Renaming the Stages of Grief

Renaming the Stages of Grief

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Chances are, you’ve heard of the stages of grief. Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross introduced them in her 1969 book, “On Death and Dying.” The stages are:

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Breaking grief down into defined segments that have a clear beginning and end is a very nice idea. This way, you would know when you’re done with one stage and when to move onto the next. You would follow this progression until you’ve accepted your loved one’s death. Then you could come to peace with it.

The problem is, reality isn’t so simple most of the time.

There is a common misconception about the stages of grief.

I talked to a psychologist who specialized in end-of-life and grief counseling after my 4-year-old daughter’s sudden death in 2009. I asked about the stages of grief. She said she had studied under Dr. Kübler-Ross when she was younger, and explained there is a common misunderstanding about the stages of grief.

Dr. Kübler-Ross used the stages to describe the similar experiences of many terminally ill people facing their impending deaths. The stages were not in reference to someone who had lost a loved one. However, grief from losing a loved one shares very similar emotional responses. So the stages of grief became widely assigned both to people who were dying and those they ultimately left behind.

Most explanations of the stages of grief now include the caveat that grief is a unique journey and many people don’t experience these stages in a prescribed order. It is also pointed out that some people may never experience all five stages.

Instead of a roadmap, these “stages” might be more accurately described as “reactions” to grief.

They should be used to help us understand common emotions experienced on the journey of grief.

But the problem with words is they can carry different meanings to different people based on personal experience. The five stages didn’t resonate with me because my definition of those words didn’t match what I was experiencing.

So I set out to change the existing words into ones that better describe the common experiences shared by those who’ve lost a loved one.

Devastation replaces Denial.

Initially, a terminally ill patient might deny the validity of their diagnosis. After all, we continually hear feel-good stories of people who beat the odds. We hear stories of misdiagnoses or people who are miraculously cured by alternative treatments. So it would be expected that a person’s instinctual survival mode would kick in and convince themselves that they will be one of the lucky ones. Because the alternative is too scary to accept.

The pain is overwhelming in the immediate aftermath of a loved one’s death. So much so, it is impossible to comprehend how you can survive it.

You cannot wrap your mind around how you will go on living in a world that no longer includes your loved one. The word that best describes how I felt during this time was complete and utter devastation.

Just like the denial of a terminally ill person, your mind can pretend the death didn’t really happen in an attempt to avoid the pain. You might continually expect them to walk through the door, or be on the other end of the phone when it rings. Or you might keep telling yourself that this has to be a nightmare you’ll soon wake up from.

While some people never experience these illusions, for others it can go on for months or even years. But unlike a terminally ill patient who is told of a future probability that hasn’t happened yet – and therefore is not absolute – you cannot change the fact that your loved one died. You are simply trying to avoid the devastating pain that comes with that reality.

Anger is still Anger, but also Avoidance.

There is no denying that you are bound to experience some amount of anger with any kind of loss. You may be angry if you feel your loved one’s death was avoidable. Especially if it was at the hands of someone else. You might be angry at God or yourself. Some become angry at family and friends for saying unhelpful (or even hurtful) things. Or because they’re not supporting you in the way you want them to. Others may even be angry at their loved one for dying.

Many people often become angry at the simple fact that the rest of the world continues to go on as if nothing happened.

You are angry at a world that doesn’t seem to acknowledge or care that you just lost one of the most important people in your life. And you can’t figure out how you’re possibly going to live without them.

I’ve heard anger can be your mind’s way of deflecting other, more vulnerable emotions you don’t want to feel. Emotions like fear, shame, guilt, or helplessness. Or a pain so deep and intense, you have not developed the emotional tools you need to deal with it.

Anger, on the other hand, is familiar. It is a primal defense against external threats.

Yet anger isn’t meant to be prolonged or a tool for avoidance. You shouldn’t deny your anger, yet you shouldn’t let it keep you from learning how to better understand and then deal with all of those scarier, more vulnerable emotions.

Bargaining is replaced by “What if…?”

I understand how a terminally ill person would feel compelled to try to change the prognosis by making a deal with God or the universe. But we don’t have any bargaining power if our loved one has already died. Instead, many people find themselves replaying the events that led up to their loved one’s death.

We do this in a futile attempt to re-engineer and alter the outcome.

The bargaining of a terminally ill person is replaced by, “What if…?”

What if they had gone to the doctor sooner, or understood the warning signs for what they were instead of brushing them aside? What if they hadn’t gone on that fateful trip, or went on a different day? There are endless variations of decisions we could have made and actions we could have taken.

Many of us go through this heart-wrenching exercise for weeks or months on end. It becomes a desperate attempt to regain the previously held illusion that we are in control over what happens to us in our lives.

But try as we might, all of these “What if…?” scenarios only end in feelings of regret, helplessness, guilt, or misery. The sooner we decide to stop asking, “What if…,” the sooner we are able to begin the slow journey of tending to our broken hearts.

Overwhelmed replaces Depression.

Read a list of the symptoms of depression when you’ve recently lost someone dear to you, and you’ll likely identify with most of them. However, I’ve heard some psychologists and grief counselors argue that instead of calling it clinical depression, it is simply our natural response to such a significant loss. It includes feelings of sadness, emptiness, and hopelessness. It causes complete and utter exhaustion, sore muscles, loss of appetite or mindless eating. Grief can cause severe insomnia or feeling the urge to escape a painful reality with constant sleep. It can even bring feelings of wanting to end your life; thinking it is the only way you’ll ever escape the unrelenting pain.

Regardless of whatever you or others want to call it, it is completely overwhelming.

Problem can occur when the overwhelming feelings and emotions interfere with your ability to go back to work or go about your daily life. Some people choose to take medication. Others oppose it. Regardless of what you decide is best for you, the important thing to remember is that what you are experiencing is a normal reaction to such a devastating loss.

In my personal experience, it is important that you be patient with yourself and allow all of these feelings to wash over you in order to process them and eventually let them go. The more you try to repress them, the longer they will stay.

Acceptance becomes Healing.

In the case of a terminally ill patient, the idea of acceptance is to stop fighting and find a way to come to peace with the inevitable reality of impending death. I can imagine this is the most difficult step of all. And some may never reach it. Similarly, some who have lost a loved one – a child in particular – may never come to “accept” the death. To many, acceptance often implies agreement or approval. To others, acceptance may imply severing ties to a past we cannot let go of.

Acceptance doesn’t have to mean any of this.

In the case of losing a loved one, acceptance may simply mark the moment we are ready to begin our journey of healing.

Our loved one is dead; we can’t change that. Instead, we have two choices. First, we can choose to stay wrapped up in a security blanket of misery. Why? Some feel it is the strongest, most palpable connection we have left to our loved one. It may feel as though we would be betraying or diminishing our love for them if we were to ever be happy in a world without them. I have been there myself, and place no judgment on those who are not ready to leave that world.

When you are ready, you can choose to begin to find a new way forward in a world that may not include our loved one, but continues to acknowledge and incorporate the deep, profound love we still feel – and always will. We can choose to embrace the overwhelming pain and learn from it. We can learn to allow joy and happiness back into our lives. And ultimately, we can choose to heal.

…

Those are my choices for new words to replace the traditional “stages” of grief. If those don’t resonate with you, then replace them with ones that do. Ultimately, the stages – or reactions – of grief are only there to let you know you’re not alone in this journey.

Wishing you peace.

Grieving a Future I’ll Never Have

Grieving a Future I’ll Never Have

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When grief is new, it is excruciating and overwhelming. Many people get stuck in a quicksand of pain that is so thick and intense, it feels impossible to escape. You can’t imagine how you’ll survive as you struggle through those first few days, weeks, and months.

And yet you do survive. Despite all odds, you wake up each morning. Your body still functions. You find a way to quietly camoflauge yourself within with the “normal” world around you. You learn to live one day at a time. One moment at a time when the day is particularly hard.

Slowly – and painfully – you begin to acclimate to a world without your loved one in it. You do it because you have no other choice.

Over five years after the death of my 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, I’ve acclimated as best I can. I’ve continually faced and dealt with those painful feelings and emotions using every tool I can think of. Writing about my grief helps immensely. I go to grief support groups and talk to a grief counselor when I feel the need to. I talk about Margareta with those who want to hear. I’ve come to terms with the impossible reality that she is gone and never coming back.

My grief over my daughter’s death will never go away. Ask any grieving parent and they’ll tell you the same.

We’ll never “get over it.” What we have to do is accept it and learn how to live life despite of it. I’ve heard some bereaved parents don’t like using the word acceptance. That is because they associate the notion of accepting their child’s death with being okay with their child’s death. But you can accept the reality of something without ever being happy about it; without ever being okay with it. You can’t change the past, so you might as well accept it in order to begin to be able to heal from the devastation you find yourself in.

I have healed a lot over the years. The open, oozing, excruciating wound of my broken heart has since scabbed over. I’ll always have the painful scar that reminds me throughout every day that my daughter isn’t here. It’s that constant reminder that is the hardest for me now.

I’m grieving a future I’ll never have. I’m reminded every day of what could have been, but can never be.

I’m grieving lost hopes and dreams. And the loss of my only daughter and the mother-daughter relationship I only had a glimpse of. Instead of the intense, searing pain of early grief, it has transformed into a dull ache I’ll never escape from.

I don’t think I’ll ever feel fully at ease with this constant ache. I’ll always miss my daughter. I’ll always regret that I didn’t get to watch her grow. But I’m dedicated to learning how to live a happy, meaningful life despite of it. I do this in her honor and in the honor of my other children, husband, and family. I do it because I didn’t physically die when she did.

In her four short years, my daughter lived life to the fullest – full of love, honesty and without fear. It is now my goal in life to do the same. I know she would have wanted it that way.

You’re Not Alone In Your Grief

You’re Not Alone In Your Grief

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If you’ve lost someone who meant more than life itself to you

You’re not alone

If you can’t believe they’re gone
or think they’ll walk through the door at any moment
or they’ll be on the other end of the phone when it rings
or you can’t bring yourself to delete them from your phone contacts

You’re not alone

If you can’t fathom how you’re going to go on living
yet you inexplicably wake up every morning
and somehow go back to work because you have to
and can’t understand how the world can just go on like it was before they died

You’re not alone

If you’re angry at your god or the world
and can’t stand hearing people laugh
and don’t think you’ll ever be able to be happy again
and bite your cheeks to keep from smiling at something funny
because you think if you are anything other than miserable it is a betrayal of your loved one

You’re not alone

If you sob uncontrollably
and make those around you uncomfortable
or can’t cry at all and wish you could
or cry over things that aren’t sad and have nothing to do with your grief

You’re not alone

If you feel like you’re going crazy
and think things like how cold and wet they must be at the cemetery when it rains
and can’t seem to remember simple things anymore
and hear their voice when you know they’re not there

You’re not alone

If you feel so exhausted you can barely stand
and every muscle in your body is sore
and your heart literally aches
and feel nauseated
and either can’t sleep or can’t stay awake

You’re not alone

If you feel isolated and alone
and completely misunderstood
and feel like you no longer relate to your family and friends
and even lose some relationships you thought would last forever

You’re not alone

If you feel like you’re losing all hope
and feel like life is not worth living anymore
and have thoughts about ending your own life

Please reach out for help
because you’re not alone

While your loss is unique to you
others have experienced similar losses
and similar thoughts and reactions
and made it through those impossible early days of grief
and learned how to be happy once more
and learned how to live a meaningful life
and are here to support you on this journey

Because you’re never alone
and people care about you

Hiding My Grief Behind the Veil of “Normal”

Hiding My Grief Behind the Veil of “Normal”

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When you see me, you probably see what you would consider to be a strong person.

You see someone who appears to be living the “American Dream.” I juggle a family, a career, a social life, and even a volunteer position for a good cause. You see a person who came back from the death of a young child. And as you usually put it, someone who has “moved on” with life.  You see someone who has seemingly taken lemons and turned them into lemonade.

But unless I want you to, you don’t really see me. You see a “normal” version of me through a veil that I wear. 

I began to wear this veil as soon as I was forced to interact with the “normal” world. A few weeks after my 4-year-old daughter’s sudden death. It felt awkward and didn’t fit well when I first put the veil on.

But I put it on because of your reactions to my overwhelming grief. They seemingly made my life even harder than it already was. I put it on because I couldn’t handle your looks of pity, your awkward pauses, or sometimes your indifference to my pain.

I wore the veil because I didn’t want to call attention to myself in my darkest hour.

When I had no choice but to go back to work, you saw someone who didn’t smile or interact with you much. But you thought that was to be expected — at least for a little while. From your side of the veil, I appeared to be throwing myself back into work with a passion and concentration you hadn’t seen before. You even commented on how impressed you were with my work ethic.

After avoiding me for a few weeks, you decided it was time to go back to your normal interactions with me. You casually asked how I was and expected the standard, “I’m good, how are you?” Apparently, you wanted me to feel included in the “normal” world again. You started telling me your latest dramas and the juiciest gossip.

From my side of the uncomfortable and ill-fitting veil, I was barely able to hold a thought for more than a few minutes before my mind turned to my daughter, her death, and the nightmare I was living in.

Most of the time, I was desperately trying to hold back the tears that were constantly welling up behind my eyes. This went on day after day and week after week. I used the veil to try to shut you out. All I wanted was to get through each day without bursting into tears and screaming at you all to shut up. I didn’t care about work, your dramas, or gossip.

None of it mattered any more. Nothing mattered anymore. I bit my tongue, painted on a fake smile, and told you I was “fine” for your convenience. And by the way, you’re welcome. I guarantee you would not have liked being around me without my veil on at that time.

Behind my veil it was exhausting to keep up appearances for your side of the veil.

Behind my veil I constantly wished for you to not look in my direction. I wanted to stay invisible and avoid your small talk. When you did engage me, I summoned up all the energy I had to pretend to be normal. To pretend my world was still the way it was before she died.

When I saw you in the supermarket or doctor’s waiting room or my kids’ soccer and baseball games, you saw someone who usually avoided eye contact. But who smiled back at you and said hello if you managed to catch my eye. You saw someone who politely made small talk with you and seemed perfectly personable.

Inevitably, when you saw me with my four boys, you asked the question I dreaded most. “Are you going to try for a girl?” Thoughts raced through my mind of how I should answer. Was it betraying my daughter to pretend she hadn’t existed so I could avoid this torture? Most often I gave my standard response that politely laughed it off. I answered, “No, four kids is enough,” in hopes you would change the subject. If I was in the rare mood to tell you the truth, you heard my brief, but sobering statement that I had a daughter who had died. You said a brief condolence and then politely changed the topic, stopped talking, or said goodbye.

The veil has changed a lot in the years since her death.

I got so used to wearing it that it began to feel comfortable and even normal. Even though it began to feel normal to wear, I never fully embraced it. I looked forward to the times I could take it off and just be myself around you.

As I changed over time, so did your reactions. I learned how to better harness the pain of losing my daughter into learning how to live a more meaningful life. My grief softened and felt less threatening to most of you. I’ve often surrounded myself with those of you who don’t want me to wear a veil. And for all of you I am truly grateful.

These days I don’t wear my veil very often. But I keep it in my back pocket and wear it on days that are particularly hard — often for no apparent reason.

I wear it when I get triggered in public by certain special events, an innocent comment, disturbing image, or the sounds of sirens screaming by. The veil was an invaluable tool when I was early in this journey of grief, but I would love to live to see this society become one that tolerated authentic grief in a way that made the veil altogether unnecessary. Wouldn’t that be something.

 

Distance in Grief

Distance in Grief

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“Time heals all wounds.”

I’m certain you’ve heard that saying. It’s a nice thought. But the truth is not so simple and clean cut as that. It makes me think whoever coined the phrase hadn’t yet suffered the devastating loss of a loved one that both shatters and redefines the world you live in.

Another new year was ushered in this past week. It will be another year that my daughter did not live to see. An unwelcome reminder that she has been gone for more years than she lived to experience. It takes me further away from her. Further from her birth, her short life, and the impossible moment of her death.

It is distance.

Distance is a difficult concept to grasp or explain in the context of grief.

It is both good and bad at the same time. Both painful and liberating. It can both soften your devastation while solidifying the difficult reality of loss.

It can help close the door to the agony of early grief, just as it unearths new aspects of grief that you hadn’t expected. And weren’t altogether ready for.

I am thankful for the distance between where I am now and the horror of the day my daughter drowned.

I no longer fear that if I close my eyes I might be forced to recall and relive the worst day of my life. I’m no longer a complete wreck who can’t manage basic functions in the world around me. I am no longer at the mercy of uncontrollable waves of emotion that might leave me a crying, angry, trembling mess for the majority of the day.

But it isn’t just distance. It is distance combined with hard work. If I had not acknowledged my grief or faced my emotions head on, I might still be trapped in a web of despair concealed by numbness. I might have completely cut myself off from any meaningful interaction with life. Or swallowed my pain and pushed it so deep that it transformed itself into a devastating and debilitating illness.

Time alone does not heal all wounds. Time just gives you more opportunities to work through your pain…or to find new ways to try to hide from it.

Distance has given me perspective. The perspective that the four years I did get to spend with my daughter is much more than those who are denied the opportunity to have children in the first place. Or those who lose children before they even take their first breath. And while I am forever grateful for having more than a few days, weeks, or months with her, distance also makes me envious of those who got to spend more time – even decades – with their children.

Four years worth of memories of my daughter don’t add up to much. I don’t have a treasure trove of stories to tell. The milestones are limited and weren’t cataloged all that well to begin with. After all, I was expecting a lifetime of them. She didn’t have friends, lovers, or children who will remember her in perpetuity. Her brothers were too young to remember most of the time they spent with her.

All those everyday moments I took for granted are eroding away on the treacherous path of distance. Details are being lost to time. My mind tries to fill in the gaps based on pictures or conjecture, but it only serves to make me question the validity of those memories I once felt so sure of.

When memories are all you have left, distance becomes your enemy…and a new form of grief.

I don’t know what distance has in store for me. Each passing day, week, month and year seem to bring new healing and personal growth. For that I am truly grateful. But it is always with an undertow of longing. I suppose it is representative of life itself. With love comes pain. With pain comes understanding. Understanding leads to growth. Personal growth brings wisdom, purpose, and fulfillment.

I suppose if I am forced to live the rest of my life without watching my daughter grow, I will continue to try to grow and thrive in her honor. From that perspective, I can’t wait to see what the future will bring.