He Was My Everything

He Was My Everything

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Hi,

I lost my husband to lung cancer just two months ago. On 22nd Jan at 3.30 am. He battled with the disease for 3 years. We were married for 7 years. And together for a total of 15. Everything I know and have learnt, is from him. He was my best friend, my boy friend, my husband, my father, mother, my sister and my brother.

Losing him slowly, everyday to the disease was painful, but nothing had prepared me for losing him to death. We were prepared for the inevitable, but nothing can prepare you to live through the inevitable without your partner, who you prepared with… I miss him very single minute of the day and night.

All my memories are with him, of him and about him. From learning to e-mail, or to use the computer properly, way back in 1998. To learning to drive, traveling to different countries, eating all kinds of food. Everything.

All my conversations were always about my experiences with him and about him and us, our life, our love story, our stories. Period. Now I can either just speak about him or not at all. I have no words to talk about anything else other than him. It’s almost like I have re-learn everything, from social graces, to conversation topics, to living my life on my own. Restarting my career. Everything. And every place I visit and re-visit, for real and in my head, it’s all with him.

It’s a process I know, it don’t have an end, and neither does it have a set pattern or map that I can follow. And it is my journey and only mine, alone. I’ve never really done anything without him. But it is nevertheless, my only option. Taking it a day at a time. The only and only philosophy that has helped me so far.

May everyone find their peace, in this journey in some way or the other.

Purva

Submitted by Purva Verma Khanna in loving memory of her husband, Sachin Khanna.

Feeling Guilt After the Loss of a Loved One

Feeling Guilt After the Loss of a Loved One

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Guilt is a powerful emotion.

For me, it’s a combination of various feelings: sadness, regret, embarrassment, shame, incompetence, failure. The list goes on. No matter what feelings go into forming it, the result is always the same: blame. Whether we deserve it or not, guilt sets in when we blame ourselves for something we think we did wrong or wish we could have done better.

For many who have lost someone dear to them, guilt often creeps in almost immediately.

We feel guilty when we didn’t say everything we should have or didn’t spend enough time with them while they were here. In situations where we make choices for their care or medical treatment, we guiltily question whether we made the choice they would have wanted. Some feel guilty that they didn’t fight hard enough to keep them alive. Others blame themselves for not seeing the warning signs early enough.

In some situations, guilt after a loss is more complicated and often unwarranted. The loss of a child often brings misplaced guilt. Parents feel a responsibility for taking care of and protecting their children. Even when their children are grown.

I’ve heard bereaved parents blame themselves for just about any type of death at any age.

A parent whose young child died of cancer blamed themselves for not seeing the symptoms soon enough. They even felt guilty for passing along the gene that caused the cancer.

A college-age child died in a spring break car crash when his friend fell asleep at the wheel. His father blamed himself for not stopping his son from going on vacation in the first place.

The parent of an adult addicted to drugs blamed themselves for not doing enough to help their child overcome their addiction. As if it were in their power to do so.

The stories go on and on.

In some cases, guilt is expected (and some may even believe deserved). These are the “preventable” deaths.

My daughter’s death was one of these preventable deaths; she drowned. Not only did she drown, she drowned in our backyard pool while we were at home.

It is still hard for me to say that. I spent hours pouring over every detail of what happened that day. I could tell you until I am blue in the face that her death was a complete accident. Had I known what was going to happen, I would have gladly traded my life for hers.

But the fact is that many who hear that a four-year-old girl was near an uncovered pool alone – no matter for how short a time – will lay blame upon me for not being with her or taking steps to prevent it. And I cannot argue with them.

My deep guilt magnified the despair I felt after she died.

It made me feel like a complete failure as a mother, and even as a human being. Feelings of guilt led me to thoughts of suicide, which I thankfully never came close to acting on.

I was ashamed to tell anyone how she died and chose my words carefully to avoid having to disclose the reason. Saying, “She passed away” or “We lost our daughter,” seemed the most acceptable description. “She died,” or, “She died in a tragic accident,” were the most likely to lead to the dreaded response, “Oh I’m sorry. May I ask how?”

I spent years in counseling and support groups working through my grief and guilt. They told me over and over that it was a terrible, tragic accident and that I shouldn’t feel guilty. I’ve heard all the reasons why it was an accident, and how it could have happened to anyone. And often does. The sad fact is that drowning is the leading cause of death for children under the age of five. I listened and nodded in understanding.

But deep down, the guilt remained.

While I cannot say that my guilt over my daughter’s death is completely gone, it has loosened its grip.

Why? I think it all comes down to choice and perspective.

I read an article describing how humans have an inherent tendency to focus on the negative. Born out of primal survival skills, when we are aware of the danger around us we are better prepared to run from it. As a result, we’re often unconsciously looking at the downside to every situation and anticipating the next potential threat.

The problem arises when tendencies turn into habits. Then long-term habits begin to shape our reality without us even realizing it. But when you hit the proverbial “rock bottom” – in my case, the death of my daughter – and survive it, one of the only ways to go is up.

“Up” for me has been slowly learning a new perspective on life using the lessons I’ve learned the hard way. I began learning how to embrace life and live it to the fullest. I’m continually trying to work on replacing tendencies of negative thinking with conscious choices based on love, truth, compassion, and joy. I’m slowly learning how to stop worrying over the past and future, and focus on what I can control here and now. It has not been easy to try to overcome lifelong habits, but it has been rewarding.

To combat the grief and guilt, I chose to focus less on the circumstances of her death and more on her and how she lived.

I’ve chosen to remember how vibrant, confident, adventurous, and loving she was. I know these qualities are testament not just to her inherent personality, but to the loving, supportive environment we provided for her.

I’ve chosen to acknowledge that it’s unrealistic to think we can keep an eye on our children 24 hours a day. I recognize that for the most part our children DO stay safe; but accidents can happen. I’m confident that I remain, and always have been, a loving mother who adores her children and provides a nurturing environment for them. And I can happily say that I know how much my children love and adore me.

Whether my guilt will ever completely go away remains to be seen.

Until then, I’m going to keep chipping away at it by sharing the unending love I have for my daughter with the world as my witness.

How Are You? A Silent Signpost for the Bereaved

How Are You? A Silent Signpost for the Bereaved

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“How are you?”

The question is seemingly so simple and benign. So often it is just a polite, meaningless pleasantry. Just as often, those who answer the question would never think to respond with anything other than the implicitly expected “I’m fine” or “Good. How are you?” Even if everything wasn’t fine.

Unfortunately, for people struggling with overwhelming grief, the simple phrase, “How are you?” reinforces a deep isolation from the rest of society.

For someone who has recently lost a loved one, it is a silent signpost marking the moment they must take two simultaneous paths. The path visible to the outside world puts on a show that everything is “okay.” The veiled, lonely path is created when society quickly tires of their ongoing pain.

I spoke with a mother who had lost her son a short time before. She talked about the incredible support she received from her family, religion, and friends. It helped her handle her overwhelming grief. But more recently, she sensed their supportive tone was beginning to change when they asked, “How are you?” She said the question was being asked in a way that implied they were ready for her response to return to the standard, “I’m fine.” They were ready for her to move on with her life.

It reminded me of my return to work a month after the death of my daughter. While some people welcome the return to work in an effort to distract themselves from the pain, I returned only because I needed the income. The first day back I made a beeline to my desk, desperately avoiding eye contact with everyone.

I dreaded the inevitable question, “How are you?”

And yet, it came. Many people did their best to avoid me just as I avoided them. But some stopped by my desk to offer their condolences and ask how I was. If I was being honest with them, my response may have sounded something like this:

How am I? I’m completely devastated. The skin around my eyes is raw and hurts from crying so much. Yes – even a month after her death. And there’s no sign of it stopping any time soon.

I’m completely exhausted – physically and emotionally. It took all my energy just to get out of bed this morning. It seemed almost impossible to get in the shower, dress, and drive to work. On the drive it was hard to see through my tears. Several times I felt like steering my car off the road and into a telephone pole, but thankfully I didn’t.

In addition to a constant feeling of pain and nausea in my stomach, I’m angry when I look around and see that everything is “business as usual” around here. I can’t understand how the world continues to march on without my daughter in it. The sound of laughter makes me want to scream. How could anyone be happy right now?

I don’t care at all about my job or what needs to be done. But seeing as how I need the money, I’m just going to put my head down and immerse myself in work. Hopefully it will mean that for a few hours today I’ll be distracted from the overwhelming pain I feel. Yet every time someone comes up to ask me how I am, I’ll be dragged back to into reality and the nightmare I find myself in.

So, while I appreciate that you care, I’d rather you not ask. Maybe you could just tell me you’re sorry, or even give me a silent hug…and then walk away. I simply don’t have the energy right now to pretend that I’m fine.

But, of course, I wasn’t honest. My answer depended on how the question was worded.

If they asked, “How are you?” I replied, “Fine.” If they asked, “How are you doing?” I answered “I’m doing.” Both were spoken in a flat tone of voice that implied I was not fine. It was intended to discourage them from continuing the conversation. This may sound mean, but it took a lot of energy to keep myself from bursting into tears and telling them how I really was.

Because if I really was “fine,” what would that say about how I felt about my daughter? In my mind, “fine” implied that somehow it was okay that my daughter died. It made me feel guilty and angry at the same time.

Over time, answering that question got easier and felt less of a betrayal to my daughter.

Eventually, I could answer “I’m fine” or even “I’m good” and truly mean it. But it took time and a lot of work. It took going to support groups where I could give an honest answer of how I was doing and no one would try to stop me. Everyone there would understand and encourage me to let it out.

Over the years, I learned how to acknowledge and express my grief when I need to. Because when you keep it inside, it simmers and grows. I’ve learned to accept that I have both good and bad days. Over time, the good began to outnumber the bad. I’ve learned to not let the guilt and pain associated with the bad days keep me from enjoying and appreciating my life.

How am I doing now? Even though I still miss my daughter terribly, I’m good.

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 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.