Paying It Forward in Grief

Paying It Forward in Grief

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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.

 

Healing Milestones After The Death Of A Child

Healing Milestones After The Death Of A Child

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The death of a child is so profound, it’s like no other form of loss. There’s no such thing as getting over the death of a child. Instead, bereaved parents must learn to adapt to a life without our child. We must reconcile the reality that we’ll feel some level of pain for the rest of our lives. 

This is the long, slow process of healing after the death of a child. 

The intense pain in the aftermath of my daughter’s death felt devastating and unbearable. In most support groups I’ve attended, the most common questions I heard from newly bereaved parents is some version of, “How long will this pain last? Will it ever end?” 

The answer to that question is complicated because grief is a very individual experience. Like snowflakes, no two grief journeys will ever be the same. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, and there’s no standard timeline. Due to varying factors, some parents just learn to adapt and reconcile faster than others.

Since there is no end point of being fully healed after the death of a child, how can you gauge your healing progress? 

Looking back at my own journey after the death of my 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, I see three major turning points. These milestones are markers of when I was able to shift my perspective to better adapt to a life without her and reconcile my ongoing pain. 

Milestone 1: Separating the memories of my child from those of her death

For three years, my grief was entirely focused on the trauma caused by her death. I was trapped in endless questions of “What if?” and “Why?” Having been so focused on my pain, I eventually realized I had lost sight of what I was actually grieving the loss of: the love and joy Margareta had brought into my life. 

I began to fear that I was going to forget all the smaller details about her short life. And the idea of losing her all over again was terrifying. 

I had to emotionally separate my daughter from the day she died, and no longer let the devastation of her death overshadow the beauty of her life. That shift in focus allowed me to start adjusting to a life without her physical presence. And as I began to turn my thoughts to all the happy memories I have of her, the severity of my pain started to lessen. 

Milestone 2: The decision to forgive

Margareta drowned in 2009, and for years after her death, my overwhelming guilt intensified the pain of my grief. I felt as though I didn’t deserve any form of  happiness in a world in which I didn’t keep her safe. I had failed at my most important job.

For years, grief counselors and bereaved parents told me her death was a tragic accident and that I should let go of my guilt. Most of the time when we let our children out of our sight, they’re fine. Only on rare occasions they’re not. Logically, I understood their rationale, but emotionally I wasn’t in a place where I could let go of my guilt. After all, she was only four and it was my job to protect her. I begged for her forgiveness every time I went to the cemetery. 

But then something changed after I began to focus on Margareta’s life instead of her death. Instead of obsessing over my failing to keep her safe on the day she died, my memories of her reminded me of all the things I had done right as a mother. It dawned on me that I didn’t need Margareta’s forgiveness — I needed to forgive myself. Just as her death cannot overshadow her beautiful life, I decided my failure on that day should not define the entirety of mine. 

While I will always feel guilt on some level, my decision to forgive myself paved the way for allowing happiness back into my life. After all, I still have four wonderful living children and a loving, supportive husband. In cultivating happiness once again, the level of my day-to-day pain lessened even more.  

Milestone 3: Letting go of what was and acknowledging what is

Another difficult aspect of my grief is the fact that I (and other bereaved parents) didn’t just lose my child. We lost the person we used to be, and can never be again. Our hopes and dreams for our child are now shattered forever. And in the midst of being crushed by grief, many bereaved parents lose relationships and friendships they once thought would last the rest of their lives. 

The world we once knew is suddenly gone, and many of us desperately want it back. We want to go back to being the person we were; back to a time when pain didn’t suffocate every minute of the day. In my case, I wanted to return to the illusion that I had some amount of control over what happens to me. 

Like many others, I couldn’t bring myself to let go of the idea that I could reclaim my old life. Obviously my daughter would no longer be a part of it, but I thought that somehow I could otherwise go back to the way things were. I fought grief as if it could somehow be defeated. 

After I wrote down all my memories of Margareta, I started to journal about my grief. Over time, this allowed me to see that I could never defeat grief. Journaling showed me that my grief could transform from searing pain to a dull ache…but it could never fully go away. I will never stop longing for my daughter and feeling a sense of loss. 

By coming to terms with the fact that her death has changed me and my life in ways that cannot be undone, I finally decided to stop fighting grief. And when I did that, I began to see that some of the changes in me were, in fact, good. I learned more about myself and my needs in a few short years than I had in the entirety of my life prior to Margareta’s death. My grief led me to grow as a person and begin to cultivate a new life that focused on what matters most to me. 

It’s been 12 years since Margareta’s death.

While my grief can still occasionally intensify and overcome me, most days the dull ache of missing her is easily managed. I’ve learned to focus more on the present moments of day-to-day life, which makes my pain barely noticeable most of the time. 

I still think of her every day. That is how I keep her present in my life. But these days, thoughts of my daughter are filled with love, not pain. And that’s my definition of healing. 

Adrift in A Sea of Grief

Adrift in A Sea of Grief

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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.

Living in the Shadow of a Child’s Death

Living in the Shadow of a Child’s Death

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What does it mean to live?

The fact that our hearts are beating, blood is flowing, and brains are functioning as we read this means we’re alive, right? But for those of us who have lost a child, I have to wonder if we’re really living?

It doesn’t matter their age or the circumstance of our child’s death.

We stop living when we hear those horrible words, “Your child is dead.” In that dreadful moment, we go from living to merely existing.

Our hearts still beat and our blood still flows. Our brains still think. But every last ounce of our energy and existence is now focused on accomplishing basic functions “normal” people take for granted.

Things like getting up in the morning when all we want to do is hide under the covers in bed. We lay there waiting for our own life to end so we can be with the child we just lost. Or remembering to breathe when we’ve held our breath too long. We hold it trying to fight back the avalanche of despair and flood of tears that threaten to smother us if we let them loose. Things like eating, bathing, or venturing into the outside world. None of those things seem to hold much use or meaning to us anymore.

In some unfathomable way, we continue to exist despite not wanting any part of a world in which our child no longer lives.

Many bereaved parents feel this way for months and years after their child has died. We hear pleas from family, friends, and the outside world to “move on” with our life. In other words, to get back to being the person we were and living the way we once did. But bereaved parents often have no idea how to transition from merely existing to living once more in a world without their child. And some parents simply no longer want to. And for those who don’t, I completely understand.

Years ago, I heard those horrible words, “Your daughter is dead.” On that day, I began my existence as a bereaved parent. And it took me a long time to be able to embrace the idea of living in this world that my daughter is no longer a part of.

So what exactly is the difference between existing and living?

The answer is not so simple. Every person is unique, so every person’s definition of living is unique. And that definition is subject to change over time. My personal definition of living has changed since Margareta died. The act of living for me now has three basic components.

First, I have come to accept that pain is an inevitable and inescapable part of my life. But I can lessen it by recognizing and focusing my energy on the love, joy, sweetness, and opportunities of life that surround me. That is, if I take the time and effort to look for them. Unlike the early days of my grief, I no longer believe the destructive idea that embracing the good things in my life somehow means I’m “okay” with my daughter’s death.

Second, every person on this planet has something they are inherently good at. And I have learned to embrace what I am talented at and passionate about and then using it to help others. In doing this, I become part of something larger than just myself and my existence. It provides purpose and meaning in my life. And finding purpose and meaning has been the biggest source of healing my grief over the years.

Finally, living means consistently trying to be brave enough to keep pushing beyond my comfort zone. Knowing every day may be my last, I must push the boundaries to find new ways of thinking, situations, activities, and adventures that feel nourishing and supportive.

I won’t lie. These things aren’t easy. Depending on how I’m feeling and what is going on at any given time, they can be downright hard. They take continual effort, practice, and intention. And above all, they require me to believe I deserve to be living after the death of my daughter.  

For bereaved parents, that belief that we could ever deserve a life with happiness, joy, meaning, and purpose once more is one of the hardest to come by in the shadow of our child’s death.

We must overcome the innate feeling that we failed at the most important part of our lives. We failed to protect our child and keep them from harm – no matter what the circumstances were. It is what keeps us awake at night and makes us think we don’t deserve to feel happiness ever again. It’s what keeps many bereaved parents stuck in despair and hopelessness. They resign themselves to merely existing instead of living.

I can’t recall the moment I started to truly believe I deserved to embrace life once again. But I know it took a lot of hard work processing my grief. And learning to let go of the immense guilt I felt over my daughter’s death. It took reaching out to a network of grief support organizations.

I know full well that living my life will require continual effort, practice, and intention for the rest of my days.

And that’s okay. I do it because I know I deserve to be happy. And because the family that remains by my side deserves to have me fully present in their lives. I do it in honor of my daughter. As long as I am living my life, she is my guiding light, my inspiration, and forever in the forefront of my thoughts. And that’s where I want her to remain. 

The Wound Time Won’t Heal

The Wound Time Won’t Heal

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We’ve all heard it.

“Time heals all wounds,” sounds incredibly hopeful for someone who’s drowning in grief. Except when time doesn’t heal your wound.

Later this year will mark eight years since my 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, died. She died exactly 29 days after her fourth birthday. That means we had 1,489 glorious days to spend with her — the only daughter in a family full of boys.

One of my grandmothers died last year at the age of 98. My other grandmother is in her 90s. Based on those genes, I can probably expect to live until close to a century old. If that is true, Margareta will have been alive for about 4% of my life.

4%. 0.04. A small fraction by most measurements. A blip in my overall life. Except that she’s anything but.

Coming up on eight years since her death, she will have been gone twice as long as she lived. The small details of her life are already being lost to time. And yet I still think of her every day, multiple times a day. This isn’t a bad thing. Every time I think of her is an opportunity to celebrate the love between us.

But lying just under the surface of my day-to-day life is the endless pain that surrounds the memories of my daughter. 

Anything can trigger it. My chest tightens. My breathing pauses. The tears begin to well up behind my eyes.

I find myself suspended in a bubble of torment while the world goes on around me — not caring that my daughter is dead and that I have to live in that reality for the rest of my life.

A friend told me a story once. She was waiting in line at the grocery store. An elderly woman in front of her — perhaps in her 80s — was staring at the cover of a magazine that featured an adorable baby boy. A smile grew on the woman’s face.

“He looks like my son,” she said to no one in particular. The clerk ringing her up paid little notice.

“He was so beautiful,” she said with pride. Then her tone changed. “He died when he was a baby.” 

The clerk looked bewildered; said nothing and continued ringing her up. 

My friend tried to comfort her by acknowledging her son and her loss. But the woman was lost in the simultaneous love and grief she had for her child who was only in her life a few short years well over half a century ago.

I can see myself in that woman. Forever juggling the overwhelming love of her precious child with the crushing pain of having lost him so long ago. I can feel her despair; the need to tell complete strangers that he existed. That he mattered.

Can time really heal all wounds? No. Not this wound. Not in this lifetime.

But really…it’s okay. It doesn’t have to relegate us to a lifetime of depression and despair.

The wound that won’t heal can transform itself into a continual reminder that this life of ours should be lived. Not just in a get-through-each-day kind of life, but a life that recognizes the gift that each day brings…because we know all too well that the next is never guaranteed.

With dedication and intention, we can turn a wound that forever remains open into fertile ground. From that fertile wound grows new meaning for our life.

The warmth and depth of our love is the brilliant sun that shines down on our fertile ground. The tears we shed is the rain that helps our garden grow. 

Our garden of grief grows resilience, compassion, and purpose.

We grow.

We grow for our children who didn’t get to.