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.

The Fear of Forgetting a Loved One

The Fear of Forgetting a Loved One

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My daughter died just after turning four years old. One of my biggest fears has been that she will be forgotten. But what does that fear actually mean? What exactly am I really scared of? And how do I combat the fear?

The idea that she will be forgotten is actually two separate fears.

The first fear is that friends and even family will stop thinking of her and, in essence, “forget her”.

In reality, this is the natural course of life. I have beloved relatives and dear friends who have passed and yet I rarely think of them. Does it mean they didn’t exist or have any less impact on my life? No. Nor does it mean I love them any less. What it does represent is that life goes on and current matters occupy our minds.

When family and friends stopped talking about my daughter it felt like they no longer thought of her. And though it’s been years since she died, my daily thoughts are still filled with memories and longing for her. In the first few years of my grief, this disconnect made me feel even more isolated from the “normal” world.

Our society tends to not want to talk about grief or the lingering pain of loss after the funeral is over. So I and many other grieving people go about our business and lead two lives. We have the “normal” life that goes about trying to live and act the way we did before they died. Then we have our “private” life where we still struggle to figure out how to work through the pain of grief. We must learn how to once again embrace the love, joy, and adventures that surround us.

The second part of my fear has to do with me and my memory.

With every passing day, and with all the new information coming in, memories of my daughter tend to get crowded out and forgotten.

All those everyday moments that I took for granted at the time have already faded into the abyss of memories lost to time. With my daughter no longer physically here, memories of her have become precious commodities. Those few memories of specific moments captured in time allow me to momentarily remember not just who she was, but remember life before the pain of her death forever changed me and my world.

It makes me sad that her older brothers say that they have very few specific memories of her. It makes me sadder that her baby brother never had the chance to meet her. He will have to rely on our stories and descriptions of her if he ever wants to get to know her.

To combat this fear, I have tried to write down as many memories as I can – even if they are mundane.

I keep them in a journal, and some I post to www.aliveinmemory.org to share them with others. This way I can refer back to them and share them with whoever is interested in reading them. Her brothers can read these memories and share them with their eventual families.

But I wonder, is my fear of forgetting my memories really necessary? Does it make me a bad mother that I can’t remember more moments I shared with her? Of course not. Does it mean my love for her will fade with the memories? Absolutely not.

I wish I could remember more specific memories of the time we shared with her. But I will try to be content knowing that I will never forget how much I love my daughter or how much she means to me. I will never forget her personality quirks, her vivid imagination, and endless creativity. And I will never forget how her life – and her death – have helped me grow tremendously in my understanding of this life and how best to live it.

Navigating the Ebb and Flow of Grief

Navigating the Ebb and Flow of Grief

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Years have passed since my daughter’s death, and I thought it would be easier than this.

The intense grief during those early days and months made it feel like I couldn’t survive this loss. Yet I saw people in support groups who’d lost loved ones years before who seemed okay. They looked almost “normal” again and told me it wouldn’t always be like this. “You learn to live with the pain, and it will lessen over time.”

They said I’d  eventually find happiness again, and I’d create a “new normal.”

And they were right.

It’s been years of hard work to soften my grief. Counselors and support groups were a huge help for me. I looked for ways to express my pain so it wouldn’t consume me. I volunteered my time with The Compassionate Friends and created my own grief support website.

Along the way, I’ve given myself permission to smile once more and allowed joy to enter my heart again.  I have consciously tried to focus my energies on remembering my daughter’s life rather than only looking at the pain her death has brought.

And yet grief remains a constant part of my life.

Grief is fickle, unpredictable, and indifferent to whatever mood I’m in.

Most days my grief lies dormant under the activities of everyday life. Little triggers continually remind me its there. Triggers like a sad news story on the TV or a girl at the park who reminds me of my daughter. But I can go about my regular routines with no interruptions.

Other times, the triggers are bigger. In those cases, the grief bubbles up and takes over my mood. Tears well up behind my eyes, ready to release at the first opportunity. My patience seems to evaporate and everyday tasks become cumbersome, meaningless, and even difficult. Usually the bursts of grief from larger triggers only last a few hours or at most a few days.

But sometimes it lingers and grows.

Years after her death, I didn’t expect to encounter triggers that make me feel like a return to the debilitating early days of grief.

Feelings of sadness, pain, lethargy, and dis-interest in things I normally enjoy. Going to work becomes a struggle. Even taking care of my kids feels like a burden.

I know these periods require extra attention and care. I navigate through them best I can, asking for support along the way. I just wonder if these episodes will ease over time, or if I should just expect them to become a permanent fixture of my “new normal” life?

If the death of my daughter has taught me anything – and it has taught me A LOT – it’s that we have more inner strength than we can ever imagine. And with time, attention, and support, we can navigate through just about anything life might throw at us.

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.

Dragonflies, Ladybugs, and Signs From My Daughter

Dragonflies, Ladybugs, and Signs From My Daughter

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As a toddler, my daughter adored animals. We had three cats of our own, but she loved all animals. With the exception of spiders and wild animals, Margareta always took the opportunity to hold or touch any animal she could. She loved going to petting zoos with goats and sheep, even when they were aggressively trying to get food. And whenever we saw ladybugs, she insisted on having them crawl on her. Margareta loved ladybugs so dearly, we included a picture of one on her grave marker.

Soon after her death, signs took the form of animal sightings.

A few weeks after her death at the age of four, I took her older brother to his soccer game in a neighboring town. Emotional but still very numb, I sat down on the sidelines on one end of the field away from the other parents. While the teams warmed up, I noticed a swarm of dragonflies in the air about 10 to 15 feet in front of me.

It’s important to note that I’ve always been fascinated by dragonflies, though rarely seen them in person. Until that point in my life, I’d seen less than a dozen in person and usually at a water source. As I sat transfixed by the sheer number of dragonflies so close to me, I immediately thought of my daughter and how thrilled she would have been to see them. The dragonflies stayed over the field for almost the entire game.

A few days later, I was in my home and was startled by a “knock” on the picture window next to me. I turned to see a large dragonfly had hit the glass as it was flying straight towards me. After gathering its bearings, it landed on the bottom of an outdoor light fixture to rest.

The feeling suddenly came over me that this dragonfly was my daughter “visiting” me. 

I slowly walked over and opened the door. I whispered how much I loved her and just stared. After a few minutes, I closed the door and walked away. That dragonfly stayed there for over an hour before it finally flew away.

That event was the beginning of many, many dragonfly sightings. I see both live and artistic representations of them since the death of my daughter. I know now that many people experience dragonfly sightings after the death of a loved one. Whether they are messengers from the afterlife or just a symbol of death and rebirth, the sightings are special to many people.

Almost every sighting has happened when I’ve been intensely struggling with grief or when my thoughts are focused exclusively on her.

I’ve also had similar experiences with ladybugs. Sometimes they land on or close to me when I’m intently thinking of her. Other times I will feel the need to glance somewhere specific, only to find one like a needle in a haystack in its surroundings.

For example, while on a walk with my son, he asked me out of the blue what I would do if Margareta suddenly appeared in front of us. After discussing it, I turned my head toward our neighbor’s house for no apparent reason. My gaze zeroed in on a lone ladybug upon a leaf on a tree. Without knowing where to look, it would have been easily missed.

Another time, my sister-in-law was visiting and we had been talking about my signs from Margareta. On our way to the car I felt the urge to open my mailbox even though I knew there was no mail. There, sitting on the cold metal in the dark was a ladybug under the lid.

Are these really signs from my daughter?

Could these events be my daughter channeling her energy from some other dimension to control these bugs or nudge me to look their way? Yes. Could skeptics be right and these sightings are nothing more than pure coincidence? Yes. Regardless of what anyone thinks, they mean something very special to me.

Every time I have one of these experiences, it is as if my daughter has caressed my cheeks in her little hands, kissed me on the lips, and then given me a big bear hug. They are the equivalent of hearing her sweet voice say, “I love you mama, and I’m right here with you no matter what.” I treasure these “signs” and look forward to every single one of them.