A Gift for the Bereaved

A Gift for the Bereaved

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The holidays can be a difficult and isolating time for people who are grieving the death of a loved one.

Lonely from the isolation they feel at secretly – or not so secretly – resenting the joy the season brings. Resentful because they are filled with despair so deep that it colors their every thought. The overwhelming pain of missing someone so dear to them leaves them feeling it would have been easier if the world itself had just come to an end when their loved one died.

When you experience a loss so profound that it shakes you to your very core, your outlook on life inevitably changes. Things that once seemed important may tend to appear trivial in the sobering reality of the fragility and unpredictability of life.

In this light, the materialism of Christmas and other gift-giving holidays might seem unimportant to them. Short of bringing their loved one back from the dead, they may not want to receive anything that can be wrapped in a box.

Thinking back to that first holiday season after my 4-year-old daughter’s death, I didn’t want to receive gifts at all. What I craved the most involved no wrapping paper or bows. Many days I didn’t have the energy to venture out of the house or sometimes even to talk. I appreciated the simple act of quiet companionship. Sometimes all I wanted was a loving hug and someone to cry with.

Over the years since my daughter’s death, my grief has evolved and my needs have changed. However, one thing has remained the same: I miss hearing her name.

After the first few weeks and months after Margareta’s death, most people stopped talking about her. It had become too painful for them. It is very isolating to feel the pain of missing someone, constantly think of them, and yet feel as though the rest of the world has forgotten about them.

The best gift family and friends could offer me now is the gift of hearing them say her name out loud without me bringing her up first.

I would love the simple act of hearing them say, “I thought of Margareta today. I really miss her.” It might bring tears to my eyes, but it would bring happiness to my aching heart.

It’s the Most Difficult Time of the Year When You’re Grieving

It’s the Most Difficult Time of the Year When You’re Grieving

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“It’s the most wonderful time of the year.”

It’s a catchy tune and plays on heavy rotation during December. Sparkling lights and decorations adorn many houses and stores. Holiday advertisements, shows, and songs saturate the airwaves. Cards from relatives, friends and vendors arrive day after day in the mail. Party invitations are sure to follow. You can’t help but see the joy and excitement in the faces of children and adults alike.

The problem is, there are a group of people who don’t see this as a season of joy – but one of dread. Dread of the constant reminders and inescapable torture of the pain associated with the loss of a cherished loved one during a time of year almost exclusively focused on celebrating family.

These people often suffer in quiet anguish. They wish they could completely shut out the outside world and all of its overwhelming holiday noise. They begin to resent the relentless happiness and joy. And may even come to hate this time of year.

My husband and I lost our 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, in the fall of 2009. The Halloween and Thanksgiving that quickly followed had been very painful. But the anxiety of the impending first Christmas without her was devastating. How could we possibly celebrate a holiday primarily focused on children when one of our children had just died? While both of us would have preferred to skip Christmas altogether, we still had three other boys who believed in Santa.

In an attempt to try to alleviate some of the pain, we decided to alter our normal routine slightly.

It was an effort to not just go about “business as usual” when there was nothing usual about this Christmas – much less life – anymore. So, instead of buying a regular Christmas tree, we borrowed a friend’s artificial tree. It wasn’t much different than a real one, but at least it was different.

We knew it might be a confusing time for our boys. So we took them to a workshop for bereaved children at a local hospice meant to help them navigate their conflicting feelings during the holidays. They made memorial candles for their sister and ornaments featuring her pictures. Guided by grief counselors, they shared their feelings with other children who had lost parents and grandparents.

Nevertheless, we were faced with the reality that preparing for the fact that Christmas must go on.

Shopping for presents for our boys was pure torture. It was so painful walking past all the beautiful party dresses Margareta would have loved to wear, and seeing all the toys she would have wanted. I constantly fought back tears amid the thick crowd of holiday shoppers.

In the weeks before Christmas, one of our boys wondered aloud whether Santa knew if Margareta had died. I told him yes, Santa knows she died. It was quickly followed by the question, “Will he still bring her presents?” I flat out didn’t know what to say, so I said as much. “I don’t know, but I’m sure Santa will know what to do.”

The truth was I didn’t know. This was all new territory and incredibly painful.

My husband and I discussed whether we should participate in one of those programs where you can fulfill the wish list of a child in need. But it was all so overwhelming, we didn’t do it that year. Instead, we followed a suggestion I had read for people grieving during the holidays. I asked that each of us write a note to her and put it into her stocking. Ultimately deciding that Santa would not leave her stocking empty, I purchased a wind chime I thought she would have liked. That was her only present.

Christmas morning came and the boys rushed to find the presents Santa had left them. They were lost in the magic of excitement while we stood by with smiles painted on our faces. We did find comfort in their joy, but it was hard to watch.

Some hours passed, and we drove to the cemetery to hang up Margareta’s wind chime on a tree near her grave. I have to tell you, there is nothing quite as sobering and heartbreaking as having to visit your 4-year-old child’s grave on Christmas day to deliver their present.

In the years since her death, Christmas and the holiday season has become significantly easier.

After years of difficult grief work, we have once again discovered the joy the season brings. We see it in the faces of our children. We look forward to sharing the excitement of our youngest child – born a year after Margareta’s death. We can truly celebrate the season once again.

Of course that doesn’t mean the pain is gone; just softened.

As I wander through the stores during the holidays now, I face a new kind of pain. Instead of seeing what I know she would have wanted, I’m faced with the reality that I don’t know what she would have wanted. I don’t know what my daughter would have liked at nine-years-old. It is a hard reminder that we didn’t just lose our daughter – we lost our future with her in it.

So, if you find yourself dreading the impending holidays, know that you are not alone. There are plenty of people that understand how you feel.

Also know that as time goes on, it will get easier to handle, and one day you may come to find joy in the season again.

Wishing you peace.

How Can I Be Thankful?

How Can I Be Thankful?

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“How can I possibly be thankful for anything anymore?”

The thought constantly raced through my head in the days before the first Thanksgiving after the death of my 4-year-old daughter, Margareta. My husband and I had managed to skip Halloween completely that year. But the anticipation of the first big family holiday in the aftermath of Margareta’s death was overwhelming.

I discussed the anxiety with my grief counselor. What should I do? Should I accept my brother and sister-in-law’s invitation to Thanksgiving dinner? What if I burst into tears at the Thanksgiving table? Worse yet, what if I developed a full-blown panic attack?

And there was no way I was going to participate in the Thanksgiving tradition of going around the table saying what we were thankful for.

NOTHING! There was nothing I was thankful for. In fact I was the absolute opposite of thankful. My daughter was dead, and never coming back.

My counselor gave me helpful suggestions. I could talk to my brother and sister-in-law and let them know that I preferred a small gathering over a big one. She said I should request that we not say what we were thankful for that year. She also suggested I sit in a chair closest to a door where I could quietly excuse myself and leave if I started to panic or cry. The advice alleviated some of my anxiety.

The first Thanksgiving went rather uneventfully. I managed to get through it unscathed.

In the years since, our family has often opted for non-traditional Thanksgiving venues.

We’ve taken our other children skiing or to amusement parks. In those cases, Thanksgiving dinner was eaten unceremoniously at restaurants. Other times, we’ve participated in smaller traditional Thanksgiving dinners with relatives. We still don’t say what we’re thankful for. More recently, we’re able to have smaller celebrations with family.

I’m much better at dealing with holidays these days. But they’re still painful reminders that for the rest of my life, my daughter will remain missing from all our family events.

The holidays get easier to handle as the years go on. The gaping wound has closed over the years, but the scar of a broken heart will last forever. Intense pain has been replaced by a quiet longing for my daughter. Rather than focusing on the devastating pain of her death, I’ll keep trying to learn to focus on the joy her short life brought us – and for that, I am truly thankful.

Looking for the Silver Lining After the Death of a Child

Looking for the Silver Lining After the Death of a Child

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Recently, several people have made me think about what it really means when we talk about the “silver lining” in relation to the death of a child.

After the death of a child, parents find themselves in the depths of despair and suffocated by overwhelming pain. In desperation, many reach out to find support from others who’ve already been through it. Or they spend countless hours reading articles and stories that show them there is hope. They want to know there is a way out of the worst pain imaginable. But where and how they should start their journey towards healing can become a source of confusion.

At a support group meeting, there was a conversation about our inherent need to assign meaning to a meaningless event. In this case, a mother who lost her teenage son when he was struck by a car. She adamantly said there cannot be any purpose assigned to the loss of a child. Being religious most of her life, she had lost all faith. She was repulsed by the idea that there could be a God who would willingly take the life of a child for some “grand design.”

Another woman was there who lost her son when she was five months pregnant. She had read an article I wrote and said, “I am struggling to find the positive in my son’s death and to grow from this experience. It is still so raw and I’m not sure how to start. I hope that one day I’ll have peace.”

The confusion lies in where we should be looking for purpose and how we define the “positive side” of losing a child.

I think it’s a mistake to look for a “positive side” of a child’s death. The death itself is completely tragic. It’s traumatic, can rip families apart, and causes the worst pain imaginable. If you spend time looking for the positive in that, you’ll be disappointed.

The pain of losing a child lasts forever. How is that positive? What purpose can be found in giving a child life only to have it taken away prematurely? It only serves to underscore the inherent unfairness and randomness of life.

Instead, you can focus your efforts on looking for the positive “silver lining” of what that intense, lasting pain can teach those of us left behind.

You can learn that you are stronger than you ever thought possible. The pain may teach you to focus your energy into cultivating what you’ve discovered matters most to you now. You can stop following society’s preconceived – and often detrimental – ideas of how to achieve success and happiness. Purpose and meaning can be found in how you choose to live your life and best utilize your talents. All while you remain in the permanent shadow of that dark cloud that is your child’s death.

Another way to look at it is to contemplate what a “silver lining” really is. The image that always comes to mind is a dark storm cloud that is seemingly outlined by a bright, shining light. This visual image has been translated to mean that for every bad situation – or dark cloud – there is something positive that can come of it. Such as the calm and light after a storm. But what actually causes the silver lining on a dark cloud?

The “silver lining” is not the cloud itself, but the source of light behind the cloud.

A child’s death is the darkest cloud that is filled with pain and suffering. It initially blocks our view of anything positive or hopeful in our lives. But over time, we may be able to step back into another perspective and catch a glimpse of the source of light we once basked in. The cloud will never go away, but when we are able to remember that there is light – in other words, love – that came first and will always be there, the pain of the cloud does not seem so overwhelming. The cloud of death can give us a deeper appreciation of the light of life and love.

So if you feel stuck or lost, the goal of healing is to not get rid of the dark cloud (your child or loved one died, and nothing can change ever that), but instead to learn to recognize that there will always be light and love that you can find once again as you work through the pain of loss.

Grieving Without God After the Death of a Child

Grieving Without God After the Death of a Child

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I’ve never been religious. I wasn’t raised in a religious household, and even from a young age I saw too much of the dark side that religion can breed. I saw religious intolerance, discrimination, oppression, and even hatred and violence. All of this made me never want to belong to any religion.

But when my young daughter drowned, I was convinced the pain of her death would have been significantly easier had I been religious.

If I had the unwavering faith there was an afterlife, would I feel comforted? If I fully believed in heaven, then I’d be sure my daughter and I would be together again someday. Armed with that knowledge, I assumed the unbearable pain would disappear – or at least lessen significantly.

I recalled all the times I’d seen religious people appear “back to normal” soon after the death of a loved one. They appeared secure in their belief that the deaths were part of God’s “Grand Plan” and their loved ones were resting in heavenly peace.

Many of the condolence messages we received in the wake of Margareta’s death had religious overtones. They were filled with scripture passages and reassurances that she was in a better place and safe with God.

The condolence messages mostly tried to reassure us that God had a plan, and that we should find comfort in this.

To be honest, I began to resent these letters. I was well-aware the people who sent them meant well, but I found it very insensitive to just assume these words would bring us any comfort.

If anything, it made me think they didn’t really know us at all. The letters appeared to be more for the sender’s benefit (to help make sense of the death of a young child) than ours.

In my grief, I began to meet more and more bereaved parents who had lost their religious faith in the wake of their child’s death.

They rejected the notion that their God would have seemingly “chosen” that their child should die, while sparing others. They spoke of the unfairness of it all and had turned their back in anger and even feelings of betrayal. I began to realize that unwavering faith isn’t as strong as I thought if pushed to certain extremes – like losing a child.

Yet even seeing their disillusionment, I was still compelled to search for answers to whether there was some kind of life after this one. Was there some “Grand Plan” that would make sense of her death; to give it some meaning?

The idea that she died for no other reason than we lost sight of her for too many minutes was heart-wrenching. It filled me with unbearable guilt.

I poured over books that described near death experiences and visions of an afterlife. Some books said we live many lifetimes with the purpose of learning different lessons in each. I even got a psychic reading that reinforced this notion of reincarnation.

While I wanted very much to believe in these ideas, I remained unsure. I just couldn’t make that “leap of faith” that it was a certain truth. So I continued down the difficult path of healing my grief not knowing what I should believe.

Looking back, I am actually grateful for my uncertainty and lack of religion. It gave me no other choice than to look inward to find strength and resilience I never believed was there.

This discovery gave me the determination to overcome life-long limiting beliefs. Beliefs that kept me from following my dreams and living a life filled with purpose and meaning. Looking inward taught me the true meaning of kindness, compassion, and empathy. It has improved my relationship with those I love. And has taught me to take better care of myself and my needs.

The catalyst for all of this personal growth was the death of my daughter. It forced me to face my deepest, darkest fears that I had avoided my whole life. I have since learned many profound lessons in the passing years.

So was my daughter’s death all part of some “Grand Plan” after all?

Maybe. Maybe not. Since I can’t know the answer to that question as long as I’m alive, I find more comfort in accepting the fact that I don’t know. I don’t want to ask if there is a God or not. I no longer want to find out the “truth” of whether there is an afterlife.

Letting go of those questions has allowed me to release the anxiety that comes with them.

It allows me to focus on making the best of each and every day here and now. I’m encouraged to nurture my relationships with my family and friends who are still with me. All while acknowledging that I will think of and miss my daughter every day for the rest of my life.

The fact is I would love nothing more than knowing I’ll be with my daughter again someday in a life after this one. But I’m learning to be content knowing that with every thought of her and every lovely memory, she is and always will be with me during this lifetime.