Trafford Publishing: Falls The Deepest Shadow

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Falls The Deepest Shadow

by David M. Resnick

114 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0917; ISBN 1-55395-203-0; US$14.95, C$23.50, EUR15.30, £10.60

A self-help book about the process of mourning the loss of a spouse, Falls The Deepest Shadow presents a documented description on one man's healing journey. Honestly and tenderly written the book should be of great comfort and assistance to men and women who must heal the pain associated with the death of a spouse.

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about the book about the author sample excerpts or Table of Contents catalogue info

About the Book

Falls the Deepest Shadow is a self-help book for those who have lost a spouse. It is written from the heart by a man for a man but will be equally helpful to women because of the tenderness and sensitivity of its style. The process and progress of healing from grief, loneliness, pain and a myriad of other emotions that accompanies the loss of a spouse is uniquely documented in the book through the use of e-mail correspondence sent to friends during the author's first year of mourning

The book addresses four truths surrounding the grieving process: Nobody's Grief Is Worse Than Yours; The Best Route Past Grief Is Through It; Seek The Support Of Others, and Grieving Is Hard Work. The book is not all about sadness, however. There is humor in its pages as well --a convincing way of making the point that grieving does lessen with time. In a captivating and seductive style the author discusses the many moods of his grieinv journey and offers helpful insights and suggestions for the recent griever. It is a mellifluous read with ample documentation of the author's healing journey, a few good smiles, and ends on an upbeat note.

About the Author

David M. Resnick, Ph.D. is retired after nearly 48 years of service in the health care profession of Audiology and Speech-Language Pathology. He has published extensively in scientific journals and authored the initial book on professional ethics in his field of endeavor

Doctor Resnick lives in Maryland near his four daughters, six grandchildren and not far from the grave of his beloved wife

Excerpts

This book is truly a testament to the human spirit! I say that not because the author happens to be the wonderful man I, and my three sisters, call "Dad", but because it is a courageous and intense description of his journey of grieving and healing following my mother's death --a grieving journey many will be called upon to take at some time in their life.

Love, death, loss, despair, deep emotional pain, overwhelming loneliness, and sudden total change in the tempo of life that comes with the loss of a spouse are not easy topics to discuss, but this book does it with eloquence. One can find volumes on topics from art history to zuccini dip, but books about grieving the loss of a spouse are far fewer. Falls The Deepest Shadow takes on this difficult and important topic with the reader in mind, and discusses it with honesty, humility and even a bit of humor.

If you are dealing with the loss of a spouse, or know someone who is, this book is the closest thing to a road map through the grief toward healing. No one can understand how you feel except someone who has been there. And my dad has been there --walked in the mocassins, and through sensitive and gentle writing now talks the talk. Let his words help you find the way along your grieving road to healing.

Meredith Resnick Budzinski

...a self-help book to ease one along the painful journey that accompanies the loss of a spouse. Honestly written in captivating style the author traces the happinesses, the sadnesses and even the humor that can be found along the grieving road to medium-wellness. A good read for those who need it --men and women alike.

Linda Philert, M.A. LSW ret'd London, England

One Life Lost - One Life Suspended

Then there are distractions during the outside work that I also try to keep up, such as the moments when a butterfly lands upon a bush and sends my thoughts into a spin, or a mourning dove wails from somewhere and my heart sinks until I just have to sit for a while and think in some sort of suspended reverie. Just let it happen. And if a tear spills onto your lap, so what? My world was so beautiful with you in it. Will my world have such beauty again? Yet again the memories of a lifetime flood my brain. Thoughts of so many years ago. Thoughts of the history; thoughts of the mystery. Our thoughts. Just only ours. Now just only mine.

In the solitude of my mind I still dream; many times without control, with no restraint, just freewheeling letting the thoughts tumble painfully, happily, sometimes longingly. Often now, though, I feel a smile move across my lips as a memory passes somewhere behind my eyes. It is good to sense that. Let it happen. The fulcrum of my life is trying to find a balance point once again where the joy in life might neutralize the pain. I am not happy with my life the way it is just now. I may be incapable of changing it.

Another butterfly flutters to the flowers and lands there for the longest time while I stand watching its wings pump slowly as it inspects the blossom in the late Summer air. Is that you ŒLaine? Are you here again as a butterfly to see if I*m okay? Is it you? Do beautiful ladies come back as butterflies? Don*t go! Come back! Don*t go! Comforting, joyous, irrational, painful; what are those thoughts that defy logic? Does it matter? Just let them happen. Don*t seek all the answers. It is not time. Just enjoy the butterflies.

Not long after my wife died, a matter of a few days only, I noticed a large orange butterfly on one of her flowers in a pot in front of the garage. It kept landing on the flower and then flying up a few feet and coming down on the blossom once again. It repeated this performance several times and it was like a dance. Out loud I said with a choking voice and eyes filled with tears, "Is that you 'Laine? Have you come back to see your flowers?" The butterfly then fluttered toward the front door of the house and bumped repeatedly against the glass, returned to the flowers and again to the front door. Finally it zigzagged away only to return in several minutes and perform the same ritual once again. Is that you? Is this my foolish mind? If anyone could do this, it would be you.

Several days later I was standing by my car at my daughter's house and an orange butterfly seemed to come from her garden. It flew several times at the closed window on the passenger side of the car. "Hello 'Laine. Can we go for a ride?" When I spoke this, the butterfly stopped flying against the car window and perched on the roof over the passenger-side door for the longest time as if waiting for it to be opened. Finally it flew straight up and down a few feet and bobbed away. If anyone could do this, it would be you.

Across town yet another butterfly saga was taking place. Two of my young grand-daughters were playing in the yard and ran into the house complaining that butterflies were flying around their heads and wouldn't go away. It was as if they wanted to play with the little girls. And one day a humming bird sat on a tiny perch and just stared at another one of my daughters a few feet away for a long, long time. It was if the message were, "I am here in many forms. Just whisper my name in your heart and I will be there." If anyone could do this...

Whether or not that hummingbird or those butterflies were directed from Heaven or were, in truth, 'Laine's spirit watching over all of us may never be answered while we are on this earth. The happenings described may be nothing more, consciously or subconsciously, than the tortured imagination of a painfully grieving earthbound heart seeking, however desperately and silently, to restore the material bonds that once existed. It doesn't matter what the answer is anyway. The comfort is in what one believes the answer to be at any given moment.

Finding that comfort zone and trying to stay inside its boundaries adds to the hard work of grieving. As time passes each day brings a different concern. I wonder always what the rest of my life will be like. No one will ever know me as my wife knew me. Nor will I ever know anyone as I knew her. Those bonds took a lifetime to achieve. As each day passes the loss of my wife becomes more distant - but my own mortality comes closer. Is there time to reorganize, to shape another useful life? Does building a "new" life mean one must be young and therefore have the time? Can one share again? Is there time, is there ever time? One never knows where or when but there is a finite end to life, and age becomes a starting point toward that end. What should I do with what is left? Live to the fullest? How? Half of the "fullest" is gone; but half the "fullest" remains? Is the glass half full or half empty? Doesn't the answer depend on what the remaining ingredient in the glass is? Emptiness?What is the remaining ingredient in a half-life? Youth? Old age? Perseverance? Chutzpah? Wisdom? Faith? Simply time? Illness? Loneliness? Sadness? What?

Sleep has become a nagging concern as well lately, and tiredness sets in early at the end of a day. A night's rest seems suddenly to be a series of catnaps interrupted by fitful tossing and twisting about, waking and crying out, wandering around the house and finally flopping onto the sofa. The back of the sofa is not a suitable substitute for the warmth of my soulmate. There is no replacement for that emptiness; the emptiness that seems to be everywhere. To sleep; to sleep perchance to dream! Now I lay me down to sleep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take... that we may soar again.

I used to be a good sleeper; perhaps I was the best sleeper in the neighborhood as a kid. I know my father thought that I could win a sleep contest hands down when I was a boy. But now I don't sleep soundly. Part of that may result from being alone in the house. Part from just being alone, and some of it may be the result of being too inactive. That is another good reason to stay as active as you can. Sleepless nights may also result from more worry about the future and less about the past. Recall the caveat: one day at a time.

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