admitted without shame. "But I cry too. Everyday as a matter of fact. The tears are never far from the surface... I cry for my child, and for her child and for his child and for their children and for her parents and his partner and for all the hurt and misery and suffering in the world."

She looked at me quietly. "How do you feel so sad and so happy," she asked with deep sincerity.

And I said:

This is what Death gives us: the ability to realize the preciousness of every moment in the world. The preciousness and the destruction. The joy and the sorrow. The beauty and the pain. I am here ever-so-briefly. I want to live life. To live life wildly. And free. To do those things which will enrich the moment without paying mind to what others may think or say about what should and shouldn't be. To surrender to the little girl who longs to play and seek and explore and just be. To cry when tears ask for a gateway, to stand in awe at those tiny spaces of life that are so easy to walk past, to live big- not small. I want color and contrast and silence and music and all of it. And, I am not afraid of life and the pains that it brings.

The masterpiece of this place is that we can have it all, the darkness and the light, and only in that way can we be whole and complete. Remember to mourn. Remember to play.

This is the gift of my dead child.  Though I'd rather have her than park swings or mud pies, this is the gift of my dead child.

And I'm kinda glad that I wasn't what that student expected.

Weep with us...

You will soon forget with whom you laughed. 

 You will never forget with whom you wept. 

 -Khalil Gibran 

Every other year, hundreds of bereaved parents, siblings, grandparents, friends, aunts and uncles join with professionals such as physicians, nurses, social workers, students, funeral directors, EMS workers, psychiatrists, psychologists, and others in community and solidarity. Please join us at the MISS Foundation's 9th Annual International Gathering. Because you cannot cry away this pain. It is unmendable. It can never be all right. Someone is always missing from our family circle. So we come together and remember.

-Healing with creative arts: stone work, poetry, music, dance, performance
-Mindfulness practices: meditation, prayer, stilling the mind, yoga, ecopsychology
-Integrative medicine- physical, emotional,  social, and cognitive well-being
-Results from the Traumatic Experiences and Resiliency Study (TEARS) on parental grief, economics, effects on individuals, families, and society, pharmacological interventions
-Perinatal and pediatric palliative care
-The power of empathy
-Why grief should not be treated as an illness

We explore. We inquire. We provide. We connect. We hold sacred. We give and accept love and comfort. We dance. We even laugh.

We also weep.

Come with us and share. Tell others you know.

You won't forget this experience nor the people with whom you weep.


------------------

--Breakout workshops and preliminary schedule listed here

International Kindness Project Day is tomorrow

International Kindness Project Day. Tomorrow. From anywhere you are.

This project pays YOU. I promise.

RSVP and instructions here https://www.facebook.com/events/258980020840086/

CNN, Grief, and Bereaved Parents

For Erica and her dad and the millions of grieving parents in the U.S. and around the world: 

Our children are changing the world.

Now one of the most popular news stories online, thank you Olivia and thank you CNN.

http://www.cnn.com/2012/07/24/health/grief-leave/index.html

The Invisible People

Think occasionally of the suffering of which you spare yourself the sight.

-Albert Schweitzer

I don't often talk about the ways in which I choose to help others, strangers or not, but today I decided I needed to blog for two reasons: First, July 27 is International Kindness Project Day and I hope to inspire you to participate. You can download free kindness cards here!  Second, I'm blogging in honor of the "invisible" but beautiful people I met...

I spent a few days out of town, meeting colleagues (one of whom is a dear friend, Ira Israel, producer of a beautiful video on mindfulness).  I was on their turf, a small but buzzing beach town abounding with sidewalk cafes, designer boutiques, wine bars, and visitors from around the world.

And juxtaposed in stark, ironic contrast were the hungry people who lined the streets.

I cannot imagine what it feels like to live on the streets. I cannot know what it is to feel hunger or to rely on the pity or mercy or fear of others for survival.  I cannot begin to comprehend being invisible to thousands upon thousands who walk past me. I just cannot imagine.

I wanted to do more than give them money. I wanted to spend some time with them. So I offered to buy many of them lunch or breakfast or coffee or juice. 

There was Mary, a well-educated woman with a Masters degree from Columbia- now living on the streets and trying to deal with an alcohol problem that began with her father's early death.  She let me buy her a bottle of mango-peach juice which would ease her stomach ache.  People stared at us in line. I wondered what her life was like, no one seeing her but everyone staring at her.  We talked about pain and its effects and how we self-medicate grief.

There was Tom, a man who lost his job and his home and his family.  He'd been craving a specific burger from his favorite restaurant for months but didn't have enough money to buy one.  I spent 20 minutes with him as he devoured it, repeating his gratitude between bites. 

There was another man, I didn't get his name, but I bought him a huge cup of vanilla bean ice cream slathered with caramel, nuts, strawberries, and whipped cream. 

There was Moni. Moni had been through so much in her long life. She was struck by an impaired driver and, without insurance, went deep into debt and became addicted to pain medications after the accident. In a wheelchair, she sat on the corner with Sheila, her dusty red poodle, the only "thing in the world who loves" her.  I sat on the curb next to her and talked to her. Then, bought her a cup of coffee and a scone from Starbucks.  She said as I left, "Thank you. Thank you so much for the food. But mostly, thank you for your kind heart."  

And then there was Doug. 

I met Doug as I was walking with one of my other colleagues rather swiftly down the street. I wasn't paying attention as I was trying to hurry for a meeting.  I heard some muffled words from behind me. "What was that?" I asked my colleague.  "He asked for money," she said.  Knowing we were rushed, I kept walking. I got to the stoplight and turned to see him. As we started to cross, I said, "I have to go back."  I turned around, and she gladly followed me.

As I approached, he sat humbly broken on the bench, his head hung, hair and beard filthy and disheveled.  His nails were long, blackened from petrified dirt. He held a single, grungy, rolled up towel under his arm. He didn't have a sign. He merely asked, ever-so-quietly, as people passed, "Can you help me? I'm a veteran."  I walked up to him and smiled.  He had the most piercingly blue eyes I'd ever seen.  They nearly glowed.

"May I buy you lunch?" I asked. He looked confused. "Me?" he asked. "Sure, thank you so much," he said.

We went into Quizno's and ordered lunch.  An extra-large sandwich. Chips. A drink. An oatmeal cookie.  We talked. I asked his name and his eyes welled with tears. I bought him a gift card for Quizno's so he could have lunch and dinner the rest of the week. He kept thanking me, over and over. He was hungry and he was thirsty and he was lonely. His only possessions were a single towel upon which to lay his head at night and a few items of clothing.

I looked into his sad, grateful blue eyes and said farewell, and I could not stop my tears as I walked away.  

As I walked about a block down the street, now late for my meeting, I saw an Old Navy store. I went in and bought a few shirts, a jacket, some clean socks, and a backpack to carry things.  I went back to Doug's bench, where he sits mostly invisible to the world, and I handed him the bag. "I wish I could do more right now, but here are some things that might help you on your journey," I said.  

He looked directly in my eyes and smiled, and I realized that the gratitude he'd been expressing wasn't for the clothes or the socks or the food or the drink.  He was grateful that we had seen him. He was thankful that, even for a moment in his day, someone cared.  

"Thank you so much Joanne," he said, "you made my day."

"No, thank you Doug," I said, "you made mine."

We looked at each other and I wished him well. 

This time, we both had tears in our eyes at the parting.  And for just a single moment, we saved one another.

Please, think of the suffering in the world. Think of those less fortunate. Even for a moment, help make the world a gentler, more beautiful place in whatever way makes most sense for you. See those who are  poor, or grieving, or struggling, or hungry for food or to be seen by another. 

There is no gift like it. For the other and for your self.

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Please join us for International Kindness Project Day here and spread the word.