Connections. Kindness. Compassion. And Love.

This is a story about love. And Cole. And me. And one of the ways in which I’ve changed since Cole died. It may also turn out to be a therapy session. Where to begin?

My grandparents moved to Canada from Poland and Russia in the 1920s. Yes, we’re travelling all the way back to then. They were tougher than me. They had to be if they wanted to survive.

They came with few possessions, but they did bring their old country wisdom with them. My grandmother taught my mother and her sister, my aunt, to accept what was beyond their control and carry on. It was a good life lesson. She told them they were her little soldiers.

My mother isn’t an emotional person. She’s still a little soldier. My dad was more emotional, but men weren’t supposed to be soft and cuddly when I grew up in the 1960s and 1970s. They were supposed to be REAL men. Rugged men. Like the Marlboro Man.

Now we come to me. I had a great childhood. I knew my parents loved me, but in those days people didn’t express their love as freely as some people do today. Not even to family members. At least not from what I can remember. There wasn’t a lot of hugging and kissing and saying I love you.

My mother passed my grandmother’s lesson on to me and taught me to be a little soldier. I learned to be independent and unemotional.

One day after school – I think I was in grade one – my mother asked me “How was school today?”. She asked me that every day. I replied “School is my personal life. Don’t ask me about it.” (I’ve since apologized.) My brother always asked my mother for a kiss before he went to sleep. Not me. I didn’t need a kiss. Like I said, I was independent and unemotional.

I had plenty of friends, but didn’t rely on anyone else for emotional support. I took care of myself.

I continued to think of myself as this little soldier until very recently. I even remember a conversation about this with a friend this past spring. Him: “You’re a loner, aren’t you? And you just pretend to be sociable, right?” Me: “Yes, I’m happy to be by myself. I don’t get lonely. I enjoy good company, but don’t feel I need it.”  

Father’s Day was approaching around that time and I knew it would be a tough day even for this little soldier. Every day has been a tough day for this little soldier since Cole died and this was going to be my first Father’s Day without him. I didn’t expect to hear from anyone other than my family, but I did. Some other people thoughtfully reached out, too. Some simply said “Thinking of you.” Others sent me sweets. Much to my surprise, their messages touched me. Deeply. I didn’t understand why. It wasn’t like me.

When I found myself hoping for more messages, I realized how important these connections were to me. I did need other people and I wasn’t as independent and unemotional as I used to be.

It can be a little disturbing to find out you’re not who you think you are. I saw this change as a good thing, but I wanted to figure out how and when it happened. There’s a reason this blog is called Michael Likes Thinking.  It didn’t take me long to figure out it happened when Cole and Alannah were born.

I’d never felt such an intense love. I wasn’t an affectionate person, but here were two people, albeit very small people, I wanted to hug and kiss all the time. They made me feel better than I’d ever felt before. It wasn’t just them. I felt my emotional armour softening and started to feel more love for other people, but not nearly as much. Baby steps.

It’s said grief is love with no place to go. That makes sense to me. It’s been a little over a year since Cole died and I can feel the pain like it was yesterday. I love him so much, but I can’t share that love with him. It’s bursting to get out and keeping it in is excruciatingly painful.

I also miss how loved Cole made me feel. I saw his love for me in his eyes and his smile and I felt it when he pinched my belly or muffin tops or gave me one of his great big Coley-Boy hugs. He understood me and accepted me for who I am. How I miss that love.

This grief journey has brought out more emotion in me than I thought I possessed. I don’t remember crying so much since I was an infant.

I understand why I cry when I think about how much I miss Cole. But other times I tear up for no apparent reason, like when someone is especially kind or compassionate. I thought it was part of the grief, but a couple weeks ago I discovered I had changed again.

I was listening to a podcast about attachment types. I kept thinking “I’m learning so much! This is great!” And then, near the very end, the podcaster said “Life is all about giving and receiving love and we must be able to do both.”

That’s when the light bulb went off in my head. I understood why the acts of kindness and compassion were making me tear up. I felt connected to other people. I was receiving their love and it felt good.  

I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the support I’ve received. I’ve seen the special side of many people. There’s so much warmth and goodness in this world.

I’m now another new version of myself. I’m not as independent and unemotional as I thought I was in the spring. I’m not even the more emotional person I became when Cole and Alannah were born. I’m still a little soldier, but perhaps I’m a modern day little soldier with a tender heart whose emotional armour continues to soften so I can give and receive more and more love.

The kindness and compassion have done more than teach me the importance of receiving love. Although nothing eases my pain, they cradle me on my journey every day. It’s as if I’m a balloon that’s falling to the floor and every tap of love keeps me afloat.

Some people give little taps and others give bigger taps. What people do doesn’t matter. It truly is the thought that counts. Because our lives are made up of time. It’s all we have. When someone touches me, they’re not just spending their time. They’re spending part of their life on me. Their life. And that kind of generosity is pure love.

I try to reach out and touch as many people as I can every day. No touch is too small. If I can make someone’s life a tad easier or happier, I’ve succeeded. I don’t know where my friend found this quote, but it describes what I try to do much more eloquently than I can:

How different would our life be if we could believe that every little act of faithfulness, every gesture of love, every word of forgiveness, every little bit of joy and peace will multiply and multiply as long as there are people to receive it.

Love is a powerful thing. Cole understood this. He made us all feel special. It was one of his gifts and he shared it generously.

A friend of his described this gift well:  “Cole always made us feel like we were family. I never had a sibling but talking to him made me feel like I had a brother who looked out for me and had my best interest in mind. We should all honour him by being the best versions of ourselves because that’s all he ever wanted to see in people.”

Connections. Kindness, Compassion. And Love. Coley-Boy understood these things. And now I do, too. Thank you, Coley-Boy. And thank you to everyone else. You’ve made me a better person.

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I know this situation is uncharted territory for most people. You want to show your love and support, but how are you supposed to know what to do for someone who is grieving? How do you know what to say? You want to help, but you’re worried about doing the wrong thing.

I can’t answer these questions for anyone but myself so that’s what I’ll try to do. It doesn’t matter to me what you do or how often you do it. Love is love. Just do whatever you feel like doing. Or don’t do anything. I know how you feel deep down.

I also don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me. Try to be a little sensitive about what you say, but most of the time I’m fine to talk about anything. Even Cole. I usually love talking about Cole. If we happen to touch upon a subject that makes me too sad, I may suggest we talk about something else. I hope you won’t be offended. But basically, just be yourself.

If you’d like general advice about what to say and do and what to not say and do to people who are grieving, you might find this article helpful:  https://www.amenclinics.com/blog/19-worst-things-to-say-to-a-grieving-person/

Although I think I might have uncovered a new me, all these thoughts exist only in my head. They form my perception of who I am. I could be completely wrong. I was wrong before, like when I thought I was still an unemotional and independent little soldier. But it’s fun for me to think about these things and work through them like they’re a math problem. So let’s call today’s thoughts my working theory of who I am and see how it stands up to the test of time.

Thank you for reading and indulging me as I think things through. I’m receiving the love. Thank you for subscribing if you’ve subscribed. Some of you have forwarded these posts to other people who might benefit from them. And some of those other people, who I don’t know, have reached out to me directly. Connections. It all starts with connections. Please feel free to forward this to however many people you’d like.

While I talk a lot about Cole and appreciate the love and support I receive from everyone, I couldn’t be the soldier I am without the love and support I receive from Katherine and Alannah. Their love and support is the foundation for everything else. I often take it for granted and I shouldn’t. This post is dedicated to them. Love you.  

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