Overcoming the Fear of Death

Overcoming the Fear of Death

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For most of my life, I feared death.

As a child, I would end up in a state of panic if I thought about what happens when we die. So, I would go to great lengths to distract myself from thinking about it. I’ve had many nightmares throughout my life where I face certain death.

The most common, recurring nightmare was being trapped in a car that was plummeting off a cliff toward the ocean below. I would wake up seconds before the car impacted the water with my heart pounding.

Religion has never been a part of my life, and never will. I don’t believe the idea of heaven and hell from any religious perspective.

In my mind, there were only two plausible ideas of what happens to us after death. The first was the idea of reincarnation. The second was that we just die and our body becomes part of the earth.

Neither one sounded comforting or appealing to my childhood logic. If I was reincarnated, I would be an entirely different person and have no memories of this current lifetime. If death equaled nothingness, it amounts to the same thing. The idea that my life, my identity, and my memories would all be “erased” turned death into the ultimate fear for me. So I taught myself to not think about my own death whenever possible.

In 2009, I experienced something far worse than my ultimate fear. Not my own impending death, but the death of someone whose life was more important than my own: my child.

In the early days and months after my daughter’s death, I once again grappled with what death meant. I was forced to face the dreaded question of what happens to us after we die. After reading many books and talking with others, I found no real answers or concrete evidence. The absolute reassurance I was looking for was unattainable. All I knew was that I desperately wanted her to still be with me.

In some moments, I actually wanted to die. Because if there was even the slightest chance of some sort of afterlife, it would mean I could be with her again. Not to mention, it seemed the only form of escape from the oppressive pain I felt. Of course, I knew the pain of my own death would cause my family even more anguish. So I never came close to doing anything to cause my own death.

During my overwhelming grief, I began to notice what seemed like signs from my daughter.

They started off as fascinating coincidences. But the more I noticed them, the more they felt like someone was trying to tell me something. Some signs involved dragonflies or ladybugs. But mostly I started seeing repeating numbers or number patterns each day, multiple times a day. None of this had ever happened before her death.

I only told a few select people about these apparent signs. Some brushed it off as my mind wanting to assign meaning to things that had none. But others wholeheartedly accepted the idea that they were indeed signs from my daughter. Yet, as hopeful as I was that these signs were from my daughter, I was still skeptical on some level.

After years of receiving continual signs, I am convinced that they are my daughter’s way of reassuring me that she is always with me.

I now believe our consciousness continues to exist after our death. I don’t know how or “where.” But I am no longer afraid of death.

Once my fear of death was alleviated, an interesting thing happened. I’ve since had several dreams of plummeting in a car towards the ocean as I did growing up. But they had changed. I’m still falling towards the water in fear, but I no longer woke up in a panic just before hitting the water.

Instead, I dreamt I went into the water. And instead of struggling for breath, I surrendered to the situation and relaxed. In doing so, I didn’t feel pain or panic. Instead, I felt completely at peace.

I think that must be what death is like: a state of complete and absolute peace.

Just Let Me Be Sad

Just Let Me Be Sad

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We live in a world where – if you have the means – pain and suffering are to be avoided at all costs. People are always looking for the next “quick fix” to alleviate discomfort. Preferably with the least amount of effort required. In many cases, this means treating the symptoms while ignoring the root cause of the problem.

Our society is so uncomfortable with emotional pain that when someone dies, the outward mourning period is expected to end once the funeral is over.

When the bereaved do not cooperate with these prescribed time tables, they are often accused of “wallowing” in their grief. They are indignantly told to “move on” and “get over it.”

But is prolonged outward grief is a sign of weakness? Or maybe self-pity? Do they think the bereaved secretly enjoy the pain and the attention it brings? For those of us who have lost someone dear to us, we know none of this could not be further from the truth. If we could, we would give ANYTHING to not feel this pain.

The problem is our outward projection of sadness is an unwelcome reminder.

It represents all the negative emotions they’ve managed to stuff deep inside until the pain is suppressed. 

So which is healthier? Suppressing grief, only to have it lie dormant until some tragedy unearths it again – but this time stronger and more painful? Or to acknowledge there is no quick fix to alleviate the overwhelming pain of losing someone you have built your life – and in some cases, your identity – around?

Suppressing grief is like following the latest fad diet.

Everyone wants to lose weight quickly without exercising or changing  eating habits. Maybe you’ll pop some appetite suppressing pills and lose weight in the short term. But the chances of you keeping the weight off are slim. The reality is that the next time you try to lose weight, it will likely be harder than the time before.

The alternative means facing the harsh reality that transforming your body to a stable, healthy weight is challenging. It requires permanently changing your eating habits and amount of regular exercise. You likely need to readjust your expectations of what your ideal body should look like. Sadly, most of us will never look like supermodels or pro athletes. In other words, the second option is HARD WORK, but it has the greatest likelihood of becoming a permanent reality.

But if I’m being honest here, I have to admit that given the opportunity, I would have gladly chosen to bury the overwhelming pain when my daughter died. Suppressing pain and emotions is what I had done my whole life until that point.

The fact is the pain of losing someone I loved MORE than my own life was too much to bury.

I reluctantly – and resentfully – took on more pain than I could bear. I did so because I had no other choice.

For the first time in my life, I learned how to slowly take small steps with that unbearable load on my back. In support groups and counseling, I learned sharing my story and my pain reduced the load. Even if it was only a very slight amount each time.  

By reducing the load over months and then years, it became easier to carry. I have since come to understand that the load will never fully go away, but I have learned how to balance it with the rest of my life. And as time goes on, the balance will become easier still.

That is not to say that occasionally, the load won’t suddenly feel nearly as heavy as it did when my grief was new. And when it does, I’ll remember how to go back to taking small, careful steps until it feels lighter again.

To all those who cringe in discomfort when they see me experiencing outward emotional pain, I say this: just let me be sad.

My intention is not to make you feel uncomfortable. I don’t expect – or want – you to follow in my footsteps. But I do expect you to respect the path I have been forced to take on my journey through life. I truly hope you never have to carry this load yourself.

The Isolation of Grief

The Isolation of Grief

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Now, I’ve never been a stranger to isolation. The kind that comes from feeling like you just don’t fit into your surroundings. But I’ve never felt as isolated as I did after the death of my daughter.

As a child, I was a shy, introverted person who felt different than the people around me. At the time, I never really knew why. I didn’t like the feeling of isolation, but I didn’t understand what caused it. So it just became a fact of life.

My shyness lessened over time, but remains a fundamental part of my personality. I’ve learned how to handle and enjoy various social situations. But I still prefer interacting with small groups or one-on-one conversations.

After my daughter died, my sense of isolation grew exponentially as a result of grief.

In the immediate aftermath of her sudden death, our house was filled with family and friends. They showed support by helping us do what had to be done. Things like planning the memorial and visiting the cemetery to secure a plot. Some helped work with our insurance company or write an obituary. Family and friends prepared meals, made sure we were left alone when we needed our space, gave us hugs, and shed tears with us.

The phone rang often. I found myself doing most of the talking when the other end of the phone was uncomfortably silent. People struggled to find the right words to say. Even in my numbness, I was able to understand the dilemma of “I’m sorry” doesn’t seem to be enough when someone has just lost a four-year-old little girl.

A few days after the memorial service, everyone went home. Less sympathy cards arrived in the mail until there were none. The phone stopped ringing. Our daughter’s preschool arranged a weekly meal donation and then my work did the same. The meals were a huge help, but eventually those stopped coming too.

We were left alone to figure out how to pick up the pieces of our shattered hearts and shattered lives. To find help, we went to counseling and support groups. But we were forced to accept the fact that life was going to keep moving forward without our precious girl in it. It was devastating.

That devastation led me to a self-imposed isolation from a world I could no longer stand to be a part of.

I didn’t want to talk to people who couldn’t understand my pain because I didn’t have the energy to explain myself. The sound of laughter or gossip produced outright anger in me. Everyday acts of going to work, chores, grocery shopping, or even something as simple as showering were agonizingly painful and almost impossible.

I wanted nothing to do with any of it. I found myself not answering the phone and not returning messages. When friends who weren’t sure how to help me invited me over, I politely turned them down.

I managed to make sure that I fed my surviving kids and took them to school and practices. But I was no longer the mom they were used to. They stopped wanting to talk to me about how they felt because they thought it would make me even sadder. My kids were frightened that not only did they lose their sister, there was a potential that they were losing the mom they thought they knew.

Over that first year after her death, the suffocating pain began to lessen. Though not by as much as I would have hoped. Everyday tasks didn’t seem so impossible anymore. I began to adjust to the “new normal” any grieving person must accept.

After a while, the isolation of grief began to change.

While I started answering the phone and accepting some of those invitations, I felt isolated in a different sense. I continued to think of my daughter and experience the pain constantly, but very few people talked about my grief or even mentioned her name any more. Even surrounded by friends, I felt completely alone.

Support groups and counseling helped. So did reaching out to other parents who had lost children. At that time, I preferred their company over others. I found myself part of the secret society of grieving parents who mostly keep their grief to themselves. They only tend to share their grief with those who are faced with the same loss and pain. I found that sharing my feelings with these people helped me immensely.

With the passage of time, I’m learning how to balance becoming fully reinvested in life while respecting my continuing needs for grief support.

I still look forward to support groups and talking with other bereaved people. But I also appreciate that when I allow myself to enjoy and appreciate everyday life, joy will come even without my daughter being physically here.

I still long for her to be at my side and to experience the wonder of watching her grow. But I know that she will always be with me in spirit. She is forever in my heart, my memories, and my thoughts. And these days, I don’t mind sharing that with anyone who cares to get to know me.

Learning How to Smile Again

Learning How to Smile Again

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When my daughter died, the pain was overwhelming. The belief I could ever feel any ounce of happiness again felt ridiculous.

In those early days of grief, the mere idea of being happy didn’t just feel impossible, it felt wrong.

One evening during the first year after her death, my husband insisted I sit down with him and our boys to watch a funny TV show we’d watched for years. My husband knew that after their sister’s death, our boys needed life to return to as “normal” as possible in order for them to cope and feel safe. That didn’t just mean regular daily routines – it meant a return to the personal interactions with us they were used to.

Begrudgingly, I sat down to watch the show. During the show, something was so funny that for the first time since her death, I actually felt the urge to laugh. Instead of laughing, I bit the inside of my cheeks to force myself NOT to smile.

The idea that I could ever be happy again felt like a betrayal of my daughter.

The logic (or lack thereof) was this: if I allowed myself to be happy, it would mean that I was okay with the fact that she had died. Looking back, the self-imposed state of misery served several purposes.

First, it was a matter of basic survival. The pain of losing a child is so overwhelming and intolerable. Many people say they feel numb early on. I think it’s similar to the body’s natural defense mechanism of passing out while experiencing severe physical pain. When my initial numbness started to wear off about three months after her death, I tried to maintain it by suppressing my emotions. Since I couldn’t pick and choose, that meant trying to suppress ALL emotions, not just the pain and guilt. In reality, this misguided effort only suppressed everything BUT the pain and guilt.

Second, when my daughter died, life as I knew it ended. I was living in a world that suddenly felt alien and intolerable. Not only did I feel like I could never be happy again, I felt outright angry that people around me were happy. To smile, laugh, and have fun again felt like it would mean that there was no longer the possibility that I would wake up from this nightmare I was in. It would mean that I would have to accept that she really did die and life really did go on without her. But I couldn’t “move on”.

In a convoluted way, the pain had become the biggest connection I had to my daughter.

I could no longer see her, touch her, hold her, or hear her sweet voice. Family and friends stopped talking about her because it had become too painful for them. The pain of missing her was what kept her present in my thoughts almost every minute of my waking hours. It’s what I talked about at the support groups I went to. Talking about her was painful because she was no longer here, but it meant I was still talking about her. I was acknowledging the continuing importance of her place in my life and in my heart.

Before my daughter died, I’d heard the old adage that those who’ve died wouldn’t want to see us living in sorrow and misery. I didn’t fully understand or appreciate what that meant until I was faced with it myself. Sorrow and pain will come no matter what. However, we often allow ourselves to get stuck in those emotions when it feels like they’re the only connection we still have to our loved one.

Over time, the notion of happiness as a betrayal of my daughter faded.

At some point, I gave myself permission to smile and to be happy again. I don’t think there was any specific moment I can pinpoint. Instead, it was a slow realization that life was going to go on without her physically here whether I liked it or not. It helped that I still had four other children – one born after she died. The joy and happiness that they bring into my life is undeniable.

The pain of losing my daughter has not gone away, but it does not occupy as much room as it once did. I chose to allow myself to smile and be happy again. And I chose to focus less on her death and more on the happy memories of my daughter’s life. I choose love and happiness, and can’t think of a better way to honor her memory.