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.

The Secret to Healing Grief

The Secret to Healing Grief

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Now, let me begin by saying I am not – by any means – “healed” of my grief from the death of my 4-year-old daughter in 2009.

I’ll probably never be. The day she died, a part of me died too. That loss left a gaping, tormenting hole in my heart and soul. A hole that has mostly stopped bleeding and shrunk a bit over the years, but will remain with me until the day I die.

And yet, in the years since her death, I have managed to learn how to live in the shadow of grief. I’ve even learned to allow joy and happiness back into my life. In fact, I would argue that I have learned how to harness the pain and devastation into fundamentally improving myself.

Over the years, I have started the process of transforming from someone who used to just “survive” life without truly enjoying it. I’m now someone who is learning to thrive in most aspects of living. I am not referring to thriving in a monetary or materialistic way, but in how I open myself up to, interact with, and relate to the world around me.

So what is the secret to healing from grief?

Over the years, I have tried to write about it. I have bared my soul and deepest, darkest feelings and fears. By trying to capture “it,” I hope to let others use it in their own journeys of healing. And yet I’ve never been able to capture its essence in one succinct idea.

That is, until now. I cannot take credit for it. It was during some rare alone time (I am married with four kids). I looked for a show to watch on TV and decided to indulge myself by watching an episode of The Long Island Medium.

I like watching the show because it usually provides me with an opportunity to cry and release the built-up pressure of sadness over my daughter’s death. Feelings that I usually hold at bay during everyday activities.

During the episode, Theresa Caputo surprises a woman in New Orleans with a private reading. The woman had lost her 15-year-old only child, Kamen, in a car accident some years before. Her sister described her as a “shell of her former self”.

In the reading, Theresa is communicating what Kamen wants to convey to his mother. He describes her as constantly going back to the day he died, and – in fact – living her life trapped in that horrible moment of time. She is stuck in the worry and guilt that many bereaved parents face. The idea that their child suffered alone, in devastating pain, and scared in their last moments. It torments us.

Then Theresa – using Kamen’s words – offers the secret to healing our grief in a simple, profound way. Theresa says:

“He said, ‘The way you loved me is the way that you can heal.; All the love, encouragement, and everything you gave your son; if you gave that to yourself, you would be healed.”

And there it is. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Everything I have tried to convey in the past few years encapsulated in one succinct statement.

I have begun to heal, and even thrive. Because for the first time in my life, I am slowly learning to treat myself the way I treat my kids. I am learning how to unconditionally love myself. How to look inward for support and encouragement during even the most difficult days and moments. And I am learning how to transform the darkness of grief into the light of love by looking for the lesson hidden deep within the pain.

I would be lying if I told you that embodying self love and self care is easy. In my experience, it is not.

But I am convinced it is the basic understanding we need to begin to heal our grief. And with knowledge, comes power. The power to choose whether we are at the mercy of our grief, or whether we teach ourselves to not only live with the pain, but use it to reach a deeper, more fulfilling understanding of life itself.

I wish you peace and comfort on your journey.

How to Support Someone Who’s Grieving

How to Support Someone Who’s Grieving

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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.

The Challenges of Raising Children After the Death of a Child

The Challenges of Raising Children After the Death of a Child

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I will never know the unique pain of losing an only child.

But I know all too well that raising my sons after the death of my daughter was full of challenges.

At the time of her death, our family consisted of my husband and me, our three boys from our previous marriages (ages 10, 9, and 7), and our daughter together, Margareta (age 4). Two of her older brothers were home with us on that fateful day. They watched in helpless fear as the chaos of her drowning unfolded. I remember the police trying to distract me as I continued to scream in horror at the sight of paramedics desperately working on her. They kept telling me to comfort my boys instead. How could I? We had moments of hugging and sobbing together. But I would be compelled to go back and watch the resuscitation efforts to see if there was any sign of hope.

I completely abandoned the boys in their greatest time of need.

We all went to the hospital where doctors tried to resuscitate her in the ER. My stepson and his mom joined us. Despite all efforts, our daughter was pronounced dead. Our boys went to stay with their other parents that night. My husband and I were simply unable to function.

The boys did not return for several days. When they did, we were not the parents they needed. We were captives of our devastation. We did the best we could, but in hindsight, they had not only lost their sister. They had lost their parents too.

In the days and months that followed, we tried to make sure they received the external support they needed.

We took them to a grief counselor and worked with their schools to make sure they had regular emotional check-ins. So they wouldn’t be inundated with uncomfortable questions and unwanted attention from classmates, we tried to keep the knowledge of their sister’s death limited to close friends and sports teammates. We signed them up for grief support activities and groups at a local hospice. We bought them journals to write or draw in and encouraged them to talk about their feelings.

Despite all of this, they never wanted to talk to us about her death or their feelings. They didn’t want to return to the grief support groups after those first sessions and turned down offers to go to a grief support camp for kids. They eventually stopped wanting to talk to the school counselor. It was frustrating to say the least. I was horribly concerned for their wellbeing. As a mother, I hated the idea of them holding in all the painful feelings I was sure they had.

I already felt that I had failed my daughter in the worst way possible. Now I felt like I was failing them too.

My various grief support counselors reassured me that their behavior was normal. They explained that younger children are not equipped to deal with such intense feelings. They need to return to a sense of normalcy to feel safe. Counselors explained that it will likely be many years before they begin to fully process their sister’s death. I was advised to just keep an eye on them for signs of major depression or sudden changes in behavior. So I did.

Despite their need to return to “normal,” I was unable to shield them from my overwhelming grief.

Even if I had tried, I wouldn’t have been able to suppress my tears and obvious sadness. Since I couldn’t, I decided I needed to be honest with them. I needed them to know it was normal to feel sad. I wanted them to know that the painful feelings after the death of a loved one isn’t something you sweep under the rug and never talk of again.

With the birth of their baby brother the year after Margareta’s death, I was faced with a new challenge. How do you raise a child in the shadow of the death of a sister he never knew? We knew he was not a “replacement” of his sister, but how would we make sure he knows that? I wondered if my grief would allow me to be the mother he needed. Thankfully, I was.

I think for all of us, he was the catalyst for reintroducing joy into our lives.

That is not to say our painful feelings of grief magically disappeared on his arrival – quite the opposite. But he taught us that intense pain and joy can coexist together. Feelings of pain can be softened by joy, and grief has the effect of making our appreciation of the sweetness and joys of life become that much more meaningful.

Once he became a toddler, new challenges arose. He could recognize Margareta in pictures, but he didn’t understand why he couldn’t play with her. Trips to the cemetery were normal for him. Although he didn’t really know why we were there. He was too young to explain the concept of death in a way that he truly understood.

Years after her death, I asked my older children what was the hardest part of losing their sister. Their answer was unanimous: they didn’t like thinking about it because it was so painful.

They didn’t want to talk to me about it because it would just make me sadder. They aren’t as uncomfortable thinking about it as much these days, but they don’t go out of their way to do so. Thankfully, as they grew older, they felt more comfortable expressing their feelings.

I know the challenges of raising children in the wake of their sister’s death are probably far from over and will change over time. We don’t know what lies ahead, but we know that we will love and support each other along the way.