Today I am profoundly reflecting, wondering at what stage I am in my grief. I am constantly thinking about what I could have done better. It’s my self-reflection as I often practiced as an educator. Sharing is caring, and that is my reason for sharing this post.
I practiced Self-reflection as an educator. Reflection helped me make changes if I felt something wasn’t quite right when I taught a lesson. How could I improve for the next one? I jotted some ideas and changed a few things for the better.
Sharing is Caring…Not! Facebook Memories
I am deep in that process now as I catch a glimpse of memory on Facebook (I used it to message my daughter when she didn’t respond to my text). That relentless memory post, “We hope you enjoy looking back and sharing your memories on Facebook, from the most recent to those long ago.” Therefore, I avoid Facebook as much as possible. Upon reflection, I can only surmise what I could have done better.
Excursions
I posted every outing, adventure, misstep, celebration, and misfortune. Mom and Dad rarely stayed home, and I was their chauffeur, caregiver, daughter, counselor, and teacher. Dad fractured his left hip and was up and raring to go in 6 weeks. He had to use a walker, but that didn’t stop him. Eventually, he was on the golf course again.
Short, intense bursts of memory take me out of the event, and Anita looks down at the scene. “She was taking care of her mother when he fell. What could Winnie (as my parents call me) have done to prevent it from happening? She was reflecting as she sat in the recovery room after surgery.
Sharing is Caring-Reflection
Winnie had moved the chair he leaned on as he stepped into the tv room. Consequently, her father fell. She pushed it because Mom needed closer to the couch’s wooden arm to lift herself from the chair. She thought about the safety and needs of her mother without a thought about how it would affect her father.
That’s what I do, did, and continue to feel daily with every memory. As I mentioned, the memory activates by a Facebook post, a smell, or unpacking the boxes I brought home. The pictures I need to save, the trinkets mother cherished, Dad’s manuscripts, his columns, his awards, his life, her life.
Stages of Grief
What stage is this? I don’t understand and wonder if everyone goes through this stage at one point or another, and what do I call this stage?
