The Secret to Healing Grief

The Secret to Healing Grief

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Now, let me begin by saying I am not – by any means – “healed” of my grief from the death of my 4-year-old daughter in 2009.

I’ll probably never be. The day she died, a part of me died too. That loss left a gaping, tormenting hole in my heart and soul. A hole that has mostly stopped bleeding and shrunk a bit over the years, but will remain with me until the day I die.

And yet, in the years since her death, I have managed to learn how to live in the shadow of grief. I’ve even learned to allow joy and happiness back into my life. In fact, I would argue that I have learned how to harness the pain and devastation into fundamentally improving myself.

Over the years, I have started the process of transforming from someone who used to just “survive” life without truly enjoying it. I’m now someone who is learning to thrive in most aspects of living. I am not referring to thriving in a monetary or materialistic way, but in how I open myself up to, interact with, and relate to the world around me.

So what is the secret to healing from grief?

Over the years, I have tried to write about it. I have bared my soul and deepest, darkest feelings and fears. By trying to capture “it,” I hope to let others use it in their own journeys of healing. And yet I’ve never been able to capture its essence in one succinct idea.

That is, until now. I cannot take credit for it. It was during some rare alone time (I am married with four kids). I looked for a show to watch on TV and decided to indulge myself by watching an episode of The Long Island Medium.

I like watching the show because it usually provides me with an opportunity to cry and release the built-up pressure of sadness over my daughter’s death. Feelings that I usually hold at bay during everyday activities.

During the episode, Theresa Caputo surprises a woman in New Orleans with a private reading. The woman had lost her 15-year-old only child, Kamen, in a car accident some years before. Her sister described her as a “shell of her former self”.

In the reading, Theresa is communicating what Kamen wants to convey to his mother. He describes her as constantly going back to the day he died, and – in fact – living her life trapped in that horrible moment of time. She is stuck in the worry and guilt that many bereaved parents face. The idea that their child suffered alone, in devastating pain, and scared in their last moments. It torments us.

Then Theresa – using Kamen’s words – offers the secret to healing our grief in a simple, profound way. Theresa says:

“He said, ‘The way you loved me is the way that you can heal.; All the love, encouragement, and everything you gave your son; if you gave that to yourself, you would be healed.”

And there it is. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Everything I have tried to convey in the past few years encapsulated in one succinct statement.

I have begun to heal, and even thrive. Because for the first time in my life, I am slowly learning to treat myself the way I treat my kids. I am learning how to unconditionally love myself. How to look inward for support and encouragement during even the most difficult days and moments. And I am learning how to transform the darkness of grief into the light of love by looking for the lesson hidden deep within the pain.

I would be lying if I told you that embodying self love and self care is easy. In my experience, it is not.

But I am convinced it is the basic understanding we need to begin to heal our grief. And with knowledge, comes power. The power to choose whether we are at the mercy of our grief, or whether we teach ourselves to not only live with the pain, but use it to reach a deeper, more fulfilling understanding of life itself.

I wish you peace and comfort on your journey.

How to Support Someone Who’s Grieving

How to Support Someone Who’s Grieving

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I lost my 4-year-old daughter in 2009. Until that point, my experience with death was limited. I had experienced deaths of people I knew throughout my life. But I hadn’t lost someone so significant in my life that I couldn’t imagine living without them.

Before my daughter’s death, I never knew what to say to someone in their profound grief.

I had been to more funerals and wakes than I cared to remember. Viewing the people in their caskets was excruciatingly uncomfortable. I couldn’t distract myself from the sickening sensation of being exceedingly aware of my own mortality.

Offering condolences to the immediate families was difficult too. I could never figure out anything except, “I’m so sorry,” which never felt like it was enough. I would try to put the whole experience out of my mind as soon as the funeral was over. That way, I could more easily avoid those uncomfortable and painful feelings associated with death and loss.

Now I’ve been on the receiving end of those condolences and uncomfortable silences. I can offer my perspective of some of the best ways to support someone who has experienced the loss a loved one.

Don’t try to lessen the pain of loss.

With best intentions, people may try to justify the loss in order to soften the pain. How many times have you heard, “It’s part of God’s plan”? Even if you believe it to be true, it doesn’t make the pain of loss any easier. Neither does, “They’re at peace now,” or, “They’re in a better place.” In fact, trying to justify the loss usually just makes bereaved people feel worse.

What’s a helpful alternative? Be honest, and let them know how you feel. I would have rather people admit that they didn’t know what to say, or that they felt horrible about what happened. I would have liked to hear how much they loved my daughter and that they would miss her terribly. It would have made me feel less alone in my devastation.

Don’t try to compare losses.

If you are tempted to say, “I know how you feel,” please resist the urge. Maybe you think you do, but chances are you don’t. Every loss is unique because every relationship is unique. And every person has a different set of life experiences. If you don’t know what else to say, sometimes the best thing to offer is a silent hug and shared tears.

Offer practical assistance.

Depending on the person and the loss, some people may appreciate assistance with basic needs. If a loss is especially devastating, you can offer to bring a prepared meal or help with chores like laundry or shopping. While some people may feel embarrassed by the offers, others will find them invaluable. I welcomed donated meals from caring friends and coworkers. It was immensely helpful during a time when cooking and cleaning seemed impossibly hard.

Be understanding and supportive long after the funeral is over

One of the hardest things about losing someone so close to you is that they may remain prominently in your thoughts long after the rest of the world appears to have forgotten about them. The pain of loss does not have a set timetable. For some, it will last the rest of their lives. One of the best acts of support you can offer someone is to let them know you still care about their loss months and even years later. Just mentioning their loved one’s name can mean the world to them – and so will you.

While these are a few things based on my personal experience, there are many more things you can do to support someone who is bereaved. There are wonderful resources in books and on the Internet, and I encourage you to seek them out.

The Challenges of Raising Children After the Death of a Child

The Challenges of Raising Children After the Death of a Child

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I will never know the unique pain of losing an only child.

But I know all too well that raising my sons after the death of my daughter was full of challenges.

At the time of her death, our family consisted of my husband and me, our three boys from our previous marriages (ages 10, 9, and 7), and our daughter together, Margareta (age 4). Two of her older brothers were home with us on that fateful day. They watched in helpless fear as the chaos of her drowning unfolded. I remember the police trying to distract me as I continued to scream in horror at the sight of paramedics desperately working on her. They kept telling me to comfort my boys instead. How could I? We had moments of hugging and sobbing together. But I would be compelled to go back and watch the resuscitation efforts to see if there was any sign of hope.

I completely abandoned the boys in their greatest time of need.

We all went to the hospital where doctors tried to resuscitate her in the ER. My stepson and his mom joined us. Despite all efforts, our daughter was pronounced dead. Our boys went to stay with their other parents that night. My husband and I were simply unable to function.

The boys did not return for several days. When they did, we were not the parents they needed. We were captives of our devastation. We did the best we could, but in hindsight, they had not only lost their sister. They had lost their parents too.

In the days and months that followed, we tried to make sure they received the external support they needed.

We took them to a grief counselor and worked with their schools to make sure they had regular emotional check-ins. So they wouldn’t be inundated with uncomfortable questions and unwanted attention from classmates, we tried to keep the knowledge of their sister’s death limited to close friends and sports teammates. We signed them up for grief support activities and groups at a local hospice. We bought them journals to write or draw in and encouraged them to talk about their feelings.

Despite all of this, they never wanted to talk to us about her death or their feelings. They didn’t want to return to the grief support groups after those first sessions and turned down offers to go to a grief support camp for kids. They eventually stopped wanting to talk to the school counselor. It was frustrating to say the least. I was horribly concerned for their wellbeing. As a mother, I hated the idea of them holding in all the painful feelings I was sure they had.

I already felt that I had failed my daughter in the worst way possible. Now I felt like I was failing them too.

My various grief support counselors reassured me that their behavior was normal. They explained that younger children are not equipped to deal with such intense feelings. They need to return to a sense of normalcy to feel safe. Counselors explained that it will likely be many years before they begin to fully process their sister’s death. I was advised to just keep an eye on them for signs of major depression or sudden changes in behavior. So I did.

Despite their need to return to “normal,” I was unable to shield them from my overwhelming grief.

Even if I had tried, I wouldn’t have been able to suppress my tears and obvious sadness. Since I couldn’t, I decided I needed to be honest with them. I needed them to know it was normal to feel sad. I wanted them to know that the painful feelings after the death of a loved one isn’t something you sweep under the rug and never talk of again.

With the birth of their baby brother the year after Margareta’s death, I was faced with a new challenge. How do you raise a child in the shadow of the death of a sister he never knew? We knew he was not a “replacement” of his sister, but how would we make sure he knows that? I wondered if my grief would allow me to be the mother he needed. Thankfully, I was.

I think for all of us, he was the catalyst for reintroducing joy into our lives.

That is not to say our painful feelings of grief magically disappeared on his arrival – quite the opposite. But he taught us that intense pain and joy can coexist together. Feelings of pain can be softened by joy, and grief has the effect of making our appreciation of the sweetness and joys of life become that much more meaningful.

Once he became a toddler, new challenges arose. He could recognize Margareta in pictures, but he didn’t understand why he couldn’t play with her. Trips to the cemetery were normal for him. Although he didn’t really know why we were there. He was too young to explain the concept of death in a way that he truly understood.

Years after her death, I asked my older children what was the hardest part of losing their sister. Their answer was unanimous: they didn’t like thinking about it because it was so painful.

They didn’t want to talk to me about it because it would just make me sadder. They aren’t as uncomfortable thinking about it as much these days, but they don’t go out of their way to do so. Thankfully, as they grew older, they felt more comfortable expressing their feelings.

I know the challenges of raising children in the wake of their sister’s death are probably far from over and will change over time. We don’t know what lies ahead, but we know that we will love and support each other along the way.

The Last Mother’s Day with My Daughter

The Last Mother’s Day with My Daughter

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The difficult thing about memories is that they fade. Most every day moments are lost to time. Even special days. I have lost the memory of the last Mother’s Day I spent with my daughter, Margareta, in 2009. I’m sure it was nice and an enjoyable day, but nothing so extraordinary that it stands out in my mind.

Margareta’s preschool teacher – who is now teaching her little brother, Paxton – reminded me this week that she and I participated in the preschool’s Mother’s Day tea party a few days before that last Mother’s Day. It brought up a fuzzy memory of sitting across from Margareta at a small table sharing cookies and Peet’s tea. Then she presented me with one of the best presents I have from her: a wooden heart with her hand-written message, “I (heart) you mom!” (It still amazes me that at 3-1/2 years old, she was able to write!) She also decorated a wooden box with paint and flowers.

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That fuzzy memory and my keepsakes will have to be enough.

Mother’s Day remains hard for me. I have four wonderful boys who will honor and show their appreciation for me, and I will savor their love and affection. But underneath the surface will still be the painful longing for the daughter who won’t be there to hand me the card she drew or the lovely gift she made in school. I won’t feel the warmth of her hug or hear her beautiful voice tell me she loves me.

I will do my best to temper the sadness with the reminder that I had the privilege and honor to be the mother of that amazing little girl who loved and adored me with all her heart. And that is something I will never forget.

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of Margareta Kubitz.

The Balloon

The Balloon

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I was just watching TV and saw a commercial for a local street fair in a nearby town that my family has been to before. All of the sudden a forgotten memory of my daughter, Margareta, popped into my head. What a wonderful, unexpected gift.

We had gone to the street fair about four months before she died in 2009, when she was 3-1/2 years old. I remember our family walking along looking at booths and stores when we got sucked into a local toy store. Margareta loved most toys, but stuffed animals and puppets were her favorite, which is what she gravitated to.

After a little while, I recall that we saw a little pony ride with miniature ponies on a side street. To my knowledge, Margareta had never been on a pony ride before, so we decided to let her go on it. Boy, was she happy. Her eyes were beaming and her smile was as wide as the Cheshire cat.

Afterward, we continued walking up the street. We saw a booth that was giving away balloons and got a white one for Margareta. As we were walking away, I wanted to tie a slip knot on the string and put it around her wrist so it wouldn’t fly away if she let go. Being her normal strong willed self, she refused. I was stern in my warning that if she refused and accidentally let go and lost it, we would not go back and get her another one.

Saying that my daughter was headstrong would be an understatement. When I was telling her this, I was leaning down so that our heads were on the same level. She looked me straight in the eyes and with a serious expression, purposefully let the balloon go. Honestly, I don’t know exactly what she was trying to prove, but she was very deliberate in her actions.

I don’t remember her crying, but as we walked on, she was sullen and unpleasant, and it was obvious that she was testing my resolve. The rest of the memory is fuzzy, but I do remember this: she ended up getting another balloon! Apparently she won that battle with me.

087Not every memory of my daughter is a sweet one. She was a normal child, and mixed in with the wonderful times were difficult times. We had our frustrations as well as our love and fun. But now, every memory up until the day she died is precious to me because it is all I have left. I am very, very happy to have gotten this one back.

 

 

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of her daughter, Margareta Kubitz.