When Grief gets in the Way

By Fiona Mardling

As a health professional, I know the mess I can get myself into when my children are either sick or injured, I've either gotten it completely wrong by under-estimating the situation, or I've gone the other way, and overreacted to a very benign situation.

I'm grateful to and wish to acknowledge Max, my son who has graciously agreed for me to share my story with you, my grief, his injury. In his words " Beautiful writing mum, helps me to understand your thought process as well. You have my permission to share that."

Thank you, Max.

"Grief can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life's search for love and wisdom."

Rumi

"To allow yourself to grieve is healthy. The process of grief is recognizing that even what seem to be the smallest things in life are?important to you. So, allow yourself to grieve but keep your heart open to new realities. Reflect on the things that you are going to miss and the hopes that you have to imagine in different ways at this point.?"

?Author unknown

I’d never heard of a Lisfranc injury until recently.

?I never imagined the profound feelings of loss, grief and deep sadness, empathy and compassion that would become all entangled, rising up from the deep well within me. As I grappled with the unfolding reality of the loss of the life that was, and that the life imagined, had unravelled, fallen apart, I had to pull myself together. This is not my injury, not my life, it is my sons.

The grief is mine.

Yesterday 20-year-old Max walked in the door of our home, shopping bag in hand. I could see he had been to Rebel Sport, the brand-new red leather AFL football, shining and popping out the top of the bag. I was surprised, I wondered, I paused.

What will I say? How is this so hard right now? I was struggling.

I try to draw upon my training. I’m a health coach, a nurse, trained and experienced as a mindfulness and meditation teacher.? I know what it is to be fully present, to be aware, to relinquish my own agenda. To connect from my heart.

“How was your appointment?” ?I ask, trying to remain neutral.

That felt awkward, was that a connection from my heart??

Oh, the dilemma, the ‘formula’, the scripted health professional getting in the way of the mother!

I pause again and I reflect in the silence, remember the moment, the images, photo’s popping up in my messenger in late 2023 from Max of his very swollen, very bruised foot.

A mixture of shock, worry, concern. ?He is 2000km away from home, second year of university, and it’s just a few weeks away from his planned overseas trip with his mates, and Christmas with the family.

And he has only just recovered from a fractured wrist.

Max was then 19, the second youngest of my 6 children. Athletic, and an all-round natural, excelling in whatever sport he undertakes. Football, soccer, volleyball, running, skiing, surfing, even horse-riding, just a natural ability to effortlessly and easily undertake anything he puts his mind to. Gifted academically, ambitious he cruised through school.

I pause again.

Feeling, sitting with the uncomfortable silence, I wait for his reply.

“Well, he (the orthopaedic surgeon) said you have a significant injury, it looks healed, but he said my advice to you is no running”.

That landed like a punch to my chest.

I hear the echo of 6 months ago “No contact sports, no running and definitely no more kick boxing” the same orthopaedic surgeon said back then. “You’ll need orthotics, and we’ll review you again in a few months”. Surgery was not going to be helpful; it was more than 3 months since the initial injury, he had sustained multiple fractures of his midfoot.

I remember phoning Max after receiving his very first message about his injury, seeing for the first time the first photos of his foot.

He’d been sparring with his flatmate, his best friend. Roundhouse kick. Foot versus knee. A titanium knee. The pain had dropped him to the floor, he nearly passed out with the pain.

“You need to go to the hospital” I said. ?It seemed obvious advice.? I didn’t expect his response.

“I’m not going”.

His resistance was steadfast.

I remind myself, saying “no” is saying “yes” to something else.

“Why not?” I ask.

“I’m not waiting hours and hours in the ED department, and besides, I’ve already missed so much work from my wrist. I need to work. I’m going to Bali with my mates in a few weeks”.

“At least go to your GP then; at least know what you’re dealing with so you can make an informed decision especially as you are going overseas. No one is going to force you, make you do anything, at the end of the day, the choice is still yours to make.” I was worried.

Did I say enough, should I have been more forceful, should I have insisted. What if? What if he had been seen straight away. What if he didn’t go overseas. What if he had gone to the ED straight away, not just as I advised, but as the first the surgeon he was referred to by his GP also advised.

“The surgeon can’t see me, he is going away for Christmas holidays, but he sounded very concerned and told me the best thing to do is to go to the hospital ED straight away.”

Max didn’t go.

?

I see the tangled-up medals and ribbons in my hand, unpacking one of the many cardboard boxes. We had not long moved back to our family home after 12 years of being away. Max’s nephew, my grandson was standing beside me, “Wow, look at all those medals Max has won” Jayce said, his face lighting up in awe, he was impressed; he is, I am, proud of his uncle, my son.

Deep sadness, heavy heart. The consequences of not having heeded the surgeon’s advice, “go to the ED straight away”, even acknowledging the concern heard, Max didn’t go.

I’m struggling to hold back my tears, calling for courage. The news isn’t good.

Calling for presence.

“Would you like a cup of tea, love? A chai tea?”

Soothing, settling. Somehow just even hearing the words “Chai tea”, sets the scene for healing, for love, connection. Stillness.

It provides the necessary pause, that I needed as much as anything, to gather some composure. To shift from the flood of past memories, to the here and now. To shift from my own feelings, to be here for Max.

Tea in hands, sitting down together around the familiar dining table, in the kitchen, family room, the heart and soul of our home. I come back to the advice of the surgeon, “no running”.

“How was that for you to hear?” I ask

I see faint quivering of his lips, I glimpse red filling the whites of his eyes looking downward, the warm chai nestled between his hands.

“I’m going to run anyways; an ultra-marathon”.?

(I note a little Kimberley lingo, evident of his growing up in remote Australia).

“You are very determined, very resilient and you love to excel in everything you do, you are very motivated. How confident are you that you can do this? What will it take?”

“I love pushing myself, I want to see how far I can go. I can do my own research. The specialist says he doesn’t need to see me again, unless down the track I need all the joints fused in my foot, that’s the only other option. Running will lead to further damage, but its accumulative and I don’t know if that’s something that occurs over a long time. I want to live doing the things I love.”

Once again, sadness stabs at my heart and my head fills with images of a bedbound patient, aged 63, now paralysed from the waist down. Severely deformed feet. I remember parts of his story, “I was born with flat feet, and I ignored my mother and the doctors”.? Of course there is much more to his story, but nonetheless the negative bias of the mind drifts to a place that is rarely helpful.

“You love the adrenaline, pushing yourself beyond limitations, the surprise and exhilaration that comes with extremes, with excelling; what else could you do?”

“I want to be an elite athlete”

Hearing this hurts. I recognise the pain I’m feeling is linked to my own limited thinking. I look again at the brand-new football, resting in the bag on the table beside him. Max takes out a couple of straps from the bag.

“These are for the gym, when I’m doing my weight work. I’ve noticed my arms and shoulders can cope, but my wrists need some protection.”

I reflect, pause and observe my own feelings. I am grieving. I am limited by my own past experiences. I am reflecting my own limited thinking.

“I see you’ve been shopping and bought yourself a few things”

He pulls out a pair of new track pants.

The football, the trackpants the wrist straps lay on the table beside him.

“Is it that you need hope?” I say softly

Heavy heart.

I feel the heat and tears rising in my eyes. I see in Max, and feel, that I have struck a chord.

It’s uncomfortable, it hurts, and once again I’m grappling with my own grief, while trying to restore presence, empathy and compassion.

“Can I make a suggestion?” I ask

“Sure”.

“It’s just a thought, I know how much you love pushing yourself, extreme sports, the thrill, the adrenaline. Have you ever considered Eventing?? It’s about as extreme as it gets on horses, actually, I don’t even know why I’m suggesting it. It’s probably one of the most dangerous sports you can do”.

“Mum, it’s probably one of the worst sports you can suggest. Horse riding is exactly how Napoleon’s Soldiers got their Lisfranc injuries. Their feet would get stuck in the stirrups when they fell, and break. ?Napoleon’s surgeon was Lisfranc, and the injury was named after him.”

Well, this is the time that I need to shut up.

Stop trying to fix things.

Stop.

“Is it that, you just need me to listen, to be an ear for you?” I ask

“Yes, I know how to research, to find out all the information I need. I know how to plan my training. I don’t need solutions.”

?

Before me is my son, I am his mother. It is inevitable that I will feel his pain.

Before me, is also a young man. Full of hope, determination, resilience. Capable, resourceful and creative. Full of unlimited potential, unlimited possibilities.

?

?

This morning, I see Max in the bright light that always is. He is shining, he is moving forward. The heaviness has shifted. Coffee is needed this morning, not chai, as the remnant of my own grief lingers, and needs a quiet little shove out the door.

I have met with it, realised it, now time to release it.

Fully.

I ask Max if he would like a coffee (we’ve run out at home, so I’m heading off to our little local store), “Funny you should ask”, he says. “I was just thinking of that”.

Just a simple quick trip to the store for coffee.

Life is uncanny, and the universe has a funny way of filling each day with messages, lessons that allow us to grow and learn more about ourselves.

I jump in the car and head off. As I head out of our driveway, two ladies are walking their dogs and one beckons me to stop.

I wind down my window and we introduce ourselves. One is a little worried about our dogs, they bark and carry on at the gates when they walk past. Her dog, she says isn’t great around other dogs and she wants to be sure our dogs aren’t out to avoid a confrontation.

I apologise for any worry our dogs have caused, and reassure her, they are in the house and won’t be at the gate. Grateful for the reassurance, we both head off on our way.

The store was busy, it took a little longer than planned to get my coffee, and as I headed out the door, I met the two ladies again with their dogs, and struck up a conversation.

One of the ladies, explained to me that she had only just started walking again.

She asked if I had heard about the head on car crash that occurred back in March just around the corner?

I couldn’t recall, but that would have been around the time we had moved back into the area.

“My foot was broken in that accident. I’m only just able to walk again, and I probably shouldn’t be walking this far.”

6 months ago, I wouldn’t have fully understood what that injury meant. I wondered if she also had a Lisfranc injury. I could feel myself shifting out of my head and dropping into my heart. Pausing. Feeling. Wondering how this is for her now, in this moment.

?Detecting sadness.

Noticing, that I could notice, and connect with my own feelings and hers with much greater clarity than I could with my son.

Noticing that grief was no longer in the way.

The cloud that was keeping me disconnected from being able to be fully present, to be fully aware of, and to listen fully for my son’s feelings and needs, had lifted.

?

Had it not been for this “chance meeting” this morning, Synchronicity I will call it, my lesson to self may not have been fully realised. Life’s lessons, sometimes the most important ones, are experiential, and can only be “felt”, they are not intellectual, but they are intelligence, a deep knowing, the “aha moments” that cannot be learnt through theory.

For my son, Max, for all my children, my grandson, the greatest learnings, self-discovery, self- realisation is through life’s experience, life’s events.

Life’s events, happen to us all.

They are neither good nor bad.

They just are.

Directing us to our higher purpose.

Grief came to visit.

It was my grief, and it was calling me to hear it, feel it , learn from it and then let it go.