Paying It Forward in Grief

Paying It Forward in Grief

by

There’s a saying, “misery loves company”.

While I don’t really know the intended  meaning, it sounds as if misery attracts more misery. Or maybe those who are miserable feel the need to share it with others? Whatever the intended meaning, I think it’s actually a good description for those suffering after the death of a loved one. In my case, the death of my 4-year-old daughter over a decade ago.

One of the hardest aspects of intense grief is the sense of isolation that comes with it.

Long after the funeral is over and everyone goes back to their normal lives, those suffering profound loss are left alone to try to figure out how to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives. The idea that our loved one is at peace or an angel in heaven does not address the gaping hole left by the departure of someone who was an integral part of our life—and in many cases, our very being.

Often, family and friends try to help support us in our time of grief, but this support often comes with a time limit. Usually that time limit occurs within weeks or months after the death. Others might offer support longer, but eventually they too become emotionally fatigued trying to comfort someone whose grief timeline takes years versus weeks or months. Which is understandable. But it leaves grievers feeling alone and misunderstood by the ones who love them the most.

So what’s a griever to do?

The reality is that people suffering after the loss of a significant loved one often crave company. That’s because the feelings of isolation make grief more intense. If you think of grief as a huge boulder, it makes sense that others helping you hold it as you chip away at it is much better than trying to do it on your own. The likelihood of you getting crushed by your own grief is significantly higher without some form of support.

Unfortunately, grievers often find that despite their best efforts, family and friends cannot offer the level of support needed, simply because they haven’t experienced and don’t understand this level of loss and grief.

This is where the beauty and benefit of grief support groups come in.

Surrounded by a group of people who have suffered a similar loss is invaluable. The simple act of expressing yourself to those who have experienced the same level of loss as you can be the biggest source of easing the initial, overwhelming pain of loss.

You don’t even have to say a single word in support groups to reap the benefits. Simply listening to others who have survived this insurmountable pain provides a sense of understanding and community. It provides a feeling of hope for a future that doesn’t feel like the pain of loss will crush you every single day.

Surprisingly, support groups are not only healing for those who are newly bereaved, but provide a different benefit for those of us further along in our grief.

The single most powerful tool that helped me through this journey of grief is the act of “paying it forward”.

The definition of paying it forward in grief can vary significantly. But it all comes down to one basic idea: you use what you’ve learned during your experience with grief to help others. It provides new meaning and purpose to your shattered life.

For me, sharing my experience and hard-won insights into the grief process has been an important tool in lessening the pain of losing my daughter. Writing about grief started out as a way for me to express my emotions and questions. Then I decided to put it on a public website for anyone who cared to read and follow my journey. I continually wrote about all the nooks and crannies I encountered on this journey of grief.

Writing allowed me to look at my grief from a different perspective. I was able to more clearly discover what helped me and what didn’t. I could more easily spot potential pitfalls and how best to deal with them. The more I wrote, the more people found my website and followed my journey.

Knowing I was helping others feel less alone and more hopeful, I was able to turn the pain of grief into something positive and purposeful.

Of course, writing isn’t for everyone. Other ways I’ve seen people paying it forward in grief include:

  • Volunteering your time in support groups or other community grief support organizations.
  • Honoring them by donating to or becoming involved in a social cause that was important to your loved one.
  • Creating a foundation or scholarship in their name and memory.
  • Educating the community about the way your loved one died in hopes to help awareness and/or prevention.

Not every form of paying it forward need be so much of an undertaking. It could be as simple as reaching out to someone.  Whether it’s family, a friend, or mere acquaintance who finds themselves in this community of profound loss, you can simply let them know you’re available for them to talk with or just listen. Without judgment and without time limits.

Do you have any examples you’d like to share about paying it forward in grief? Submit them as a comment to this post so others can read it too.

 

Adrift in A Sea of Grief

Adrift in A Sea of Grief

by

I am adrift in an endless sea of grief.

As I float along, the world continues to go on around me as if I am walking among the bustling crowds. But my feet haven’t touched dry land since September 30, 2009. The day my 4-year-old daughter drowned, I was unwillingly thrust into this watery journey.

Without warning — and in a matter of moments — my daughter’s sudden death unleashed a monstrous tsunami of indescribable pain. It was so huge and so dense, it blocked out the light of the sun. In complete darkness, it crashed down upon me and destroyed life as I knew it. Then the undertow dragged me kicking and screaming out to the middle of a deep sea of grief where a violent storm of emotions raged around me.

For months on end, the giant waves of grief would crash over me and shove my body under the water where I choked on anguish and despair.

Then the undercurrent of that same wave would spit me back out. Forcing me to tread water until the next waves of emotions pummeled my weakened body. It felt endless and torturous.

I thought many times it would be easier if the water would take my own life in the way it took my daughter’s. But for some unknown reason to my wearied mind, my body just continued to go through the motions and fight for survival.

Without really knowing how, my flailing hands began grabbing lifelines that had been thrown my way. These were lifelines of love and support from family and friends. They came from grief counselors and other bereaved parents. Parents who had already learned how to survive in this very same storm, and whose compassion inspired them to reach out and help others through this treacherous journey on the sea of grief.

Buoyed by their love and support, I began weaving these lifelines together to build a makeshift raft. One that could give my aching body a rest from the constant struggle to stay afloat.

As my raft of support took shape, the waves seemed to come a little less often and didn’t feel quite as intense.

Of course, they still came. And when they did, they still crashed over me and left me feeling horrible and defenseless. Yet, despite my continued pain, my body was able to start the healing process now that I had a raft to cling to.

I slowly started healing. And I began to focus my growing energy towards weaving together more lifelines into a bigger and stronger vessel. One that could better protect me from the stormy sea. I discovered that the more I shared my feelings with those willing to listen, the longer and more plentiful my lifelines became. And it provided more material to build with.

As my raft began transforming into a sturdier vessel of support, I got better at understanding how to navigate the waves of emotions in ways that didn’t feel so debilitating as before.

I began to see that trying to steer clear of the waves altogether only made them more dangerous and damaging. Every time I tried to outrun the wave, I ended up getting caught in the wave’s impact zone. Meaning, the place where it has the most power to pull me under and hold me within the churning currents coming from every direction. This is where grief is the most intense and agonizing.

So instead of trying to avoid the waves altogether, I decided to learn to ride them as a surfer does. I embraced the understanding that these waves of emotions were temporary moments of time that would eventually end.

Over and over again, I practiced finding my balance to ride across the tube of each wave. The place where the water was smoother and had less chance of pulling me under.

It wasn’t easy; learning anything new and outside your comfort zone can be difficult and challenging. But when you keep trying, you learn new techniques through trial and error. And eventually, you get better at it.

Once I became better at surfing the waves of emotions, I was able to ride them to a place on the sea of grief where the storm didn’t constantly rage.

In calmer water, I looked for the land I was taken from. I still desperately wanted to go back there and return to everything I once knew.

But as I scanned the endless horizon, I came to understand that the loss of a child is so profound, there is no going back.

All we can do as bereaved parents is set a new course. We must go to uncharted waters where we must learn to exist in a world without the children we lost.

These days, the water I float on is mostly calm. I’ve learned to appreciate that there is an abundance of beauty and love in this new world I live in. My boat is now large and sturdy, and I can steer it in any direction I want.

Over time, I’ve been able to find water shallow enough where I can touch and walk along the sandy bottom and easily interact with the world of dry land. Even if it is within the confines of the sea of grief.

Unfortunately, no matter how far I’ve come and how many new positive experiences I can create, I always feel the water as it continually blows across my face and body. It is a constant reminder that I will never leave the sea of grief.

Most days the wind that blows the water is a gentle breeze. Other times, a storm begins to brew. The wind grows stronger, and the pain of the stinging, salty water becomes more noticeable and intense. Some storms are predictable each year. Like the time leading up to the anniversary of my daughter’s death. But mostly the storms are random and unexpected.

I can’t keep the storms from coming or completely navigate away from them. But I can sail through them knowing they are only moments in time. And just as they have a beginning, they always have an end.

As I sail along this sea of grief, I will continue to throw lifelines out to those I come across just starting out on their difficult journeys. Thankfully, I’ve come to a point in time where I have plenty to spare.

For those of you reading this who are treading water in the constant waves of emotions, know that you are not alone. You’ll learn to build your own vessel. You’ll find your way to calmer waters. And if you only look, you’ll find plenty of others to help and guide you on your way.

The Terms of My Surrender

The Terms of My Surrender

by

From the moment you came into my life, I hated you. I despised you. You came on the heels of my worst nightmare come true – the death of my young daughter.

I didn’t know your name at the time. I just knew that you brought with you all the horrible feelings and emotions I had spent a lifetime learning how to repress and ignore.

You broke my defenses down like they were candles trying to stay lit in a hurricane. You pounded me with pain, panic, anger, confusion, hysterics, anguish. And too many more to list.

Mostly you came in waves. Pounding one emotion down on me after another, but in such quick succession it was hard to even breathe or stand. Sometimes the feelings and emotions came in combinations, leaving me a shaking, sobbing, angry mess.

Soon, people around me who knew better told me that you had a name. Your name was Grief.

When I realized who you were and how you operated, I decided to wage war on you. I felt I couldn’t possibly continue the barrage of emotions that constantly debilitated me, so I became determined to stop you in your tracks and send you back to the depths of darkness you came from.

In the early weeks and months, my first defense against you was to “play dead” like an opossum being hunted by predators. My mind became numb to dull your overwhelming pain. I felt as though I had become an automated machine going through the motions of life without really experiencing it. The sensation felt like when you stare at the open road in front of you on a long, boring drive and then can’t remember how you got from one place to another. But over time, you found ways to defeat my numbness.

I then tried distracting myself with work; burying myself with so much busyness you couldn’t force your way in. But you were always there lurking in the shadows waiting for your moment to strike. Most often you would pounce when someone broke me out of my busy stupor by innocently asking, “How are you?” At that moment, my concentration broke and you flooded into every crevice of my body. Enraged, I thought to myself, “Do you REALLY want to know how I am?” But I’d bite my tongue and flatly answer, “Fine,” while you surged your pain through my body.

Having lost these battles, I began scanning over countless books and articles to try to discover your tactics and secret weapons so that I could plot my next moves.

I attended therapy and support groups to learn from the experts and others who had survived you so that I could gleam their winning strategies and use them for myself in defeating you. It didn’t do much good. I found myself withdrawing from everything and everyone around me to try to isolate myself from you and all your triggers. It only served to strengthen your resolve.

Occasionally, I won small victories. Talking about you and your oppressiveness to others seemed to send you away momentarily. But in the quiet moments, you always reappeared. Writing about you made me feel as though I had the upper hand, but the glow of victory soon faded after the last word had been written. Exercising seemed to alleviate your oppression, but in retaliation, you often cranked up your attacks to leave me too exhausted – physically and mentally – to find the motivation to work out. Spending time in nature often gave me a sense of peace and inner strength that softened you some, but could never defeat you altogether.

I spent years fighting you until I finally accepted this fact: I cannot beat you. I cannot make you go away.

In fact, the more I fight you, the stronger your feelings and emotions take over me. I’ve found that you feed on fear and anger. I’ve discovered you thrive and grow from any attempts to control or resist you.

So, if I can’t win, I officially wave my white flag and surrender. But I do so on my terms:

I Will No Longer Fear You

Despite the few times when I thought the only escape from you was to end my own life, I am still here; still standing. I have survived every painful emotion; every panic attack; every uncontrollable rage; every bout of severe depression. I am stronger than I ever thought possible, and will no longer fear your attacks. While I know some will still come out of nowhere, take my breath away and bring me to my knees, I will stay calm and know that your attack will eventually subside. I will ride the wave and let it take me where it will, knowing that eventually I will find my way home.

I Will Support Your Other Victims

Much like others supported me in my time of need; I will reach out a supportive hand to anyone who is within your grasp. I will listen quietly to their story as many times as they need to tell it. I will share my experience with those who seek it in hopes it will bring them a sense of understanding and community.

I Will Learn From You

Since you can be a destructive force to those who resist you, I will instead pull you closer and look to you as my ultimate teacher. For I have learned that deep within your pain and suffering lie kernels of truth and knowledge on how to live a meaningful life: a life without fear; a life filled with love and compassion. As you were created by losing a cherished loved one, you have love at your core. I will learn how to find the love at the center of every pain. I will learn to find the truth at the center of every fear. And when I learn these truths, I will share my knowledge with the world.

These are the terms of my surrender, and I know you have no choice but to accept them.

Just Let Me Be Sad

Just Let Me Be Sad

by

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.