Renaming the Stages of Grief

Renaming the Stages of Grief

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Chances are, you’ve heard of the stages of grief. Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross introduced them in her 1969 book, “On Death and Dying.” The stages are:

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Breaking grief down into defined segments that have a clear beginning and end is a very nice idea. This way, you would know when you’re done with one stage and when to move onto the next. You would follow this progression until you’ve accepted your loved one’s death. Then you could come to peace with it.

The problem is, reality isn’t so simple most of the time.

There is a common misconception about the stages of grief.

I talked to a psychologist who specialized in end-of-life and grief counseling after my 4-year-old daughter’s sudden death in 2009. I asked about the stages of grief. She said she had studied under Dr. Kübler-Ross when she was younger, and explained there is a common misunderstanding about the stages of grief.

Dr. Kübler-Ross used the stages to describe the similar experiences of many terminally ill people facing their impending deaths. The stages were not in reference to someone who had lost a loved one. However, grief from losing a loved one shares very similar emotional responses. So the stages of grief became widely assigned both to people who were dying and those they ultimately left behind.

Most explanations of the stages of grief now include the caveat that grief is a unique journey and many people don’t experience these stages in a prescribed order. It is also pointed out that some people may never experience all five stages.

Instead of a roadmap, these “stages” might be more accurately described as “reactions” to grief.

They should be used to help us understand common emotions experienced on the journey of grief.

But the problem with words is they can carry different meanings to different people based on personal experience. The five stages didn’t resonate with me because my definition of those words didn’t match what I was experiencing.

So I set out to change the existing words into ones that better describe the common experiences shared by those who’ve lost a loved one.

Devastation replaces Denial.

Initially, a terminally ill patient might deny the validity of their diagnosis. After all, we continually hear feel-good stories of people who beat the odds. We hear stories of misdiagnoses or people who are miraculously cured by alternative treatments. So it would be expected that a person’s instinctual survival mode would kick in and convince themselves that they will be one of the lucky ones. Because the alternative is too scary to accept.

The pain is overwhelming in the immediate aftermath of a loved one’s death. So much so, it is impossible to comprehend how you can survive it.

You cannot wrap your mind around how you will go on living in a world that no longer includes your loved one. The word that best describes how I felt during this time was complete and utter devastation.

Just like the denial of a terminally ill person, your mind can pretend the death didn’t really happen in an attempt to avoid the pain. You might continually expect them to walk through the door, or be on the other end of the phone when it rings. Or you might keep telling yourself that this has to be a nightmare you’ll soon wake up from.

While some people never experience these illusions, for others it can go on for months or even years. But unlike a terminally ill patient who is told of a future probability that hasn’t happened yet – and therefore is not absolute – you cannot change the fact that your loved one died. You are simply trying to avoid the devastating pain that comes with that reality.

Anger is still Anger, but also Avoidance.

There is no denying that you are bound to experience some amount of anger with any kind of loss. You may be angry if you feel your loved one’s death was avoidable. Especially if it was at the hands of someone else. You might be angry at God or yourself. Some become angry at family and friends for saying unhelpful (or even hurtful) things. Or because they’re not supporting you in the way you want them to. Others may even be angry at their loved one for dying.

Many people often become angry at the simple fact that the rest of the world continues to go on as if nothing happened.

You are angry at a world that doesn’t seem to acknowledge or care that you just lost one of the most important people in your life. And you can’t figure out how you’re possibly going to live without them.

I’ve heard anger can be your mind’s way of deflecting other, more vulnerable emotions you don’t want to feel. Emotions like fear, shame, guilt, or helplessness. Or a pain so deep and intense, you have not developed the emotional tools you need to deal with it.

Anger, on the other hand, is familiar. It is a primal defense against external threats.

Yet anger isn’t meant to be prolonged or a tool for avoidance. You shouldn’t deny your anger, yet you shouldn’t let it keep you from learning how to better understand and then deal with all of those scarier, more vulnerable emotions.

Bargaining is replaced by “What if…?”

I understand how a terminally ill person would feel compelled to try to change the prognosis by making a deal with God or the universe. But we don’t have any bargaining power if our loved one has already died. Instead, many people find themselves replaying the events that led up to their loved one’s death.

We do this in a futile attempt to re-engineer and alter the outcome.

The bargaining of a terminally ill person is replaced by, “What if…?”

What if they had gone to the doctor sooner, or understood the warning signs for what they were instead of brushing them aside? What if they hadn’t gone on that fateful trip, or went on a different day? There are endless variations of decisions we could have made and actions we could have taken.

Many of us go through this heart-wrenching exercise for weeks or months on end. It becomes a desperate attempt to regain the previously held illusion that we are in control over what happens to us in our lives.

But try as we might, all of these “What if…?” scenarios only end in feelings of regret, helplessness, guilt, or misery. The sooner we decide to stop asking, “What if…,” the sooner we are able to begin the slow journey of tending to our broken hearts.

Overwhelmed replaces Depression.

Read a list of the symptoms of depression when you’ve recently lost someone dear to you, and you’ll likely identify with most of them. However, I’ve heard some psychologists and grief counselors argue that instead of calling it clinical depression, it is simply our natural response to such a significant loss. It includes feelings of sadness, emptiness, and hopelessness. It causes complete and utter exhaustion, sore muscles, loss of appetite or mindless eating. Grief can cause severe insomnia or feeling the urge to escape a painful reality with constant sleep. It can even bring feelings of wanting to end your life; thinking it is the only way you’ll ever escape the unrelenting pain.

Regardless of whatever you or others want to call it, it is completely overwhelming.

Problem can occur when the overwhelming feelings and emotions interfere with your ability to go back to work or go about your daily life. Some people choose to take medication. Others oppose it. Regardless of what you decide is best for you, the important thing to remember is that what you are experiencing is a normal reaction to such a devastating loss.

In my personal experience, it is important that you be patient with yourself and allow all of these feelings to wash over you in order to process them and eventually let them go. The more you try to repress them, the longer they will stay.

Acceptance becomes Healing.

In the case of a terminally ill patient, the idea of acceptance is to stop fighting and find a way to come to peace with the inevitable reality of impending death. I can imagine this is the most difficult step of all. And some may never reach it. Similarly, some who have lost a loved one – a child in particular – may never come to “accept” the death. To many, acceptance often implies agreement or approval. To others, acceptance may imply severing ties to a past we cannot let go of.

Acceptance doesn’t have to mean any of this.

In the case of losing a loved one, acceptance may simply mark the moment we are ready to begin our journey of healing.

Our loved one is dead; we can’t change that. Instead, we have two choices. First, we can choose to stay wrapped up in a security blanket of misery. Why? Some feel it is the strongest, most palpable connection we have left to our loved one. It may feel as though we would be betraying or diminishing our love for them if we were to ever be happy in a world without them. I have been there myself, and place no judgment on those who are not ready to leave that world.

When you are ready, you can choose to begin to find a new way forward in a world that may not include our loved one, but continues to acknowledge and incorporate the deep, profound love we still feel – and always will. We can choose to embrace the overwhelming pain and learn from it. We can learn to allow joy and happiness back into our lives. And ultimately, we can choose to heal.

…

Those are my choices for new words to replace the traditional “stages” of grief. If those don’t resonate with you, then replace them with ones that do. Ultimately, the stages – or reactions – of grief are only there to let you know you’re not alone in this journey.

Wishing you peace.

Everyone Grieves Differently

Everyone Grieves Differently

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In the months after my daughter’s death in 2009, I struggled with the notion that others around me didn’t appear to be grieving the “right way.”

Initially, I was frustrated that for the most part, my husband and other children didn’t openly cry or talk about her death the same way I did.

Occasionally, I felt outright angry that they appeared to be knowingly suppressing their pain, or showing signs of depression while refusing my urges for them to go to grief counseling. Despite no spoken requests from them, I took cues from their silence and felt compelled to tone down my own feelings of despair around my family. It made me feel isolated in the place where I thought I should be getting the most support – at home.

Not getting the specific type of support I wanted at home, I desperately looked for it in other places. I read book after book about death and grief. So driven to talk about my daughter’s death and the devastation it brought, I went to grief counselors and support groups. Talking about my unbearable pain seemed to me the only way to survive it.

But even in those settings – while there were many similarities in how we grieved – I still found myself frustrated at the numerous differences.

It seemed the experience of losing a child was different than losing a parent, spouse, or other cherished loved one. But even when I was around other bereaved parents, there were other differences. They included the age of the child when they died, the circumstance of their death, the support systems each person had in place, or the length of time since their child had died.

While I appreciated the opportunity to find some solace in telling my story to all these people, I ended up comparing their grief to my own.

In the beginning, I was doing it to try to figure out the “right” way to grieve; the way that would somehow alleviate my intense suffering. Talking helped, but nobody shared my exact situation. Therefore, no one shared all the same combination of struggles as me. It made me frustrated.

Later in my grief, if I saw where others struggled in areas I seemed to have a handle on, I offered advice. Just like the situation with my immediate family in the early months, I thought I knew what was best for these people. When they wouldn’t follow my advice – despite it being offered in the best of intentions – I found myself frustrated again.

The problem with this approach is that it can unintentionally imply that there is a “wrong” and a “right” way to grieve. But there isn’t.

I can pinpoint the moment when this all became perfectly clear to me. It was while attending a Compassionate Friends conference. During a session, the speaker talked about her own experience of losing her son, and how she grieved differently than both her husband and other son. She discussed studies that showed the typical ways fathers, mothers, and siblings grieve the death of a child (no matter their age). It all confirmed my own experiences.

But then she said something I’d never thought of before. She suggested the main reason we grieve differently – even in the case of a family grieving the same loved one – is because we are not grieving the person. Rather, we are grieving our relationship with that person.

Every relationship is unique. So too is our reaction to losing that relationship. In this example, a father’s relationship with his child is fundamentally different than that of a mother’s relationship with that same child. And neither the mother nor the father can truly understand the relationship their surviving child(ren) had with that same child. You can apply this concept to any family member or friend.

So even if my earlier attempts to find someone who had experienced a loss in the exact same set of circumstances as me had worked, I still wouldn’t have found the solace I was looking for. Even if our circumstances were somehow the same, our relationships with our loved one could never be the same. Therefore, our grief wouldn’t be either.

Ultimately, I’m left with the understanding that what works for me, works for me. It may or may not work for others.

My way of grieving is not “right” and different ways are not “wrong.”

While I still may be tempted to offer advice to others, I have learned not to judge if they don’t take it. My hope still remains that everyone faced with a devastating loss will somehow find their way through it with the support and understanding they need.

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.

Overcoming the Fear of Death

Overcoming the Fear of Death

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For most of my life, I feared death.

As a child, I would end up in a state of panic if I thought about what happens when we die. So, I would go to great lengths to distract myself from thinking about it. I’ve had many nightmares throughout my life where I face certain death.

The most common, recurring nightmare was being trapped in a car that was plummeting off a cliff toward the ocean below. I would wake up seconds before the car impacted the water with my heart pounding.

Religion has never been a part of my life, and never will. I don’t believe the idea of heaven and hell from any religious perspective.

In my mind, there were only two plausible ideas of what happens to us after death. The first was the idea of reincarnation. The second was that we just die and our body becomes part of the earth.

Neither one sounded comforting or appealing to my childhood logic. If I was reincarnated, I would be an entirely different person and have no memories of this current lifetime. If death equaled nothingness, it amounts to the same thing. The idea that my life, my identity, and my memories would all be “erased” turned death into the ultimate fear for me. So I taught myself to not think about my own death whenever possible.

In 2009, I experienced something far worse than my ultimate fear. Not my own impending death, but the death of someone whose life was more important than my own: my child.

In the early days and months after my daughter’s death, I once again grappled with what death meant. I was forced to face the dreaded question of what happens to us after we die. After reading many books and talking with others, I found no real answers or concrete evidence. The absolute reassurance I was looking for was unattainable. All I knew was that I desperately wanted her to still be with me.

In some moments, I actually wanted to die. Because if there was even the slightest chance of some sort of afterlife, it would mean I could be with her again. Not to mention, it seemed the only form of escape from the oppressive pain I felt. Of course, I knew the pain of my own death would cause my family even more anguish. So I never came close to doing anything to cause my own death.

During my overwhelming grief, I began to notice what seemed like signs from my daughter.

They started off as fascinating coincidences. But the more I noticed them, the more they felt like someone was trying to tell me something. Some signs involved dragonflies or ladybugs. But mostly I started seeing repeating numbers or number patterns each day, multiple times a day. None of this had ever happened before her death.

I only told a few select people about these apparent signs. Some brushed it off as my mind wanting to assign meaning to things that had none. But others wholeheartedly accepted the idea that they were indeed signs from my daughter. Yet, as hopeful as I was that these signs were from my daughter, I was still skeptical on some level.

After years of receiving continual signs, I am convinced that they are my daughter’s way of reassuring me that she is always with me.

I now believe our consciousness continues to exist after our death. I don’t know how or “where.” But I am no longer afraid of death.

Once my fear of death was alleviated, an interesting thing happened. I’ve since had several dreams of plummeting in a car towards the ocean as I did growing up. But they had changed. I’m still falling towards the water in fear, but I no longer woke up in a panic just before hitting the water.

Instead, I dreamt I went into the water. And instead of struggling for breath, I surrendered to the situation and relaxed. In doing so, I didn’t feel pain or panic. Instead, I felt completely at peace.

I think that must be what death is like: a state of complete and absolute peace.

Navigating the Ebb and Flow of Grief

Navigating the Ebb and Flow of Grief

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

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

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

And they were right.

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

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

And yet grief remains a constant part of my life.

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

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

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

But sometimes it lingers and grows.

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

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

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

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