You’re Not Alone In Your Grief

You’re Not Alone In Your Grief

by

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”

by

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.

 

The Terms of My Surrender

The Terms of My Surrender

by

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)

by

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

When Death Isn’t Fair

When Death Isn’t Fair

by

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.

How to Support Someone Who’s Grieving

How to Support Someone Who’s Grieving

by

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.