Everyone Grieves Differently

Everyone Grieves Differently

by

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.

Jeremy’s Rock

Jeremy’s Rock

by

Jeremy's RockThere is a time in everyone’s life when everything seems to come together like the pieces of a puzzle. We have to share the gift of our faith and of God’s love, and demonstrate how God even shows it  physically to us. In my case, it is a rock – a simple rock picked up off the ground and handed to me by my child. Big Deal? How many times do our kids give us rocks, leaves, bugs?? How many times have you missed the message God sent to you through a child? I know I have several times, I wasn’t always watching, or listening close enough.

Jeremy had been sick off and on that winter (everyone was sick with colds or flu). It was Wednesday, and we were walking down to John’s shop to get into the car. I took Jeremy to school each morning to St. Joe, then would drive to the Cleaner’s where I worked (they were only about 3 blocks apart at the most). This was just an ordinary day, like every other day, as far as I was concerned. Little did I know ..this would be our last day like this.

I remember Jeremy bent down and picked up a rock and handed it to me. I asked, “What’s this for ?”

One of us said “Something to hold on to”. Being a typical parent on a typical day, I put it on the seat between us, and forgot about it.

Jeremy stayed home from school the next day. He was not feeling well so I let him stay home. I did not leave until 8:30 and would be home at 11:00 for lunch. Pooh and Shawn would be in and out during the day. And John would be home by 3:45. No problems, just a typical day  in the lives of a typical family. That was Thursday, remember.

Jeremy had a restless night, I got up and sat with him during the night. At one point, he said, “Mommy, as tired as I am, you’ve got to be more tired.” I said, “Baby, when you go to sleep and get some rest, I’ll go to bed…” I covered  him with a quilt. We held hands and I said, “I love you, baby,” and he said, “I love you too, Mommy.”

I know I dozed a little later. I woke up when my chin hit my chest. I looked at Jeremy who looked like he he was sleeping peacefully and I went to bed. I looked at the alarm clock. It was 2:30. I get up in 3 hours to start my day for work. I went to sleep.

The next thing I remember was John’s voice, moaning and calling my name. I went into Jeremy’s bedroom. Our son had died in his sleep. My baby was gone from his body.

I will not go into all of details from the next few days. That is not the purpose for me to write this down today. I feel like I should move onto the next part, ok? Please bear with me?

Jeremy’s funeral was on Monday. It was painful, sad, and beautiful. There was so much love around us, yet each of us felt alone in our own thoughts and emotions. Grief does that to you.

We hugged a lot, cried buckets of tears, and moved deliberately step by step. I was afraid to stop, for fear I could not begin again if I lost momentum.

Pooh and I went to do some errands on Tuesday. This was the first time I had driven my car since Thursday. I put my hand down to fasten the seat belt, and my hand touched “The Rock”. The words “something to hold onto” held a different meaning this day. I carry that rock with me now always.

Sometimes it is in my pocket, sometimes it is in my purse, but it is always with me somewhere. John picked upon the rock, but never knew the story in the beginning. He went up on our roof to get one of the rocks that Jeremy used to knock up there with a tennis racket… John still carries his rock in his pocket every day.

A plain ordinary rock…like the ones we see every day…but we ignore. We just cannot always see the  meaning in all the little signs that we are given every day. We get too busy in living our crazy lives, and we miss the things that God has given to us. “His Love is the Solid Rock” that we should “Hold On To”…and never set it down.

Now I am asking each of you to pick up a rock, keep it for yourself, or give it away to some one who needs to be encouraged. Tell them it is a gift from God, through the heart of a child. Then pass on Jeremy’s story and what he told me with his rock. We never know if it might be our last chance to make a difference in their lives — or in our own life.

Hold onto the Rock! Peace be with you always, Debbie.

Written Sept 27, 2006

Submitted to Alive in Memory by Deb Jones in loving memory of her son, Jeremy.

Feeling Guilt After the Loss of a Loved One

Feeling Guilt After the Loss of a Loved One

by

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.

Grief and the Loss of Control

Grief and the Loss of Control

by

Possibly one of the hardest aspects of grief for me has been that I can’t control it.

The majority of my life was filled with desperate attempts to try to control everything in it. I wanted life to be predictable and – above all – peaceful. The problem has been what I tried to control and how I’d gone about it.

I spent many, many years trying to control the people and situations around me. I did this through careful, strategic use of my own words, actions (or lack thereof), and responses. It was exhausting and depressing. And as you can imagine, it never really worked. Maybe I could temporarily create the illusion of control; but it would never last.

Many, including myself, try to control our lives out of a need to feel safe or secure in our surroundings.

Fear of the unknown can be incredibly scary, and even panic-inducing. We experience many uncomfortable feelings like hurt, anxiety, frustration, anger, or guilt due to various situations and people around us. And we tend to want to do anything and everything to make those feelings subside. Sometimes, we can take various actions to change the situation or influence the person to behave differently.

But many times, we are completely at the mercy of unpredictability and the unknown. Death and grief are one of those times.

On the day my daughter drowned, there was a chaos of paramedics trying to revive her. I remember pleading with whoever happened to be listening to save her. I can hear myself screaming, “Please save her. SHE CAN’T DIE.” This was all amid my hysterical sobs and falling to my knees.

The idea that she was dead and couldn’t be saved was unacceptable. No. Through sheer determination, I would will her back to life. And yet, even on that day while I watched the paramedics and then the ER staff desperately work on her for what seemed like hours, part of me knew she had already died.

The grief that took over in the aftermath of her death was overwhelming.

Looking back, I’m not sure what was worse: the excruciating pain of missing my daughter, or the complete and utter lack of control of anything.

I couldn’t change what happened and bring her back to life. I couldn’t control my thoughts or emotions and was a complete wreck for days and weeks. Things that used to be automatic and easy, like cooking or showering were now unbearable and almost impossible. I could no longer tell my other children everything would be ok when I couldn’t possibly imagine that anything would ever be “ok” again.

But it wasn’t just a loss of control. It was being face-to-face with the unknown.

Questions raced through my head. What if I had just stopped to play with her the last time she asked? What if I had brought her with me that morning? Why did it happen to us? Will I ever be ok again? What is going to happen to my family? My other children? My marriage? What happens after we die? Will I ever see her again? None of these questions could be answered. I couldn’t control any of it by choosing the “right” words or actions.

As time went on, my grief took many unexpected twists and turns. I never knew how I would feel from one moment to the next.

I never knew what would trigger my emotions and leave me a crying mess, or in an angry rage, or in a state of panic. And the triggers themselves were random and unpredictable. I would desperately try to figure out what triggered me to try to avoid it in the future. But most of the time, I felt completely out of control. And despite attending counseling and support groups, there was nothing I could really do about it.

I’m not sure when I came to terms with it.

I’m not sure when I accepted that grief, in its very nature, is unpredictable and uncontrollable. But when I did finally accept it, it had an unexpected result: I felt relief.

It was as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Now, when intense grief appears seemingly out of nowhere, I am better able to accept it, process it, seek support for it. And I know that it will eventually pass.

I don’t know what the future will bring, but for the first time in my life, I’m okay with that.

I work on resisting the urge to control others with my words and actions. Instead, I try to speak the truth and express my feelings and needs. I’m okay with focusing on the here and now, yet not forsaking planning for the future. It takes less energy, produces less anxiety, and provides more contentment. It allows me to enjoy the moment.

But I would be lying if I didn’t admit I still wish I could change the past.

I love and miss you, Margareta.

Looking for Hope in the New Year After the Loss of a Loved One

Looking for Hope in the New Year After the Loss of a Loved One

by

For many, welcoming in the New Year is a celebration of optimism and hope. Many see it as a fresh start. The New Year’s resolution tradition is a yearly chance to improve your life and perhaps yourself.

Of course, this isn’t a view shared by all.

For the newly bereaved, the New Year’s “celebration” can be an incredibly painful milestone and reminder.

My 4-year-old daughter died on September 30, 2009. In my overwhelming grief, I had been preoccupied with anxious anticipation of how I was going to handle Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I had agonized over what I should do or not do to make those three holidays any less painful. I had worried about whether I would break down or have a panic attack on days that were supposed to be celebrations. Since I had never been much of a participant in New Year’s Eve festivities, it didn’t even occur to me that the New Year holiday would be a big deal.

And yet, I was completely blindsided by just how painful the New Year’s holiday was for me. In the week between Christmas and New Year’s, I began to realize I was actually dreading it.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that a new year was coming and my daughter wouldn’t be alive in it.

New Year’s would bring me no resolutions, hope, or optimism. All I saw was more impossible pain on the horizon. The harsh reality that my daughter wasn’t going to be alive in 2010 made me downright angry that this new year was being welcomed and celebrated by the rest of the world.

Some of you reading this may feel the same despair I did those years ago. The idea that anything good can ever happen again may feel impossible. The mere idea of smiling, laughing, and enjoying life may feel like a betrayal of your loved one. And if you feel that way, it’s okay. It’s a normal reaction to grief.

Only when you feel ready, I encourage you to give yourself permission to look for hope again. But this time with a new perspective.

Perhaps it is like a New Year’s resolution. Not the myriad of resolutions that are doomed from the start because they are too ambitious and too vague. Most people fail these broad resolutions because they try to take on too much at once. They don’t have the willpower to change the lifelong habits that are barriers to their goals.

The resolutions I am suggesting are ones that have very specific, small, and ACHIEVABLE goals. The key to success is to try to un-learn every day habits that normally get in the way of achieving your goals. You can change your habits by setting mini goals that are SO simple to achieve, you actually do them. And if you do them consistently for a certain length of time, they become new, positive habits.

Getting back to the idea of allowing yourself to look for hope in the New Year. If I were to suggest mini goals based on my personal experience with grief, here’s what they might be.

Say or write ONE word that describes how you are feeling every day.

One of the hardest parts of grief is our natural reaction to try to suppress the pain. This might be done through outright denial, keeping busy (and therefore distracted from it), numbing it with drugs or alcohol, etc. The problem with this approach is that suppressing the pain only makes it worse. And it can even prolong the severity of your pain.

By saying or writing one word that describes how you feel each day, you begin to learn how to express your feelings. And when you express them, you can begin to work through them. When you work through them, you can ultimately let those painful feelings go. Words that I might have used four years ago to describe how I felt could include: despair, guilt, panic, fatigued, hopeless, numb, disbelief, angry, despondent. The list goes on.

Acknowledge ONE nice thing that happened every day.

When you are deep in grief, you tend to focus on what you’ve lost and the searing pain associated with it. Your world might become bleak and filled with despair. By acknowledging one nice thing that happened that day, you can begin to create a habit of gratitude, hope, and optimism.

Even if you had this habit before your loss, you will likely experience it in a more meaningful way. Nice things could be as simple as someone holding the elevator door for you. Or as significant as a friend stopping by to say hello and let you know they care about you.

Do ONE thing to take care of yourself every day.

This may not be difficult for some. But for myself and many others I know, this can be challenging even when you are NOT grieving. But in early grief, your energy is usually completely gone most of the time. Even basic chores like cooking or laundry can feel downright impossible. If there is one time in your life that you need to take care of yourself, it is now.

For example, you can ask your family or friends to help with things you normally take for granted. Things like cooking a meal, doing a load of laundry, etc. You can eat something healthy when you don’t have any appetite. Or take a nap when you feel exhausted. You can let yourself cry if you feel the urge. Taking care of yourself could even be something like treating yourself to a massage to help relieve the aching tension you are likely feeling.

Smile ONCE every day.

For some, this may be the most difficult mini goal of them all. For a long time it was for me. I felt that if I smiled, it would somehow mean I was okay with my daughter’s death. For a long time I literally thought I had to be miserable for the rest of my life because of how much I missed her.

Yet, for the sake of my other children, I forced myself to smile again. At first, the smiles weren’t authentic. But eventually the fake smiles led the way to real smiles. Further down the road, the permission to smile led to feeling happiness and even joy once again. Happiness and joy lead to hope and optimism.

That is my ultimate wish for you – happiness, joy, hope, and optimism. You will likely have to re-learn how to invite them into your life. Yet your ultimate motivation and guide will likely be the deep, enduring love you feel for the loved one you lost. And I know there is no end to the depth of that love.