After the Storm
by Janis Amatuzio, M.D.
I can see clearly now, the rain is gone
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
Gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day....
-- JOHNNY NASH
 The night after my beloved grandmother died, twenty-eight years
ago, I was awakened in the stillness of the early-morning hours when I
became aware of her presence at the foot of my bed. She had been
diagnosed with breast cancer four years earlier, at the age of
eighty-five. She had died in Seattle while visiting her son; my mother
had flown out to be with her as her condition had worsened. Dad had
told us of her death, and I was devastated. My grandmother and I were
very close. When I was a young child, she had lived with my mother and
me in California while my father was serving in the Korean conflict.
Back then, she was my playmate and sandbox companion; in adulthood she
had been my closest friend and confidante.
I sat up in bed, not at all startled but completely overjoyed. Her
presence was familiar, graceful, and reassuring. The evening before, I
had sobbed and wept, thinking I would never see her again. At that
moment, she just glowed and looked stunningly beautiful, calm, and
younger than before. With a look of supreme Irish knowing, and without
even moving her lips, she spoke to me: "Janis, tell your mother that I
am just fine. And always remember how much I love you." Her presence
stayed with me until I fell back to sleep. I awakened with a deep sense
of peacefulness and a new awareness. In some ways I have never been the
same again. I know in my heart that my grandmother lives and that our
love is forever.
This beautiful, intimate experience in the midst of such shattering
grief comforted my heart in a way I couldn't even explain. It seemed to
belong to another dimension deep within me. It spoke to my soul, and I
somehow recognized that which had been forgotten and felt comforted.
This knowing has caused a subtle shift in my perspective and a growing
awareness of what heals and comforts.
When faced with the death or serious illness of a loved one —
whether a parent, son or daughter, spouse, or long-time friend — we are
almost always shaken, often to the core. When the death is unexpected
or sudden, our grief, anger, and confusion can be overwhelming. It can
feel as if our values or belief systems have failed, leaving us
unprepared to go on.
I remember a woman who came to my office to obtain
a copy of the autopsy report on her father — he had died in a car
crash. After I answered her questions, she told me that her husband had
died several years earlier of heart disease, leaving her alone to care
for their seven-year-old son. She told me how bitter and angry with
life she felt. "I feel so alone, so abandoned," she said tearfully. "I
never knew it would be so hard. Nothing ever prepared me for this."
Everyone has heard these words or felt such pain at some point in
their lives. And we all know that with time, our grief will be
tempered. But what actually heals? What helps us to find the wisdom to
live? The great masters of our time have taught us that our grief
honors our love. We are designed to grieve, but not for long.
Ultimately, we must trust life and love and hope.
Maybe our grieving hearts echo our bodies' wisdom. Our grief is like
an intensely painful wound: it gets our full and immediate attention.
The physical wound must be tended and cleaned and the bleeding stopped.
Only then can it be bandaged and the pain relieved. Whether a wounded
hand or a wounded heart, the healing comes from within. In the process,
time passes, priorities shift, and life proceeds. However, life is
different, for we have changed.
But how have we changed? A man came to see me after his wife had
died in the ICU following a long and difficult struggle with cancer. He
looked bedraggled and depressed. After I explained the autopsy findings
and hospital course, he sat there, folded his hands over his eyes, and
wept. "She was the love of my life; I lived for her!" he said. "We met
after my first wife died. I sold my house and bought a motor home, and
we traveled the continent from the Canadian Rockies to the Yucatan
Peninsula. It was the dream of a lifetime to have that time with her. I
had never, ever been so happy! And now she is gone. I have no reason to
go on," he sobbed.
For a reason unknown to me, I suddenly said, "Do you know how lucky
you are?" He looked at me suspiciously. "I talk with so many people
about the death of their loved ones, but I can't remember when anyone
described such a love to me with such passion and intensity. I think
some people wait a whole lifetime to find what you did. You were loved,
and you loved grandly. Somehow I have to believe that your life is
richer because of that." I could see that something had changed in his
eyes.
We walked out of the office together and paused at the stairwell before I headed down the hall to the morgue.
"Thank you, Doctor, for everything." He paused. "I had forgotten how
lucky I am to have loved like that. And just how much I am loved. I can
live with that. I'll remember now; thank you," he said with a smile,
then turned and walked up the stairway.
COMMON THREADS
It's been said that a lifetime can be compared to a tapestry,
each experience weaving in a new thread. Perhaps, in time, grief
strengthens and hones us. Much like a resilient hidden thread, it adds
strength and fullness to our lives. If we didn't love, we wouldn't
grieve.
I carry these messages with me and try to apply them to my life. I
have slowly come to recognize a few common threads. Even so, I am
keenly aware that the tapestry, like each person's life, is in the
hands of its weaver.
A death or the discovery of a serious illness jars us out of our
daily routines. We stop all that we are doing. Other than death and
illness, there are few things in life that temporarily relieve us of
obligations. Grief seems to have that effect; it stops us and, at
times, numbs us. But when sorrow has exhausted us and tears have
emptied us, stillness overtakes us. When the mind becomes quiet, the
heart can feel. Maybe then our loved ones dance into our awareness and
our dreams and delight us. Their presence comforts and fills us with
reassurances of their love. Such experiences change lives and heal
hearts. Maybe stillness is one of the threads that connect us.
THE THREAD OF LOVE
A death or serious illness reminds us that all beginnings
have an ending, that each interaction with one another could be our
last. This reminder has a way of cutting through the nonessential stuff
of life. It may change what we say or what we do. Maybe, like the young
woman whose husband was killed in a construction accident, we will
remember to kiss our loved ones goodbye. Each moment becomes a gift,
and time becomes sacred. This remembering may cause us to treat one
another more honestly, gently, and deliberately. It seems there is
nothing that love cannot heal, and in the presence of love, there is
life, always and forever. Love seems to be the thread that connects all
of what is seen with our eyes and felt in our hearts. Ultimately, it
must be what connects us with eternity.
THE THREAD OF HOPE
The experiences I have recorded here fill me with a sense of
hope. Perhaps when we stop dismissing our awareness of a presence or a
synchronicity, we begin to glimpse something more. Many times, as I
have begun a postmortem examination, I have observed how quickly the
body disintegrates after death. I marvel at the strength of the life
force that sustained it. I marvel at the life force, God, and feel as
though there is so much more to know.
Occasionally I catch a glimpse of what heals — the awareness of our
loved ones in the whisper of the wind or in the soft beauty of a
star-gleaming night, or gently dancing into our dreams as we sleep. Why
does awareness of these connections heal? Perhaps because we must stop
to absorb them and be still to observe them. Then we can remember that
we are not alone, that we are dearly loved, and that all is well.
I am filled with heartfelt appreciation for those who, in the midst
of their grief, have spoken of their treasured experiences. I feel
honored to share their stories with others. Many times I have wondered
if I could move past grief as well as those who I've cared for have
done. When something happens to you personally, it hurts deeply. Part
of your life is changed forever.
When my mother was urgently admitted to the hospital for heart
disease, I was very worried for her welfare and that of my
eighty-three-year-old father. They had been married for more than
fifty-five years; my physician father appeared knowledgeable and
fragile at the same time. One evening at home during that time, I sat
down to rest and reflect on the day's events. My thoughts turned to
worry and fear as the fatigue of the day washed over me. I sat at my
desk to write, but no words would come. So I began to pray. Almost
immediately, and somewhat unexpectedly, my head filled with the
following words, spoken with such infinite tenderness that tears washed
down my cheeks.
"Janis, I love you so. Don't worry, your parents will be fine. At
the moments of their deaths, I will wrap them up in my love and yours,
and they will be forever ours."
The comfort, amazement, and relief I felt were overwhelming. I knew
instinctively that these words were true and would last me a lifetime.
It is my fondest hope that the wisdom shared in this book will
comfort and remind us of what really heals: knowing we are loved,
knowing we are never alone, and knowing our loved ones are forever ours.
This
article was excerpted from:
 Forever Ours
by Janis Amatuzio, M.D.
Reprinted with permission of the publisher, New World Library. ©2002.
www.newworldlibrary.com
Info/Order this book
About the Author
Janis
Amatuzio, M.D., is the founder of Midwest Forensic Pathology, P.A., serving as
coroner and a regional resource for counties in Minnesota and Wisconsin. Dr.
Amatuzio is a dynamic speaker, a frequent guest in the media and author of
numerous journal articles. She will be featured as an expert in a documentary
series about women serial killers produced by the Discovery Channel in 2005. Dr.
Amatuzio's website is:
www.foreverours.com. She lives
in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
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