Do They Even Remember Your Name?

Do They Even Remember Your Name?

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Margareta.

For the four short years you were in our lives, your name was spoken more times than I could ever possibly count.

Not just by me, your dad and brothers, but by a multitude of family and friends. We spoke it, sang it, and wrote it every day. You corrected people on the pronunciation of your name by emphasizing every syllable. “My name is Mar-Gar-Eh-Tah.” Your name was part of the daily fabric of our lives. And we took it for granted that it always would be.

And then one day…it wasn’t.

On the day you died, a wave of shock and despair hit everyone who knew you. It took our breath away and left us speechless. Nobody seemed to know the right words to say to make sense of this sudden tragedy. But they tried their best to offer us comfort. They showed their support in condolence calls and cards.

Many quoted the bible, and offered us sayings they thought would soothe our broken hearts.

“God needed an angel.”

“She’s at peace in the arms of Jesus.”

Others just spoke their hearts in the simplest way possible.

“I’m so sorry for your loss. I don’t know what to say.”

“I can’t believe she’s dead. I feel sick.”

No matter the words spoken and whether they resonated with me or not, I felt supported. I felt our family wasn’t alone in our horror.

But then the funeral was over and everyone went home to resume their lives. The cards stopped coming. The phone stopped ringing. And yet our grief was just beginning. It didn’t end the day we buried you. It grew.

How could we go back to living our normal lives if you weren’t here to live it with us? And how could the earth keep spinning? How could people keep going about their daily business – laughing and happy – when everything in our life had been ruined? The feeling was maddening.

Occasionally we would get a call to see how we were doing. But it was never about you.

It was always about their concern for us and how they could help support us. They didn’t mention your name. While I was filled with gratitude to know that people still cared, all I wanted to do was talk about you and how your absence in our life was suffocating.

Over time the calls of concern stopped coming and were replaced by invitations to get back to our previous routines. We were invited to parties, dinners, outings, etc. We were encouraged to get back to the land of the living. At first, we often declined, but the invitations kept coming. And your name was virtually never mentioned.

Years after your death, your name is rarely said. Virtually the only way I can still hear your beautiful name – Margareta – is if I say it. I have to bring you up in conversation.

It makes me wonder whether people still think of you. It makes me fear that you are already forgotten.

After all, you were only here for four short years.

I’m not the only one who feels this way. This is a common topic – and source of despair – at grief support groups. Those who are bereaved live in a world where those we love remain at the forefront of our thoughts. This isn’t just in the first few months or years after your death. It is for the rest of our lives.

We may even get chastised from family and friends who want us to get over your death and get back to being the way we were before you died. Like that will ever happen.

I’ve heard many times a few theories of why people never say your name.

First, they think it will remind me of the pain of your death. As if that pain has ever gone away. If they only knew that hearing your name eases the pain…even if just for a brief moment.

Second, they don’t know the “right” words to say. I suppose it is a twisted interpretation of the phrase, “If you don’t have something nice to say don’t say anything at all.” To which I reply, even if they say something that doesn’t come out quite right, at least they’ve shown me that you’re still on their mind.

One of the greatest gifts someone can give to me is the act of saying your name.

Not waiting until I bring you up in conversation. Or only mentioning you on your birthday or the anniversary of your death. But any time they happen to think of you . Even if just for a brief second. I’d love to know that outside of our immediate family, we’re not the only ones who still think of you, love you, and acknowledge that you existed.

Margareta. How I love hearing your name.

A “Grand Plan” Doesn’t Comfort Me

A “Grand Plan” Doesn’t Comfort Me

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I don’t know how I learned it, but at a young age I was introduced to the concept of what death was “supposed” to be.

It went something like this: you live a long, full life and then when you are so old your body stops working, you die peacefully – and painlessly – in your sleep. My vision of death was nice, neat, and acceptable.

The problem was that my ongoing experience with death over the course of my life didn’t seem to ever fit that ideal mold.

As a child, I heard about relatives who were old – but not that old – dying of things like cancer, heart attacks, or accidental deaths. I learned about my grandfather being killed during WWII when my father was only 2-years-old.

Before the age of 10, I had to face the ugly reality that the teenage daughter of one of my parent’s friends was dying of leukemia. Another of my parent’s friends – who I knew well – died after being thrown out of a car that lost control when her son fell asleep at the wheel.

The uncomfortable reality of death hit home as a young teen when a boy I occasionally babysat drowned. I vividly remember staring helplessly at his lifeless body on display at his wake. As a young adult, I sat with silent tears in my eyes at the funeral of a cousin in her early 20s who had died suddenly and unexpectedly from a blood clot in her leg.

I could go on and on.

The fact is death is sad and tragic, and mostly unfair.

Deaths that don’t fit that ideal mold of dying peacefully in very old age leave us with many unanswered questions. Questions that can be summed up in one word: Why? It keeps us up at night. It tortures us. And eats at the very fabric of our being.

For those who seek to comfort us, there is a common answer many offer in hopes of soothing our endless ache. I’d heard it many times before. But I never gave it much thought until I found myself on the receiving end after my 4-year-old daughter’s sudden death.

While there are variations, most often I was told, “It was part of God’s plan that we cannot understand and aren’t meant to know.”

Now I know the people who offer this condolence of God’s “grand plan” truly believe it and think it comforting. But to a person who has just lost someone they cannot imagine living life without, it often falls short of being a source of comfort. In fact, depending on the person and the circumstances, it can unintentionally cause a great deal of distress or even produce outright anger.

Here’s why a “grand plan” doesn’t comfort many of us: it most definitely wasn’t part of our plans.

And now our plan is forever ruined and irreversible. We are left with an excruciating, bleeding broken heart. And we can’t imagine a “grand plan” has any purpose other than to leave our lives in darkness and utter devastation. In the immediate aftermath of such a death, we see no silver lining, no hope, no purpose, and certainly no opportunity for lessons or growth.

Years after my daughter’s death, I no longer feel anger towards those who try to reassure me by reminding me of God’s grand plan or that my daughter is in a better place. I understand those words are the only thing they know what to say after such an unthinkable loss. And those words probably brought them some sense of safety and comfort in a situation that made no sense.

Whether or not I’ll ever be fully and utterly convinced that there is a grand plan, the sentiment will never offer me relief from the pain of losing my only daughter.

I’ve grown tremendously as a person since her death and have learned a lifetime of lessons in these past years. But I still ache for her and long for a future I’ll never have. I am still left with the reality that my plans were shattered the day she died, and I’ll always regret not having a future in which I get to watch my daughter grow.

Why We Can’t Just “Move On”

Why We Can’t Just “Move On”

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I and many people I know are suffering from a broken heart.

Now this may not seem like a big deal to you. After all, people get broken hearts all the time. Most of the time people get over it. Eventually, their attention turns towards finding new love to invest their time and energy in. Sooner or later, their heart heals — and hopefully the wiser for it.

Unfortunately, these are not the type of broken hearts I am referring to.

The kind of broken heart I am talking about is so severe and so devastating, it can never fully heal.

It is caused by losing someone whose absence leaves a gaping, endless hole in your heart. A hole that simply can never be filled. It is caused by losing a person who could never, ever be replaced and who can never, ever come back. In my case, it was caused by the sudden death of my 4-year-old daughter in 2009.

Oh, I hear all you doubters out there. You see on the news that people die every day. And from your point of view, their families and friends seem to get over it and move on with life. So why can’t we?

Some of you may think the people who can’t seem to let it go are just a bunch of “poor me” types who want attention. You may even be friends with some of us. Or more likely, used to be friends with us. You probably can’t fathom why we still feel the need to attend support groups, visit the cemetery every week, or randomly break down in tears – for years after the death. Many of you feel compelled to tell us how we’re supposed to get over our grief.

If it were only that simple.

So, why? Why can’t we just get over it and move on with our lives as if everything was back to normal?

Unfortunately, there isn’t an answer I could put into words that would ever satisfy you. Maybe the problem lies in the terminology being used. We may be suffering from a broken heart as you would define it. But it’s more than that. It might better be described as a broken soul or a broken spirit. Maybe it’s best to just cut out the noun. We are simply broken. Until you actually experience this type of loss, you’ll never fully understand.

So maybe the better question is: why does it bother you so much?

Is it the tears that make you uncomfortable? Does our demeanor hamper your care-free lifestyle? Is it the in-your-face reminder that you will die someday – and maybe much sooner than you plan to? Whatever your reason, you need to know that if you feel compelled to tell us what we need to do and how we need to do it, you’re not doing us any favors or speeding up our grief process. You’re just adding to our pain.

The fact is if you had enough patience, you’d see that over time people like us are better able to reintegrate into “normal” life. We learn to smile and truly experience happiness again. We don’t cry as often – and when we do, we can usually wait until no one is looking. Eventually, we may even convince you that we have finally moved on with our lives. But behind the scenes you better believe that the pain is still there.

The longing never goes away. The regret is here to stay. Painful reminders that such an important person in our life is missing constantly surround us.

We don’t just think of them on special occasions; we think of them daily. Some days we may think of them every hour or every minute. This is how we keep them present in our lives. This is our personal memorial to the overwhelming love they brought to our lives when they were here. Do you really want to take that away from us?

Instead of focusing on the idea that we should move on with our lives to make you more comfortable, maybe you could focus on learning how to look the other way and not let our grief bother you so much.

Where’s the Manual for Healing from Grief?

Where’s the Manual for Healing from Grief?

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I’ve spent countless hours looking for answers to my questions about grief since the death of my 4-year-old daughter, Margareta. And I’ve found endless books, websites, and articles that talk about everything I could possibly want to know about grief.

That is, I found everything except for the best way to heal my grief.

Grief is universal. No matter the cause – for there are many causes of grief other than the loss of a loved one – there are very common reactions to it. I’ve met many grieving people in person and online since Margareta’s death. They all describe the same or similar emotional reactions, physical symptoms, or behaviors in the face of grief. You would think with such commonality between people in their reactions to grief, there would also be the same amount of shared ways people heal. But from my perspective, it doesn’t appear that’s true.

Oh sure, there are plenty of resources that offer suggestions of ways to ease the pain of grief. I’ve certainly written a lot about the various ways I have found some relief from my devastating pain over the years. But unlike the common, universal emotional reactions to grief, healing from grief is a very personal matter.

And because healing from grief is so individual and unique, there can never be a manual for it.

Now I’m not saying I don’t think there are similar actions people can take to help them heal from the overwhelming pain of grief. Certainly the ways I’ve found some solace in my journey of grief seem to resonate with others who find themselves on this same sad journey.

The problem, as I see it, lies with the very definition of “healing.” I’ve found that what healing means to me is often very different to what healing looks or feels like for others.

What exactly is it to “be healed” from grief?

Is it the absence of pain? Or the ability to “move on” and assimilate back to your definition of a “normal” life? Maybe it’s the ability to find happiness and joy once again. Perhaps it’s to find meaning and purpose after the devastation of grief? It could be all of the above, or it could be none of the above. It depends entirely on the circumstance of what caused the grief in the first place, and the individual experience of the person suffering from it.

For example, someone who is experiencing profound grief over the loss of a relationship will have a different measure of healing than someone who lost a loved one to death. And even within the same general category of circumstance – such as two people whose loved ones died – there are bound to be differences in their definitions of healing.

A person who lost an elderly parent may have a different healing path than someone who’s lost a child. And even a person who’s lost an adult child may have a different definition of healing than someone who lost a young child or suffered a miscarriage. What about the type of death, such as a long battle with a terminal illness vs. a sudden tragedy with no chance to say goodbye? Does our gender, age, or personality type come into play as well? I think it all matters in our definitions of healing.

So what are we to do in our search for healing? Are we just left to our own devices to figure out what it means to us and how we go about achieving it?

Maybe. But chances are, once you’ve identified what healing means to you, there are plenty of resources you can find to shed some light on how others have achieved what it is you’re after. Hearing personal stories from others on the same path is often a powerful tool.

You may find – as in my case – that your definition of healing will change over time. Once you’ve achieved one milestone of healing, you’re likely to uncover a new personal goal. For example, after I was finally able to allow happiness and joy back into my life, I chose to focus on learning what living a life of purpose in the shadow of my daughter’s death meant to me. While I have some direction, I’m still working on figuring out exactly what that means. And it’s likely that once I am able to live a life of purpose, I’ll have a new definition of healing to work towards in the years to come.

I think it’s also important to mention that some of our definitions of healing may never be achievable.

If healing equals the absence of pain over the death of my daughter, I know that I’ll never reach that state of healing. But for me, the acceptance of that reality was somewhat healing in its own right.

Whatever your definition of healing is, I hope you have the support you need to continue down your path in achieving it.

A Letter to My Living Children for Mother’s Day

A Letter to My Living Children for Mother’s Day

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Dearest ones,

Mother’s Day is quickly approaching. Each year, I’ve received beautiful hand drawn cards or beautiful crafts from you that I cherish and save. Your words of love and appreciation are an echo of the profound love and appreciation I feel for each of you. Not just on Mother’s Day, but every day. And yet, you know Mother’s Day will forever more be bittersweet for me. Bittersweet because your sister will never again be alongside you to wish me a happy Mother’s Day.

It has been a very challenging road for all of us since the death of your only sister.

You didn’t just lose your only sister and a piece of your innocence that day. You also lost the mother you once knew. After that horrible day, you had to witness a mother who was crushed by the weight of grief. A mother who still loved and took care of you, but was so often sad or tired or visibly overwhelmed.

I know for a long time you tried to hide your own pain from me in an effort to not make mine worse. You tried to take care of me, as I often struggled to find the energy needed to take care of you. I saw you help out more. You followed the rules as best you could. And you checked in on me as a parent checks in on their child. I appreciate all of it more than you know. But I’ll always be sorry you found yourself in that difficult position.

Seeing all my outward sadness since her death, it might appear to you that I think more about your sister than I do of you.

It may even appear that I love your sister more than you. Nothing could be further from the truth. But I’m pretty sure you already know that. I hope you understand that when all we have left of someone is our memories, we may choose to spend more time with our thoughts than before.

You hopefully know just how much I am grateful for each and every day that I have to spend with you. I have tried very hard over the years to show that to you. And despite the pain – or perhaps because of the pain – we have grown a stronger, deeper bond of love and trust between us. We have all witnessed firsthand the fragility of life, and we are reminded that our relationships with each other – and those we love – are what matter most. That is a wonderful gift your sister bestowed upon us that I know will last our lifetimes.

So if I have tears in my eyes this Mother’s Day, I hope you know it is just the overflowing love I feel for all of you – including your sister – leaking out of me.

And while I wish with all my broken heart that she was here with you, it is all of you that help mend that heart each and every day with all the love you continue to give to me. I can only hope you will also feel my love for you each and every day of your lives.

Love,
Mom