Turning to Others After Loss

By Val Walker

It can be difficult to break out of isolation after the loss of someone dear to us. It takes an enormous amount of courage, hope and energy to reach out and find the support we need. Typical self-help tips and quick fixes for getting “out there” and finding “your people” might not offer the best solutions for a grieving person. Indeed, we might not even want solutions at all—maybe we just want a little comfort.

As a former rehabilitation counselor for 18 years, supporting my clients as they braved through major life losses, I often reminded them to be patient with themselves. It takes time to “get back out there” and get to know people we can trust and count on. In vulnerable stages of grieving, feeling anxious, tentative and alone, it’s easy to give up quickly on new connections when they don’t seem genuine enough, or warm enough. Instead, staying home feels so much better with Netflix, a cat in our lap, and a nice warm drink. Eventually, however, bored with the emptiness of our isolation, we might muster up the wherewithal to get out again. Hopefully, each time we try a new meet-up or social event, it gets easier to make new friends.

Fortunately, even one solid relationship can make all the difference in making our lives feel normal again, and restoring our confidence. I’ve heard inspiring success stories of rebuilding support after loss, and learned that certain attributes in people tended to help grieving people more than others.

I’d like to offer practical wisdom from grief support group participants who shared reassuring stories of connections that helped them live with loss. Above all, they insisted, the key to choosing a supportive group or person is to feel safe, accepted and “heard.” It is a healing experience to be able to sit with a person or a group who listens, acknowledges and validates our experience. We each have a unique and personal way of grieving, and it is essential that no one pushes us to “get over it,” or go through our grief in any “right” way. According to the Hospice Foundation of America, we might never completely recover from a loss, but we can learn to live with loss in our own way. We know we are in the presence of a truly comforting person when we feel encouraged to be ourselves in times of uncertainty, doubt and transition.

Essential qualities of people who are comforting for others:

Attentive listeners: We feel heard.

Empathic:  We sense they feel what we feel. They “get it” on a deeper level.

Patient: We don’t feel rushed to “get over” our loss.

Nonjudgmental, open-minded: We feel free to express what is true for us. They don’t tell us what to think or do.

Reliable: They keep their commitments (and don’t overpromise): We can count on them.

Warm, kind, compassionate: They smile and welcome us. They put us at ease, or show affection.

Genuine: They mean what they say, even when they say, “I don’t know what to say.”

Hopefully, we might turn to a friend or family member who has a few of these comforting qualities. But if we need to find more support, there are ways to meet comforting people in our communities.

Here are two of the most effective approaches for grieving people to rebuild social support:

Grief Support Groups and Individual Grief Counseling

Hospices, hospitals, behavioral health agencies, and other centers for loss offer support groups and counseling facilitated by a licensed social worker or trained grief counselor. (At the very least, these organizations can give referrals to support groups and counselors.) In a natural, unpressured way, grieving people in a support group can meet others who have much in common, and who understand and value their experience of loss. With a support group or an individual counselor, we feel accepted, and reassured that we are not alone. Once we break through our sense of isolation, it’s easier to take the next, brave steps to reaching out to others in our community for friendship and fellowship.

I’d like to add that for me, personally, even though I was a counselor, after my loss, I needed grief support groups to restore my confidence and courage to get out and socialize again. On top of that, as an introvert, I was highly sensitive to any group of people. As superficial and cold as the world could feel, it was just too easy to give up and give in to isolation unless I had a trusted support group helping me keep the faith. Facebook, social media, and typical social meet-ups were not enough for finding solid, reliable people to count on. Being well-connected didn’t mean being well-supported. Even though I had a hundred friends on Facebook, and a hundred more colleagues, building relationships I could count on was the most difficult task I’ve had to master in life. Yet to be honest, it’s also been the most rewarding.

Volunteering

We can meet like-minded and comforting people in organizations where people share their compassion, wisdom and generosity. We can join a group with a sense of purpose and fellowship, even for just a few hours a month. There are hundreds of causes, missions and projects that need us. If we are still grieving, it’s important to choose a volunteer opportunity that best reflects what is truly life-affirming for us as a person. Grieving people have shared with me that what is rewarding as a volunteer is what makes meaning in their lives. “Meaning-making” activities are key. In short, whatever we do as a volunteer, it’s best when it feels authentic, purposeful and right for us. It could involve music, nature, animals, history, serving others, deeper learning, or creating community. In volunteer settings where we are “in our element,” we can meet people who welcome and engage us. And eventually, over the weeks and months, new friendships can develop.

Other Popular Ways Grieving People Rebuild Support (in face-to-face interaction):

Religious and Spiritual Activities, Retreats: Ideally, there is comfort in gathering together to share a sacred experience.

Sports: Yes, bonding surely happens as part of a team or a group of fans!

Learning: Classes, Study Groups, Workshops, Continuing Education, Community Education. When we’re passionately interested in a topic, we’re breaking through our isolation and following our calling to new people, places and things.

Animal Companions and Therapy Animals: Shy or anxious people can connect better with humans when their animal companions are with them.

Exploring, Traveling, and Hosting other Travelers: A sense of wonder and adventure has a way of connecting us with others.

Social Activism, Advocacy:  There is plenty of injustice, stigma and inequality we can face when we team up with fellow activists and advocates. We don’t feel alone when we come together for a cause.

Expression through the Arts or Arts Therapies:  Joining in a song or dance, we lose ourselves in the magic of the moment. Before we know it, we’re feeling better.

The list above is not complete, but many grieving people I’ve known have transformed their lives by taking part in any one of these social experiences. Hopefully, we find the right, comforting kinds of people as we step into our new endeavors with an open mind and a willingness to explore and learn.

The most comforting people I’ve ever met have lived through great losses in their own lives. Those who have learned to live with loss are the ones we are fortunate to meet in our quest to rebuild our support networks. Whether we are singing in a choir, or volunteering at a food pantry, or watching a ball game with neighbors, comforting people are often there to help us break through our fear and awkwardness. They come from all cultures, backgrounds and ages. We might be surprised. They will welcome us with a radiant smile, and recognize us because they have been through grief and loneliness themselves.

Hopefully, we won’t shy away for too long.

valVal Walker, MS, is the author of The Art of Comforting:  What to Say and Do for People in Distress(Penguin, 2010), and a Nautilus Book Award Gold Medalist in 2011. The Art of Comforting was listed as recommended reading by the Boston Public Health Commission’s Guide for Survivors of the Marathon Bombing. Val’s articles have appeared in Whole Living Magazine, AARP Bulletin, Coping with Cancer Magazine, and other national publications. Formerly a rehabilitation counselor, she now works as an activities specialist leading groups for seniors with Alzheimer’s, and other groups with disabilities. To learn more about Val you can visit her website, Comforting in Action. 

10 Myths about Comforting a Grieving Person

By Val Walker

Myth1: You shouldn’t try to offer comfort unless you know what to say.

We don’t have to know the right thing to say. Sometimes there is really nothing that can be said. We might at least say we are sorry to hear about their loss, and acknowledge their loss. We still offer to show up, even if we don’t know what to say, because there are many, many ways to connect and communicate, depending on what that person desires – listening to their favorite songs, bringing catnip for their cat, baking a meatloaf, dumping their trash, playing a game of cards, doing their nails, watching Netflix together. We offer our time and our presence, and see what happens. Even Tweeting our comfort in little ways helps, by saying, “I’m thinking about you now, and I hope you are getting through today.”

Myth 2: Offer your assistance by saying, “Call me if you need me.”

It’s always better to be proactive by letting them know what we can do for them. Reach out with something simple and concrete. “I can call you Monday night,” is better than saying, “Call me if you need me.” People in distress suffer more when they are “left in the dark” about when contact will be made. No one wants to appear needy by having to call out for help.

Myth 3: To be effective at comforting we need to have lots of time to provide enough comfort.

We can be comforting in a matter of minutes, even in seconds. Little acts of caring can make a big difference for someone in distress.

Myth 4: We should try to cheer the person up when they are down, and encourage them to be positive. It’s our job to make the person feel better.

Allow the person to honestly feel what they are feeling. It is important to acknowledge what the person is telling you and acknowledge their loss. Insisting on showing the person “the bright side” of their experience can make the person feel invalidated, unheard, or unaccepted.

Myth 5:  People typically recover from the death of a loved one in a year or two. We should help the person move on with their lives.  

Grieving is a unique process for every individual, and the grief might never end completely. The Hospice Foundation of America says it best: “Grief never ends. Over time we learn to live with loss.”

Myth 6: We should be able to see results after we have helped a grieving person—we aim to make a difference in their lives. If not, we haven’t really helped.

Offering comfort is much more like offering a gift with no strings attached. Our comfort is given freely. The grieving person is allowed to respond in their own way, and in their own time.:

Myth 7:  Once we have reached out once or twice with our condolence, that should be enough. We don’t want to bombard the person while they are going through such a hard time.

It is wise to gently check in with the grieving person, every couple of weeks or once a month. It can be a brief check-in, without any pressure for the person to respond. Just letting the person know you are thinking about them, and asking how they are doing is a way of showing you are there for the long haul. Also, you can check in by inviting the person to join you for a phone call, or for lunch, or a social gathering. The grieving person will not feel forgotten, even if they turn down an opportunity to join in an activity.

Myth 8: We are not doing a good job of comforting unless we offer a hug, and show our affection, our warmth and love.

We don’t have to be “touchy feely” to be effective at comforting. Just listening quietly, or showing that we care with a kind gift, or offering to do errands such as walking their dog, or sending a thoughtful card —all of these gestures of comforting are genuinely loving things we can do.

Myth 9:  We should help the grieving person put things in perspective, by comparing their situation to what could be worse.

Comparing our experiences (“It could be worse…”) with each other is never helpful. No one has the last word on what is most painful for anyone else. It is best to just listen with an open mind and an open heart. Empathic listening and acceptance is a gift for a person devastated by a loss.

Myth 10:  Comforting skills can’t really be taught. People either have that gift or not.

Most of us learn to comfort others and ourselves throughout our entire lives. Opportunities for comforting arise every day. It is an art that we can always practice–and the more practice, the more wisdom we gain.

valVal Walker, MS, is the author of The Art of Comforting:  What to Say and Do for People in Distress(Penguin, 2010), and a Nautilus Book Award Gold Medalist in 2011. The Art of Comforting was listed as recommended reading by the Boston Public Health Commission’s Guide for Survivors of the Marathon Bombing. Val’s articles have appeared in Whole Living Magazine, AARP Bulletin, Coping with Cancer Magazine, and other national publications. Formerly a rehabilitation counselor, she now works as an activities specialist leading groups for seniors with Alzheimer’s, and other groups with disabilities. To learn more about Val you can visit her website, Comforting in Action.

Why I Love My Job: The Comfort of Conversation with Elders

VAl why i like my job photoAfter 20 years in the rehabilitation counseling field, I realized as I approached the age of 60, that I needed a career change. Was there a job for me that would provide a better balance in my life to focus on writing? I discovered, to my surprise and delight, that working with elders as an activities specialist was the perfect “day job” for being a writer. Indeed, I love my job!

I work at an assisted living community for seniors. The most important goal of my job is to engage seniors in rewarding activities and events every day. Ideally, in this field, we call it “purposeful engagement.” Yet honestly, for me personally, these seniors engage me in a purposeful way everyday—and nothing is more comforting than that!

Seniors, particularly people in their 80s and 90s, are not so caught up in the mainstream digital habits of social media, constant texting and checking the internet. They don’t bother with how many “Likes” they’re getting, or feverishly rush to keep up with every person on the planet on their phones. They’re not looking down or distracted when people try to make eye-contact with them. They prefer good old-fashioned conversation, and often deep, meaningful interaction. They have time for conversation and they’re hungry for more conversation.

Fortunately, in my job leading discussion groups, I savor the honor of hearing their life stories as we explore topics ranging from the presidential election to the poetry of Mary Oliver. Name the topic, and I’m blessed with their insights, historical perspectives, humorous anecdotes, or sad experiences of loss. I learn from them, but even more, I feel validated and heartened that they appreciate my listening, curiosity and respect for their life’s experiences—their great accomplishments as well as their simple pleasures. They’re always ready for honest, thoughtful conversation, and it’s my job to gather them together for this most vital human activity.

To spark a good discussion, I warm up the group with a few famous quotes pertinent to the topic, or a provocative Youtube video, an article, or even my own little life story. I’m always stimulated by the challenges of bringing opposed views together in a lively (hopefully not-too heated) debate. Yes, it does get heated at times, especially with our current election, but these moments are also opportunities for practicing (and modeling) real comforting skills— patience, respectful listening, compassion, the empathy needed to acknowledge someone’s true feelings. I must put comforting into action every day, not just because it’s good for me, but because it’s my job. This kind of service as a comforter is a good reason for me to get up out of bed every morning and rush out the door to work.

And when I sit down at my desk to write anything about the topic of comforting, I feel completely authentic, walking the talk of comforting because this is my job. By participating in deep conversations with elders every week, engaged in reflection, thoughtfulness and moments of wonder, I’m called to write, and the writing flows. The passion for my work stirs the words waiting to be written.

This makes me wonder about other writers and creatives who don’t have enough time for deep, meaningful conversations on a regular basis. What happens when intense, expressive people don’t have time for reflection and thoughtful consideration? Even introverts need time to have a good talk or a long thinking-over with a trusted confidante. What might they be missing, even if they’re productive, though meeting their deadlines and finishing their projects? I hope they’re not missing too much—for their own fulfillment. In the meantime, I’m so fortunate to be in the company of elders because our conversations nourish my writing. And this, I hope, nourishes others yearning for deeper connection in a vast, complicated, digital world.

valVal Walker, MS, is the author of The Art of Comforting:  What to Say and Do for People in Distress(Penguin, 2010), and a Nautilus Book Award Gold Medalist in 2011. The Art of Comforting was listed as recommended reading by the Boston Public Health Commission’s Guide for Survivors of the Marathon Bombing. Val’s articles have appeared in Whole Living Magazine, AARP Bulletin, Coping with Cancer Magazine, and other national publications. Formerly a rehabilitation counselor, she now works as an activities specialist leading groups for seniors with Alzheimer’s, and other groups with disabilities. To learn more about Val you can visit her website, The Art of Comforting.

 

What I Learned from Alice: Myths and Misconceptions about the Five Stages of Grieving

Marbelhead pathcrop (2)Over the past 30 years, the work of Elizabeth Kubler Ross and the Five Stages of Grief have been widely misunderstood and misapplied. Her five stages outlined as denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance are often interpreted as benchmarks we need to “work through,” hurdles to clear, or goals to accomplish. Sadly this goal-oriented approach has caused many people to believe they can measure their “progress” through grief while undergoing the painful ups and downs of raw emotions. But too often, these expectations lead to guilt and shame if that “progress” fails us somehow.

As if grief itself wasn’t difficult enough, many people have actually judged themselves for not going through their grief the “right” way. And worse, many people have mistakenly believed that if they successfully” worked through” all five stages, then they should have “gotten over” their grief. But the truth is, we never completely “get over” grief, even though we do somehow learn to live with loss.

In short, grief is a very unique and individual experience. Some of us might stay in denial for 10 years as we plow through one crisis after another, and find out later that we are going through the “old” anger or depression from a loss decades ago. And this is okay—the way it has worked best for our life’s circumstances. Should we judge ourselves for not being able to grieve the “right” way just because we aren’t ready to face the powerful emotions of this process?

In my work as a rehabilitation counselor for 20 years, I particularly remember one person, Alice, in 1994 who taught me a profound lesson about grief and death. Oddly enough, I learned the most about grief from a 65 year old dying woman who had no time left for grieving. Indeed, Alice was given two months to live after a huge fast-growing tumor was found right next to her heart. I was her counselor at a hospital, and it was my job to somehow (according to the request of her physicians) help her with her “anticipatory grief.” Her daughter was already grieving, and welcomed my offers of comfort and acknowledgement of her mother’s horrific situation. But Alice’s daughter warned me, “She’s not facing it, she is totally refusing to face it.”

When I stepped into Alice’s room to say hello and introduce my services as a counselor, Alice snapped, “Don’t you dare talk to me about (she hissed sarcastically) my feelings—I just want to have a few good weeks—so don’t spoil it. In fact, you can just forget about me unless you can make me laugh or keep me entertained! That’s all I want.”

I was blown away, but I wore my professional smile and empathically nodded. Of course, inside my calculating brain I was “diagnosing” her stage of grief as denial bordering on anger. Yes, sure, I could just humor her and play the game, so she could get to trust me, but hopefully, at some point, I could help her “grief process.”

Over the next few days, with the help of a chaplain who played a guitar and sang folk songs, I joined in the singing and clapping and observed Alice fully engaged and “entertained.” Her daughter hovered around the bed, pretending to be happy with the chaplain, looking back at me for signs of “Now it’s time for you to talk to my mother…” But I never did that “talk” with her. Instead, we laughed, sang, got goofy, watched stupid reality shows, swooned over David Duchovny on the X-Files, ate ice cream, painted toe nails, read Peanuts comics. Alice died just one hour after her last X-Files episode.

I was shocked, but I marveled at Alice’s amazing sense of what she needed before she died. I believe Alice knew, deep down in her bones, and in her soul, that her time left on earth was utterly too short to do any “grieving.” I was amazed at Alice’s strength and certainty that she must “entertain” herself right up to her last breath. I am so glad I listened to her, and followed her lead to do the “right” thing by her standards! Fortunately, her daughter was also heartened that her mother was comfortable, and had a voice in her care for her final weeks. And to be honest, to this day, when I am with any other person facing grief or destruction, devastation, or death, I let them show me how to join them in their own way of coping.

We all have a unique, personal wisdom that guides us, often coming from our body sense, our gut, our instincts. The five stages of grief might not apply to someone with just a few weeks left to live. The five stages of grief might not apply to a 10 year old who lost his father after losing his friend a month before that. Or to a 30 year old woman raising two kids on her own with three jobs. We all go through the stages unevenly, and not even in the “right” order. It might be denial, then depression, then anger and not reaching acceptance for three decades. But all the while, every day we are handling each curve ball of unpredictable life events coming our way, in our own way.

Thank you, Alice, for teaching me to step into the present moment, out of my expectations of your grieving process, to the realities of your grief without time to grieve. Yes, Alice, you “worked through” your denial stage very brilliantly. Denial is a beautiful thing, I’ve discovered, and if I ever have to leave my life as quickly as you did, I hope I can enjoy it as much.

valVal Walker, MS, is the author of The Art of Comforting:  What to Say and Do for People in Distress(Penguin, 2010), and a Nautilus Book Award Gold Medalist in 2011. The Art of Comforting was listed as recommended reading by the Boston Public Health Commission’s Guide for Survivors of the Marathon Bombing. Val’s articles have appeared in Whole Living Magazine, AARP Bulletin, Coping with Cancer Magazine, and other national publications. Formerly a rehabilitation counselor, she now works as an activities specialist leading groups for seniors with Alzheimer’s, and other groups with disabilities. To learn more about Val you can visit her website,The Art of Comforting.

But I’m Not Ready Yet…

Peter
Peter Darr Paul, 1938

It began with some unanswered emails. My 82-year-old uncle, Peter, was moving to a new apartment in a senior living facility. We were the only family members living on the West Coast and we kept in touch at least monthly. We had spoken of meeting for lunch that month and it was my turn to treat him at his favorite downtown restaurant, Southpark. I emailed and followed up with email, but didn’t call because I didn’t have his new number. All I could figure was he didn’t have his computer set up at his new place. I should have known that this was not like him but it really never occurred to me that he was having trouble getting settled – he was so capable, among the smartest people I’ve ever known: educated at MIT and owner of a Manhattan architectural firm.

When I finally did get in touch with him another month later, Peter didn’t want to go to Southpark. He wanted to stay close to his new apartment, to eat in the senior living facility restaurant and show me the layout of the whole building. Okay, this seemed reasonable but left me feeling a little uneasy. He seemed so tired – he needed to rest as he walked me around the facility. He was a little disheveled, too. Still, I chalked it up to the move – obviously exhausting to someone in his 80’s.

It’s amazing the allowances we will make in our mind when we don’t want to face reality or the inevitable.

Throughout January I didn’t hear from my uncle. Somewhat unusual but I knew there were so many activities at the senior living facility that he could be getting involved in. It wasn’t until early February when my father and cousin started raising alarms and asking around if anyone else noticed how much Peter was repeating himself during phone conversations. I went to visit him immediately.

peter wedding day
Peter and Patricia Paul on their wedding day, December 3, 1955.

His tiny studio apartment was in desperate need of cleaning and tidying – though this was not especially different from his other apartments. He always had lots of projects in progress and spread out as he worked on them. But he still seemed so tired as if he would not have the energy to clean if he wanted to. I was far more alarmed by the idea that he might also not be cooking for himself. If he didn’t have the energy to clean he probably didn’t have the energy to fix meals either.
He said he couldn’t get his email to work, or his TV or his garbage disposal. When I told him I would contact facility maintenance, he said he didn’t want to bother them and that they had already tried and some other confusing statements that when I look back I realize were his efforts to hide his own confusion and failing capacity. Looking back I should have seen how much the dementia was already setting in. But I just couldn’t imagine that this brilliant man couldn’t suddenly figure out how to turn on a garbage disposal. I simply took the situation as a very proud man who did not want to have to ask for or receive help.

The next time I went to visit him two weeks later, I got to his apartment and the front desk informed me he had been taken that morning to the hospital – he had fallen and he was “confused.”

I rushed to the hospital and spent four hours there as he waited for and was seen by doctors. Even though he knew who I was, it was about the only thing he knew that was correct. He couldn’t tell me how he had fallen or how he had gotten to the hospital or how long he’d been there. When the doctors examined him he told them the year was 1932. As they asked him other questions about his life and basic facts – all answers he got wrong – I felt an inner panic rising. A disbelief that this could be happening. I had to bite my tongue to not help him answer simple questions about how many children he had. The doctor had to rely on me to verify the truth of his answers about our family. I felt like such a traitor when I had to tell the doctors when he was incorrect about something – as if I was being disrespectful to my uncle.

This played out several more times over the next two months as new doctors saw Peter and each time he was admitted to the hospital. Each time I silently coached his answers in my head. Each time I cringed at every wrong answer – the year, the city we lived in, the names of his children. Each time I felt compelled to defend my uncle with each doctor, telling them how educated and accomplished he was. More than one doctor assured me that they could tell that he must have been very intelligent because he was very good at trying to hide his rapidly progressing dementia – and he probably had been hiding it for a while.

This is when I looked back and realized how many signs I should have seen but just couldn’t make that leap from brilliant man to elderly uncle in need of help as he grew more and more confused. There was only so much the doctors could explain; much was not known about the whys and how longs and especially the how much longer. But his failing mental capacities and inability to take care of himself (for how long??) definitely impacted his physical health – further complicated by a long-standing heart problem that required medication.

Peter Paul
Peter Paul photographed in 2003 by his daughter, Suzanne Sease.

Once hospice nursing care had been established at a new room in the medical wing of the senior living facility, all that was left for me to do was visit my uncle as often as I could, to make sure he was receiving care, to bring him my familiar face, to talk to him and to bring him the love of all the family. His children had all visited but had gone back to their homes – of course because we didn’t know how long he had. His heart issue was stabilized and he was receiving excellent nursing care. I settled in to a schedule of visiting during my lunch hour at work and often on Sundays. I got to know the nurses. They also called me if anything happened – like a fall – just to report in. I didn’t realize until later how much this stage of waiting and watching kept me on edge. There was never good news, only a progressively worse status to get used to.

Those two and half months went so fast – and yet in slow motion. I barely got the chance to acknowledge to myself that this was a reality I was going to have to accept. I never got a chance to get used to the fact that we wouldn’t be meeting up for lunch ever again. (It was still my turn to treat him at Southpark.) We wouldn’t be discussing books and politics any more. (And this upcoming election would have been hours of entertaining discussions). He and I would never go to the ballet again. I never had the chance to go to the symphony with him like he had wanted.

He grew more tired and less interested and less there with each visit. On the last day I saw him, he was more alert than he had been. We had one last meaningful conversation that I will always hold precious in my memories.

I was going to visit him just a few days later on that Sunday. Saturday morning I had such a strong urge to somehow find childcare so I could visit him that day. But I didn’t. By that afternoon hospice called to tell me he had passed away suddenly. And there it was – the end.

Suddenly, slowly over many months, trying to prepare for the inevitable, totally shocked by the news. A blur of well-wishers and sympathy. And paperwork and protocol. And sitting with his body as we waited for the young men from the mortuary. The young night nurse who asked for a moment to say good-bye, genuine grief. Everyone so courteous and professional. One last visit to the senior center’s chapel (on the altar a cross, a menorah, a Buddha statue – and my favorite – a Gerbera daisy in a coffee cup). One last look out at the night-time view from the seventh floor of the senior center of our shared West Coast city. I am still missing my uncle, my friend.

To read more about Peter Paul you can visit his Stories Between tribute page here.

AmyPaulUPDATEDAmy Paul is a West Coast transplant who grew up in Baltimore but settled in Portland, Oregon, after a cross-country adventure with her now husband, Jason. She earned her Master’s Degree in English and is a marketing manager for a large commercial contractor – a career that keeps her connected to the “built environment” community to which her Uncle Peter introduced her. Amy and Jason have two sons, Gus and Rex.