Bitter Sixteen

Bitter Sixteen

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In a little over a month, it will be the “would have been” 16th birthday of my daughter, Margareta. In other words, it would have been her “Sweet Sixteen”, a milestone birthday to mark the beginning of her transition into womanhood. Except that it is anything but “sweet”.

It is a bitter reminder that I’ll never get to experience seeing my daughter as a woman. Or as a mother herself.

It’s not like we would have thrown a large, extravagant party. We wouldn’t have bought her a new car. She wouldn’t have dressed up in a formal quinceañera-style dress. None of that. But as the only girl in a family of boys, her sweet sixteen birthday would have meant something special.

Instead, it will end up being just another “would have been” birthday she’s not here to celebrate. A day on which we’ll have our annual ritual we’ve created to remember with love the day she came into our life.

The lead up to her birthday each year surfaces much of the sorrow, regret, and pain I place in little compartments inside me throughout the year.

Compartments packed away to process another day as I go about my current day-to-day life. And as the years roll on, the compartments do not get nearly as full and overwhelming as they once did. Margareta was 4-years-old when she died, and I’ve had 12 years since her death to process that reality, learn how to better handle the pain, adjust to a life without her, and learn some positive things about myself and life itself along the way.

But in the month or so before her birthday – which happens to be the same month in which she died – all of those compartments seem to bubble over. Every year like clockwork.

The long simmering feelings that stewed in their own juices for months on end begin to fill me once again with anguish, bitterness, and even anger.

And so at the same time each year, I have the excruciating task of wading through all these pent up, painful emotions in an attempt to finally allow myself to experience and then let them go. Sometimes it feels like my penance for not keeping her safe and alive.

Most of the time when I write about my grief, I try to end it by focusing on how far I’ve come in my journey of healing, all the things I’ve learned, and how much I’ve grown as a person. It serves to reassure myself and anyone reading that with some work and time, it does get easier from those early days of intense grief. It provides hope for those suffering under the weight of their pain.

But each year when I’m caught up in the muck of my overflowing pain and regret, I give myself permission to just feel what I feel. And usually those feelings are angry and resentful. And that’s ok.

It has to be ok, because that’s reality. It’s not some self-pity party. The reality of being a bereaved parent is that these painful feelings will NEVER go away. Our child IS dead. Year after year; decade after decade. It may not be what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. The feelings may morph and soften, but they’ll always be there.

There is no happy ending to my story. At least not the one I want. BUT– that doesn’t keep me from seeking and experiencing happiness, love, and appreciation during the remainder of my story.

I’ll be acknowledging and processing my feelings throughout this next month the best I can. And once that’s done, I can resume the new life I’ve built. One that Margareta would have supported and enjoyed seeing me live. One that may not include her physical presence, but her presence in my thoughts and heart every single day.

No, You’re Not Crazy: The Need For Shared Experiences In Grief

No, You’re Not Crazy: The Need For Shared Experiences In Grief

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The death of one of my children was something I never thought I’d experience in my lifetime. I don’t think any parent does. 

In the aftermath of my daughter’s death, I was overwhelmed with constantly changing emotions and a landslide of unnerving thoughts. But one of the hardest things I experienced was my extreme sense of isolation. 

Losing a child is different than any other type of loss. I had no point of reference for what to expect. After all, the death of a child is seldom talked about. It is too painful for most people to even imagine. 

So, it felt as if I was left to experience all these horrible emotions and thoughts on my own. And many times, I didn’t know how to handle it. 

Being bombarded with all of these unfamiliar thoughts and emotions, it often felt as if I was going crazy from grief.

Without knowing if other people had gone through the same intensely painful experiences and irrational thoughts, early grief made me feel like I was losing my sense of reality. I often couldn’t understand what was happening or why I felt and thought the way I did. I’ve come to understand that many bereaved parents feel this way. 

It’s only when we hear from other people who’ve had similar experiences that we find a sense of hope that it won’t always feel this way. And then we can slowly learn to adapt to a new, different state of “normal”. 

But sharing our grief experiences is not so easy. 

In the United States (and other countries), our society is uncomfortable with grief caused by death. Most condolences try to alleviate our pain. They assure us that our loved one is in a better place, which implies we should feel happy for them. Extended, outward displays of sadness are often frowned upon due to the discomfort it causes those around us.

Soon after the funeral is over, we are expected to get back on track with our lives as if nothing major has changed. For example, many employers offer 2-5 bereavement days for the death of an immediate family member. Often, they “pay” for these days by taking them out of our sick or vacation days. After that, it’s back to business as usual. 

But after suffering a profound loss there is no such thing as “business as usual”. 

Because outward grief is unwelcome, it often becomes a very isolating experience — which only compounds the distress we feel. Yet, with billions of people on this planet, the chance of someone else experiencing the same or similar emotions and thoughts caused by grief are very high. 

Why are shared grief experiences important?

They’re not necessarily important to every grieving person. But for many, when we’re able to hear from people who’ve experienced a similar loss, we can start acknowledging and understanding our grief. Our sense of isolation begins to wane.

After all, grief is our innate healing process when we are faced with loss. So it would be expected that people’s built-in healing process would operate in similar ways.

Yet, since death and the resulting grief is a somewhat taboo topic, most of us have never been taught what those common reactions are. 

There is the exception of the widely known 5 Stages of Grief, but that was originally intended to describe the common reactions of a terminally ill person when faced with their own impending death. As such, the “stages” often don’t match what we feel after the loss of a loved one — particularly a child. 

Shared grief experiences help us know that the unfamiliar things we are thinking and feeling aren’t “crazy”.

Do you know the feeling that your child will walk through the door any moment or be on the other end of the phone when you answer it? That’s a normal grief reaction. Even months after their death.

What about being angry at God because you can’t understand how there could be any reason to take a child’s life? That’s normal too. 

Does the sound of laughter make you nauseous and feel like screaming at everyone to shut up because the idea of being happy now feels like a betrayal of your child’s memory? Again, completely normal. 

After you’ve been crying for what feels like days, do you ever suddenly switch to feeling apathetic and numb? Or abruptly rage out of control for no apparent reason? Normal. 

The list of normal grief reactions that otherwise seem completely out of control and irrational is extremely long. 

Too long to list here, anyway. But all of them have been felt by many people across cultures and around the world. 

Over the years, I’ve written a lot about my experience with grief after the death of my daughter. One of the most common responses I receive is that by having someone else validate those feelings, it helps make them feel like they’re not crazy after all. 

So the next time grief is making you feel “crazy”, just remember that countless other people have experienced the same thing. You can usually find them in support groups, whether online or in person. And chances are, they can and will help you through your grief if you just reach out to them for support. 

The Unbreakable Bond Between Mother And Child

The Unbreakable Bond Between Mother And Child

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For nine months you and I were inseparable. Our bodies and souls intertwined.

Your life began its long journey as you grew inside me. And as you grew, so did my profound new sense of purpose. A mother’s purpose.

On that wondrous day you were born, you left everything you knew behind. You entered this unfamiliar, bright new world and cried out; desperately searching for a familiar voice and a comforting touch. You quickly found your way to my loving embrace.

It didn’t matter that you were no longer inside me. You and I were still inseparable as I attended to your every need. Despite the immense work and challenges of caring for an infant, I cherished each tender embrace. Our souls were still indelibly intertwined.

As the days, weeks, and months passed, I reverently watched as you learned to navigate and adapt to your new world. I supported you with all of my love. In times of uncertainty, fear, or hurt, I whispered encouragement in your ear as I kissed away your tears.

Years passed. Although you gained independence as each new day and adventure unfolded, we still shared an unbreakable bond. No matter how far apart we found ourselves.

The strength of our bond faced its ultimate test on the day you died. A day I never expected to happen in my lifetime.

On the horrifying day you died, I left behind everything I knew about this bright world. I was transported into a darkness that was so intense and thick, it blocked out any trace of light.

I cried out, desperately searching for your familiar voice and loving embrace. But there was no trace of you. You were completely gone. I couldn’t understand how, but it felt as if our unbreakable bond had been severed.

Without you, I struggled to survive in this cold, dark, unforgiving new world. Despite family and friends at my side, I could feel no reason for living. Overwhelmed by unbearable pain, there were no signs of hope. I felt as though I wanted to die so I could be with you again.

But I did not die.

Like those early days, weeks, and months of your life, I was forced to learn how to navigate and adapt to this new world of mine. However, this time, you were not at my side. I ached to once again feel your touch, hear your voice, and feel at ease in your reassuring presence.

My eyes slowly began to adjust to this world. While I was no longer in the midst of complete darkness, this new world had no color; no brightness. Everything was dim and gray. All I saw was a horizon of endless pain and suffering.

I longed to feel our bond restored, but I feared it was irrevocably severed. You were constantly on my mind, but those thoughts brought no comfort; no bond. For they were thoughts of your death and my failure to keep you safe. I could think of nothing but all that I lost and would never get back.

Over time, I began to notice little things that gave me pause. Things that reminded me of you; reminded me of your beautiful life instead of your tragic death.

In the beginning, they appeared when I was suffering intensely and longing for your presence. I needed some sort of reassurance that it wouldn’t always feel this way. With each occurrence, I began to feel your presence once again.

I felt our bond beginning to be restored. It felt different than before, but the bond was still just as strong. Each small sign from you felt like a warm embrace and whisper of love as you comforted and guided me.

My anguished thoughts of your death were being replaced by loving memories of your life. Your vibrant joy that filled those memories began to add brightness and color to this new world of mine.

Though many years have passed since you died, you are still in my thoughts each and every day. I still see special signs that remind me of you, but not as often before. That’s because I don’t need them as much anymore. For I have learned to feel our bond just as strongly as I did when you were alive.

These days, signs from you usually come in flurries ahead of emotionally challenging days where your physical presence is especially missed. Days like your birthday or holidays such as Mother’s Day.

And while I would love to return to the world in which you and I were physically inseparable, I know without a doubt that our souls are still indelibly intertwined in this one.

Trapped In A World Between Living And Dead

Trapped In A World Between Living And Dead

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Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck somewhere between living and dead.

To be more specific, when my 4-year-old daughter died, a part of me died with her. For over a decade I’ve dealt with the pain of my grief. During that time, I’ve continually been learning how to reinvest in living a meaningful life.

Yet the part of me that died is tethered to the realm of the dead. A realm that contains my daughter, the world she was a part of, and the hopes and dreams I once had for her.

The realm of the dead is a sorrowful place.

No matter how much energy I invest in cultivating love, contentment, and enjoyment in my current life, I often find myself gazing back at the realm of the dead with a broken heart. A broken soul. It is a place filled with bittersweet memories, shattered dreams, and endless longing for a life that was, but can never be again. But it is also the place where my daughter is.

If I’m being honest, I don’t really want my tether to the realm of the dead to ever break. Our daughter, Margareta, was only four when she died. Not many people other than our extended family and circle of friends knew her. And many of those who knew her don’t think of or speak about her much anymore. It doesn’t mean they don’t still love or miss her. But that’s often what happens when people die. We move on with our day-to-day lives and remember them fondly (and sadly) from time-to-time. Especially on birthdays, holidays, and other special occasions.

Everyone eventually moves on — except bereaved parents.

No matter how much I try to adjust to a world without my child, the tether continues to pull on me. And after talking with many bereaved parents over the past decade, most of them feel the same. As a result, bereaved parents continually feel the dead part of us that lies deep within. Even years and decades after our children died.

It may sound hopeless and painful, and in the early years after the death of a child, it very much is. But that continual pull is what keeps our children present in our thoughts…and in our current lives. For me, it represents that Margareta may no longer be a part of this world, but she is still an important part of my world. Even if it is only in my thoughts; in the thoughts of her dad, brothers, and others who love her.

Though the finer details of her life are slowly fading, she is still very much loved and thought of every day. And the same is true for every child who was lost before their parent(s) — no matter their age.

So maybe being trapped between living and dead isn’t as bad as it sounds. It isn’t for me.

The Positive Side of Grief

The Positive Side of Grief

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I recently saw a quote on social media that caught my eye.

“Maybe you’re not healing because you’re trying to be who you were before the trauma. That person doesn’t exist anymore, cause there’s a ‘new you’ trying to be born. Breathe life into that person.”

I don’t know who wrote it, but it made me stop and think about my journey as a bereaved parent. And I think it’s a good analogy for what so many bereaved parents struggle with in the aftermath of losing a child.

After my daughter’s death, my feelings of utter devastation were not just a result of losing my only daughter. It was also a reaction to becoming a completely different person. A person I didn’t recognize anymore.

I was 35 when my daughter, Margareta, died suddenly at the age of four. In those 35 years, I had developed a clear identity and a good understanding of my personality traits. I was a working mom and wife, juggling family life with my career. I had a predictable set of activities and routines. And while I would describe my underlying personality as shy and introverted, I had a circle of good friends.

Since childhood, I’ve been an emotionally sensitive and anxiety-driven person. Over those 35 years, I developed a mental toolbox and playbook for dealing with frustrating or difficult situations and emotions. That is not to say they were all healthy tools, but they did what I needed them to do. They kept my emotions in check and reduced the severity of my daily anxiety.

I had myself pretty much figured out. And then my daughter died and everything I thought I knew about myself was obliterated.

Before Margareta’s death I was a very patient person and great at remembering all the little details of life and work. After her death, my patience was nonexistent, and I could barely remember to eat or do basic things like brushing my teeth. Worst of all, while I prided myself in being a calm, composed person, I had become completely unable to contain any of my raging emotions. Whatever I was feeling was what I was outwardly projecting. All the tools I had developed to regulate my emotions and anxiety had become completely ineffective.

In the days, weeks and months after her death my emotions were all over the place and highly unpredictable. One moment I’d be sobbing with despair; the next I was completely numb and seemingly watching life go by without interacting with it. Sometimes I was engulfed in anger at things I normally didn’t care about. Other times I was overcome with intense fear, scared that I couldn’t survive in a world without my daughter—even with my husband and three sons by my side.

I didn’t recognize or understand the person I had become, and desperately wanted everything to go back to the way it was before.

Trying to get back to being the person I was before my daughter’s death was a losing cause and intensified the immense trauma I was experiencing.

I understood I had lost a future with my daughter in it. That fact was out of my control. But I fully believed that the ability to go back to being my former self was an attainable goal. My former self would surely be able to contain and control these constant, overwhelming feelings of anguish, despair, and hopelessness. My former self would be supported by my family and circle of friends; the people I now felt completely alienated and isolated from—even though I was the one pushing them away.

So, I decided to search out as much external support as I could. I attended multiple support groups and individual therapy. I searched the internet for any tidbit of information that could help me figure out what to do and read book after book on bereavement and healing. This went on for years.

All of this did, in fact, help me better control my outward emotions while at work and in public. But those feelings still raged inside of me. It had been over three years since Margareta’s death, and I didn’t seem to be getting any closer to who I used to be. And it was incredibly frustrating and disappointing.

In realizing I wasn’t getting any closer to getting back to my “old self,” something unexpected happened.

First, I came to terms that the ways I had been getting support were no longer as helpful as they had been. While they had been an invaluable lifeline in those first few years after Margareta’s death, I had begun to get fatigued from continually hearing newly bereaved parents describe their bitter anguish month after month. I started to realize that it was keeping me anchored to the tragedy of her death, rather than the love and joy Margareta had brought into my life. So, I decided to cut back my attendance at the various support groups I had been going to.

Second, I decided to change my approach to healing by doing something I loved: writing. I wanted to focus on writing about the joy Margareta brought me by documenting all my favorite memories. In doing so, I began to feel a change in myself. But this time it was a positive, welcome change.

Unfortunately, documenting my memories of the four short years she was with us was a limited activity. Afterwards, I began to write about my experience with grief. I wrote about how I was feeling, what I struggled with, and what I felt I had learned from my journey of grief. Surprisingly, in addition to helping me work through my feelings, it began to resonate with other bereaved parents who happened to find my blog.

Writing about my feelings and knowing that it was also helping others on their journeys became my greatest source of healing. And it began to breathe life into the “new me” that was waiting to emerge.

No longer hyper-focused on getting back to the person who could eliminate all those negative emotions, the “new me” was more willing to learn from them instead. The person I was becoming saw the value of embracing the change inside myself in hopes that it could ease my continued anguish. And it did. Slowly but surely.

Many years later, I am still discovering the “new me.” That is because the new me is continually evolving. I continue to discover the opportunities for personal growth that stem from the various obstacles thrown my way. I am a work in progress and always will be.

Letting go of the person I was before my daughter died has been the single biggest source of healing my grief.

I will always regret that I cannot watch Margareta grow into a beautiful woman. But I can instead watch my own growth and development—knowing that is inspired the gratitude I have for those four wonderful years and the love from her and for her that will forever exist inside me.

 

The Indifference to Deaths Caused By Covid-19

The Indifference to Deaths Caused By Covid-19

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It’s distressing to see the huge, growing number of people dead from Covid-19.

But even more distressing is the apparent indifference and lack of compassion shown by society-at-large. Indifference to the devastation thrust upon hundreds of thousands of families and friends who’ve lost a loved one to this pandemic.

At the time this was written, more than 220,000 people in the United States have died in less than a year due to Covid-19. And it continues to grow. It’s estimated that the number could even double in a few months.

This ever-growing number has become merely a passing footnote in the nightly news reports. A statistic that is quickly dismissed amid the daily outrages of a polarizing political backdrop.

To be sure, the people represented in this number are anything but a statistic. Each and every one of them is beloved by their circle of family and friends.

Represented in this impersonal, sterile number are spouses, partners, lovers, mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, sons, daughters, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. It represents dear friends, neighbors, coworkers, teachers, mentors, coaches, and countless other important members of our local communities. The number includes first-responders and all kinds of essential workers that made the ultimate sacrifice while serving and supporting their communities.

We hear that those who die usually die alone in medical isolation. They are unable to be with the people who love them so dearly during their last days, hours, and minutes.

There are no final embraces. No shared tears. No chance to look into each other’s eyes to convey the deep, unending love and profound impact they’ve had on their lives. Sometimes there isn’t even an opportunity to say final goodbyes—even one spoken over a phone. Many final words are left unspoken; leaving those who never got to say them with the heavy burden of guilt to carry for years on end.

Those family and friends – some of whom lost multiple loved ones to Covid-19 – are left with the impossible reality that the person they loved so dearly is suddenly gone from their lives. And all too often, they’ve lost a person who their very existence and identity is so tightly intertwined with, they can’t possibly begin to imagine how life itself can continue. They cannot understand why the whole world didn’t come to an abrupt end when their loved one took their last breath.

That is the level of devastation these deaths have wrought on so many families. And yet, so many others in our society are carrying on as if none of it matters.

Have we truly succumbed to an environment of apathy and an apparent unwillingness to sacrifice our own desires and comfort for the greater good? We seemingly lack empathy and compassion for the most vulnerable in our families and community. Many are blindly willing to sacrifice the lives of others so they can try to carry on with the lifestyle they had before Covid-19 hit our shores. We continue to see so many flock to crowded beaches, parties, and the like. We see them visiting busy stores and restaurants. And all of these scenes are usually shown with few or no masks in sight.

Have convenience, comfort, and entertainment really become more important than human lives?

Additionally, we are now living in a society that has become so embroiled in an ideological war that everything becomes politicized. The choice of whether to wear a mask and follow medical safety guidelines has become a political statement. Many people ignore the guidance of medical experts, and some go so far as label it “fake news.”

They choose instead to follow the lead of callous politicians who value holding onto their positions of power far above the lives of the constituents they were elected to serve.

All the while, the number of cases and resulting deaths continue to rise.

This virus does not discriminate. Though some groups are impacted at a higher rate than others, Covid-19 infects all age groups, sexes, and ethnicities. It doesn’t care how healthy you are, how much money you earn, or what your political affiliation is. It is a highly contagious airborne virus that anyone can breathe in and unknowingly pass on. While many who get Covid-19 show mild or no symptoms at all, without the proper precautions they can easily pass it on to many people who are not so lucky.

Thousands of people are currently lying in hospital beds with their lives hanging in the balance. And countless more are unknowingly going to follow in their footsteps.

Many will recover, but some with resulting damage that will last their lifetime. Too many others will succumb and perish. They will become part of that ever-growing statistic; a future footnote in history books. What won’t be captured in the history books are all the individual stories of grief and anguish of people all over this country (and world) who must now live with a tragic loss for the rest of their own lives.

The most devastating part of Covid-19 is the simple fact that many of these people didn’t have to die from it.

We had it in our collective power to prevent so many of these deaths. We still do. Experts told us early on how to slow the spread and flatten the curve; to vastly reduce the infection rate and death toll.

By all means, following the guidelines isn’t easy. None of it is convenient, and it causes an abundance of stress, headaches, and problems. Some people’s livelihoods are being severely challenged—but many others aren’t.

Many others aren’t following the CDC guidelines of how to protect yourself and others for one simple fact: they don’t want to and don’t care about the consequences.

I don’t know what will change the apparent tide of indifference to death and grief in our society. Perhaps it will only happen when each and every one of us suffers the loss of a loved one to this pandemic. Perhaps it requires new leadership across the board that will take this pandemic seriously. 

In the meantime, we should ask ourselves, how much value do we place on human lives during the spread of Covid-19? And then ask ourselves, what are we willing to do to protect ourselves and others? 

One simple place to start: wear a mask and vote.