Forever Four?

Forever Four?

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Next week will mark the day my daughter would have turned nine years old.

She died almost five years ago. But as a mother, I feel the responsibility to always remember how many years it has been since she was born. Just as I know the ages of my other children. I don’t want to have to fumble for the number and do the math in my head. I just want to know it, just as I know the ages of my sons whenever someone asks how old they are.

But, of course, she’s not nine years old. She only lived for four years.

So which is it? Is she forever four? Or was she four when she died and “would have been” nine now?

Whatever the answer, it serves as a painful reminder that I’ve lost the joy of seeing my daughter grow. I’m trapped in a world where I’ll always be wondering what she would have looked like? What would she have been interested in? What sports would she have played? Or would she have hated sports and preferred some artistic pursuit instead? The questions are endless.

Having all boys at home, I have no points of reference for what might have been. I have no close friends with daughters who are nine that I can hang out with and longingly see how they act or what music they’re into or what clothes they wear. 

I get glimpses of girls her “would have been” age every now and again, but they are sparse and intermittent at best.

I’m quite sure I’d be sick of the Frozen soundtrack by now, which most likely would have been on heavy rotation in our house. She would have had her own funky sense of style, and drawers and closets overflowing with a variety of clothes based on her love of them in the four years she lived. I’m quite sure she’d still be driving her brothers nuts, yet endearing herself to them at the same time.

But that’s just it – it is the underlying pain of not knowing.

No matter how far I’ve come in my journey of grief, I will always be left longing for the future I’ll never get; a future that contains all my children. So I’m left with a future that contains five children. Four of whom I’ll get to watch grow and mature, and one who will be four when she died and would have been…

The Terms of My Surrender

The Terms of My Surrender

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From the moment you came into my life, I hated you. I despised you. You came on the heels of my worst nightmare come true – the death of my young daughter.

I didn’t know your name at the time. I just knew that you brought with you all the horrible feelings and emotions I had spent a lifetime learning how to repress and ignore.

You broke my defenses down like they were candles trying to stay lit in a hurricane. You pounded me with pain, panic, anger, confusion, hysterics, anguish. And too many more to list.

Mostly you came in waves. Pounding one emotion down on me after another, but in such quick succession it was hard to even breathe or stand. Sometimes the feelings and emotions came in combinations, leaving me a shaking, sobbing, angry mess.

Soon, people around me who knew better told me that you had a name. Your name was Grief.

When I realized who you were and how you operated, I decided to wage war on you. I felt I couldn’t possibly continue the barrage of emotions that constantly debilitated me, so I became determined to stop you in your tracks and send you back to the depths of darkness you came from.

In the early weeks and months, my first defense against you was to “play dead” like an opossum being hunted by predators. My mind became numb to dull your overwhelming pain. I felt as though I had become an automated machine going through the motions of life without really experiencing it. The sensation felt like when you stare at the open road in front of you on a long, boring drive and then can’t remember how you got from one place to another. But over time, you found ways to defeat my numbness.

I then tried distracting myself with work; burying myself with so much busyness you couldn’t force your way in. But you were always there lurking in the shadows waiting for your moment to strike. Most often you would pounce when someone broke me out of my busy stupor by innocently asking, “How are you?” At that moment, my concentration broke and you flooded into every crevice of my body. Enraged, I thought to myself, “Do you REALLY want to know how I am?” But I’d bite my tongue and flatly answer, “Fine,” while you surged your pain through my body.

Having lost these battles, I began scanning over countless books and articles to try to discover your tactics and secret weapons so that I could plot my next moves.

I attended therapy and support groups to learn from the experts and others who had survived you so that I could gleam their winning strategies and use them for myself in defeating you. It didn’t do much good. I found myself withdrawing from everything and everyone around me to try to isolate myself from you and all your triggers. It only served to strengthen your resolve.

Occasionally, I won small victories. Talking about you and your oppressiveness to others seemed to send you away momentarily. But in the quiet moments, you always reappeared. Writing about you made me feel as though I had the upper hand, but the glow of victory soon faded after the last word had been written. Exercising seemed to alleviate your oppression, but in retaliation, you often cranked up your attacks to leave me too exhausted – physically and mentally – to find the motivation to work out. Spending time in nature often gave me a sense of peace and inner strength that softened you some, but could never defeat you altogether.

I spent years fighting you until I finally accepted this fact: I cannot beat you. I cannot make you go away.

In fact, the more I fight you, the stronger your feelings and emotions take over me. I’ve found that you feed on fear and anger. I’ve discovered you thrive and grow from any attempts to control or resist you.

So, if I can’t win, I officially wave my white flag and surrender. But I do so on my terms:

I Will No Longer Fear You

Despite the few times when I thought the only escape from you was to end my own life, I am still here; still standing. I have survived every painful emotion; every panic attack; every uncontrollable rage; every bout of severe depression. I am stronger than I ever thought possible, and will no longer fear your attacks. While I know some will still come out of nowhere, take my breath away and bring me to my knees, I will stay calm and know that your attack will eventually subside. I will ride the wave and let it take me where it will, knowing that eventually I will find my way home.

I Will Support Your Other Victims

Much like others supported me in my time of need; I will reach out a supportive hand to anyone who is within your grasp. I will listen quietly to their story as many times as they need to tell it. I will share my experience with those who seek it in hopes it will bring them a sense of understanding and community.

I Will Learn From You

Since you can be a destructive force to those who resist you, I will instead pull you closer and look to you as my ultimate teacher. For I have learned that deep within your pain and suffering lie kernels of truth and knowledge on how to live a meaningful life: a life without fear; a life filled with love and compassion. As you were created by losing a cherished loved one, you have love at your core. I will learn how to find the love at the center of every pain. I will learn to find the truth at the center of every fear. And when I learn these truths, I will share my knowledge with the world.

These are the terms of my surrender, and I know you have no choice but to accept them.

What It’s Like to Lose A Child (The Journey of Bereaved Parents)

What It’s Like to Lose A Child (The Journey of Bereaved Parents)

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From the moment we found out you were coming into our lives, we felt electric: a mix of excitement, adrenaline, and a dose of fear for good measure. We dutifully began plotting the course of our lives together – starting with milestones like Kindergarten, puberty, graduation, career, wedding, and grandchildren. Then we began making our maps more detailed with our hopes and dreams for you. We prepared as well as we could for your arrival.

On the day you came into our lives, we held out our loving arms and said softly, “Welcome. We’ve been waiting for you.”

We stared into the vast universe reflected deep within your eyes with awe and wonder. You were a part of us; an extension of our very being. As you stared back into our eyes, a feeling of intense love for you took root in every cell of our body. This was true, unconditional love with no boundaries and no end.

Our lives were more meaningful with you in it. You gave us a greater sense of purpose and a profound sense of responsibility. Your life was ours to protect; ours to mold and guide. We needed to teach you all that we knew; try to help you avoid making the same mistakes we had made and afford you every opportunity to make your unique mark on this world. We wanted to make sure your life would become better than our own.

In return, all we asked from you was your continued unconditional love, because it felt wonderful. Better than anything else in this life of ours.

We did the best we could as parents, but weren’t perfect. There were plenty of mistakes intermixed with successes. We got off course of our map here and there and had to identify some new routes, but the destination was always the same: we would take care of you until one day you would take care of us.

At that point we would say goodbye and leave you to be on your own. By then you would have a family and be following your own map. We’d leave happy in the knowledge that we made the world a better place by bringing you into it.

But then the impossible happened. You died before we did.

On the day you died, our hearts shattered into a million pieces, as did the world around us. We were left in a dark, unfamiliar place where pain filled every cell of our body where your love once lived.

The air around us was now hard to breathe. Gravity was stronger than before, and the simple act of sitting or standing used up all of our strength and energy. Our map had disintegrated and we were hopelessly, utterly lost in the darkness of horror and misery.

Amid the darkness, familiar hands grabbed ours. Voices of family and friends guided us as we fumbled about in this strange new world, not knowing what to do. These family and friends all gathered around us to ceremoniously say goodbye to you.

And yet we couldn’t. The words never made it to our mouths. We were sure this was all a mistake – a nightmare that we would wake up from and find you standing over us smiling and laughing. We cried out for you, but got no answer in return.

As our family and friends left us to be on our own without you, the familiar world we once knew began to reappear around us.

And yet it was very different than before. We could interact with it, but we couldn’t touch this world because we were trapped in a bubble of despair. Most people couldn’t see our bubble. To them, it looked as if we were the same person we were before you died – maybe sadder, but basically the same. They expected us to quickly go back to our old routines and be our “old selves”. But they couldn’t see our bubble, and that we had fundamentally changed.

Inside that bubble, everything felt overwhelming. Our reactions to common sights and sounds were different than before. Laughter and joy made us angry and sick to our stomach. We were filled with resentment that the world itself hadn’t ceased to exist when you died.

Happiness was now out of reach, and we felt as though we’d never get it back. Some of us didn’t want it back if you weren’t there to share it with us. Even when we were surrounded by people outside our bubble, we felt hopelessly alone and misunderstood.

We became excellent actors worthy of an Oscar. We learned to pretend we were better and back to “normal” for the benefit of those around us. “Fine” is how we mostly answered the question of, “How are you?” We looked desperately around us for people who actually wanted to hear the truth. We were not fine.

When you left us, you took a part of us, and the void it left still ached with a pain so unbearable, we couldn’t find adequate words to describe it.

A few people could see our bubbles; most of them lived in bubbles themselves. Unlike the majority of people in the world around us, these people had the ability to reach inside our bubble and embrace us with understanding. We didn’t have to pretend to be okay around them. We could break down and cry as loud and long as we needed to without worrying about making them uncomfortable. We found a sense of community that we had lost when you died.

But none of this made the pain go away.

Over time, small cracks began to develop in our bubbles. These cracks let more light into our dim world. The air that came inside was easier to breathe. The gravity lightened a bit.

It still hurt to be alive in a world without you, but we began to learn how to adjust to it so that it wasn’t as debilitating as before.

Many of us learned to pry open the cracks in our bubbles a bit more to let in even more light and air. This changed the chemistry of the atmosphere inside our bubble from that of despair to a mix of memories and longing for you. We learned how to feel happiness and joy once again, even though it never made the pain deep within us subside. We began to learn how to better function in the world around us while still in the confines of our bubbles.

Our bubbles never fully go away. They change over time and may shrink considerably, but the pain will never leave us. This is because the pain was created by – and coexists with – your love that took root in every cell of our body when we stared into your eyes that very first time. And sometimes, we can momentarily release the feeling of pain by focusing our attention on you and the love you gave us that still lives in our bodies. You remain with us and a part of us.

The fact is we would have died for you. We would have gladly given up our own lives in a heartbeat if it meant you could have continued living. But no one has ever learned how to go back in time to make that sacrifice.

So we are left to live and breathe in a world without you. We have to create a new map that takes us into uncharted territory. We do this in your honor, and in honor of our family and friends that remain by our side.

We will continue down this new path until we take our own last breaths. And when we leave this world and head into the unknown, we hope to see you there with open, loving arms and hear you say softly, “Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you.”

©Maria Kubitz 2014

Forgiveness in Grief

Forgiveness in Grief

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While visiting my 95-year old grandmother, she said she’d been having more and more thoughts about troubling times earlier in life. In her words, she did things that “were not very nice.” The example she gave was when, as a frustrated young mother, she spanked my father out of anger during potty training that wasn’t going smoothly. Recalling the memory brought her to tears.

My father was coming to stay with her in a few days. So I suggested she apologize to him. In doing so, she could get it off her chest and give him the opportunity to forgive her. It would hopefully allow her to let the bad memory and associated guilt go.

But how can someone let go of guilt when the person they’ve hurt is no longer here to apologize to?

The finality of death is a difficult reality to come to terms with. It often comes suddenly and without warning. Many times there are no opportunities to say our goodbyes. And we lose the chance to heal all our old wounds with that person.

Sometimes we lose someone we love (or once loved) who we’ve had a difficult relationship with, or are estranged from. We are left with the guilt that we didn’t do enough to “fix” the relationship when we had the chance. Guilt may also be intermixed with anger. Especially if we felt we were the ones who need an apology from them – which we’ll never receive.

Even when we lose someone we had a wonderful relationship with, we may feel guilty that we didn’t do or say everything we should have.

In my case, the guilt is that I didn’t do enough to prevent my 4-year-old daughter’s drowning death. I have apologized to her more times than I can count. But without her here to say the words, “I forgive you Mama,” the apology is never enough. At least not enough to let go of the lingering guilt and shame.

So what do we do? Do we just live with guilt for the rest of our lives?

Do we just accept it as something we can’t change? Or do we try to shift our thinking, and change who it is we are apologizing to? Can we instead apologize to someone who is actually here to say, “I forgive you”?

The fact is, even if the person we lost were still here to accept our apology, we still need to forgive ourselves for the feelings of guilt to go away. In the case of my grandmother, even though my father accepts the apology, she still needs to forgive herself for a mistake she made almost 70 years ago in order to let the painful feeling go. The hope is that forgiveness from my dad will give her a sense of permission to forgive herself.

So rather than asking for forgiveness from the person we’ve lost – who we’ll never get a response from – we should be asking ourselves for forgiveness instead.

In my case, I need to come to terms with the fact that I am only human and make mistakes. Whether or not different choices or actions would have somehow kept my daughter alive…I’ll never know. I need to accept that my mistakes do not define me. Instead, I can use them as an opportunity to learn better decision-making skills and responses moving forward.

I am a work-in-progress, and will be for the rest of my life. Rather than asking my daughter for forgiveness, I need to ask it of myself. Will it be easy? No. But it will be the only way I will ever have a chance at letting go of my guilt and the shame associated with it.

My hope for my grandmother, myself, and everyone else who suffers the painful burden of guilt is that somehow we will find the strength to forgive our past mistakes and focus instead on how we can use the knowledge we’ve learned the hard way to make the best of the present.

When Death Isn’t Fair

When Death Isn’t Fair

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I read about a little 3-year-old girl who was killed when a heavy security door fell on her during a crowded fundraiser at an ice cream shop. It can only be described as a freak, tragic accident. Her devastated family is left to wonder “why?” Why her? Why did she have to be in that exact spot in the moment when the door fell? And why did the door fall at all? These questions may torment them for a long time to come.

Her death is a palpable reminder that much of the time, death is very unfair.

“It isn’t fair.” This is a common refrain in many grief support group meetings. Most often, they are referring to a situation where their loved one died at the hands of someone else. For example, they were hit by a drunk driver, and the person at fault came out of it with barely a scratch.

In fact, fairness is in the eye of the beholder. And many bereaved people find themselves angry at the unfairness of the circumstances of their loved one’s death. 

I understand their pain.

Why did their mother get cancer at the young age of 45, when she had gone to great lengths to take good care of her health? Meanwhile, others seem to indulge in many vices for years on end and live well into their 90s.

Why did their brother get thrown out of the car and die when everyone else survived the crash with only cuts or broken bones?

And why was their baby stillborn after an otherwise healthy full-term pregnancy, while we hear countless stories of babies born many weeks premature who survive?

The fact is we consider death to be unfair whenever someone dies before we think it’s their time.

Try as you might, you cannot explain the unfairness away. No one who is bereaved wants to hear, “It was part of God’s plan; we are not meant to understand.” Well it wasn’t part of our plan, and it hurts like hell.

“They were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” is not only unhelpful, but some may argue insensitive. Chances are they were in the place they were supposed to be, going about their day just like the rest of us. But unlike the rest of us, the unthinkable happened. Many times death is random, unpredictable, and it isn’t fair.

Agonizing over why they died can become an insidious trap that many bereaved get stuck in.

It keeps us up at night. Some of us become a shadow of the person we once were. Continually asking why can freeze us in a state of despair or anger – or both.

Unfortunately, there is no secret cure that can be conveyed in words. We are all unique, and so is our grief. We all need to process it at our own pace and in our own way. For some it may take months; for others it may take years. And some may never stop asking why their loved one died.

For me, it came down to accepting the finality of my daughter’s death.

At 4-years-old, she drowned in our pool when no one was looking. While I knew how she died, I grappled with those questions of why.

Why did the circumstances of the day unfold as they did? What if any one of those actions or choices were different; would it have changed the outcome? Why did it have to happen to us – a loving, supportive family who took good care of each other? Was there some bigger reason that I wasn’t aware of?

The questions of “why” haunted me and took up all my energy. I read many books to try to find the answers. I asked those questions over and over during my grief counseling knowing full well there was no answer my therapist could give. But at least I said them out loud. My questions were echoed by others in the support group meetings I attended. It made me feel understood and not alone in my anguish.

Eventually, I came to the understanding that continuing to ask the questions just kept feeding the dark beast that is guilt and despair. I realized that even if I had the answers, my daughter would still be dead and the pain would remain.

So, I made the choice to stop asking why. I decided to replace it with purpose.

My daughter had died and I couldn’t change it – so what was I going to do to honor her life and memory?

I’ve heard of many wonderful ways people channel their pain into ways to honor their loved one’s memory. Others have created large foundations in their loved one’s name to help others. Still others perform small acts of kindness for strangers in honor of their loved one. I’ve heard of everything in between. In my case, I decided to create www.aliveinmemory.org to write about my grief to try to help others in theirs.

No matter what the act or activity, focusing your efforts on finding a way to honor your loved one can provide meaning for a death that appeared to have none. It can help shift our focus from despair to love; from anger to acceptance. And while it will never change the fact that their death was unfair, it can help us begin to heal.