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. 

ONE Word That Has the Power to Change Everything

ONE Word That Has the Power to Change Everything

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Sometimes there’s just no getting around it…

…life can suck.

To be more specific, something so horrible can happen that it seemingly sucks the life right out of you.

When my 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, died suddenly in 2009, my soul seemed to die along with her. At least, that’s what it felt like at the time. I felt empty and dead inside.

At the same time, the emotional pain was so overwhelming, it seemed to ooze out of my pores. It felt like millions of tiny shards of glass slicing me from inside out. I physically ached from head to toe. The physical pain was just as unbearable as the emotional pain.

I felt like there was no way I was going to survive each day of pure agony. But the sun inexplicably rose each morning. Sometimes, I fancied ways to make sure I DIDN’T survive another day only to face that same pain all over again. (Thankfully, I never acted on those thoughts.)

Never in a million years did I think I could survive the death of my daughter. But I did.

The impossible task of working through those painful emotions took lots of determination. Lots of patience. Lots of reaching out for support from others. And lots of years.

…

But before I move on, let’s take a step back…

All the common reactions to grief – anger, denial, numbness, isolation – are self-imposed avoidance techniques to shield ourselves from the unbearable pain. Some of us get trapped there. Too afraid to move for fear of the avalanche of untapped pain that will surely bury us. We are convinced we could never dig ourselves out. I certainly was.

And yet, over time, I chose to push forward down that treacherous path. I did it to be the mother that my other children who remain at my side needed me to be. It was fueled by the realization that I had to live again. I mean really live. And despite my initial emotional tantrums about it, I needed to invite happiness and joy into my existence once again.

There was simply no way I could spend the rest of my life as a shadow of who I once was. I was fortunate to be able to see that pain breeds more pain. Despair feeds on despair. It’s an addictive, no-win situation.

Over the years, I’ve made the conscious and deliberate decisions to stop thinking so much about the pain surrounding her death. Instead, I try to focus on the joy her life brought me. As short as those four magical years were.

Years later, it’s still hard work. But it feels less daunting with each passing day. Week. Month. Year. Why? Because each time I chip away at that seemingly endless wall of pain, I can see the progress I’ve made.

And yet, like any addiction, it’s really easy to fall back into that pit of despair. Of anger. Of hopelessness.

Back to the present…

Case in point: a few days after this New Year’s celebration, I had a moment of realization.

While I feel pain over Margareta’s death every day, I had been in a heavier funk for a handful of days. I hadn’t paid too much attention to it because it happens quite often. And I’ve learned to just ride out the rising waves of grief knowing that they will even out once again. But this one seemed stronger than usual.

Sitting with my family watching TV, I had a moment of clarity. New Year’s. Of course!

My emotions were reacting to the reality of yet another year coming and going without Margareta by our sides. Another slap in the face that we’ll NEVER have another year ever again that allows us to be with her.

Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes. A wave of despair engulfed my body.

WHY?? Why did this happen to us? How can I face THE REST OF MY LIFE without my daughter? It’s not fair. None of this is fair. I’m angry. I’m really f’ing angry and sad and hopeless that I have to live with this damn pain for the next 40 or 50 years!!

As if an act of serendipity, I suddenly remembered that a monthly support group for bereaved mothers was starting in about an hour. I knew I could go there and let it all out. If anyone would understand what I was feeling, they would.

I cried the whole way there. I was convinced that fully immersing myself in this anger and despair for the next few hours would do me good. It would be a release.

And then something unexpected happened. As I walked up to the group, I heard Katie, the woman who founded the support group, telling another mother that she wanted to focus this meeting on learning how to let happiness back into our broken lives.

She said that after three long years of feeling anger and despair, she had come to a place where she finally felt ready to be happy again. And yet she needed help. She needed to be taught how to do it this time around. She wasn’t fully convinced about the idea she kept hearing – that happiness is a choice.

And in an instant, I shed the weight of anger and despair. I happily released it into the atmosphere to float away, feeling lighter and calm. I felt like everything was okay once again.

Why? What was the magical spell that allowed me to do a complete 180 so quickly?

It can be summed up in one word: PERSPECTIVE. This one word radiates with an amazing power. It can change anything and everything in the blink of an eye.

I had been so wrapped up in my anger and despair, it began feeding on itself. And yet it is the OPPOSITE of how I want to feel. Where’s the logic in that? (There isn’t. Grief is completely illogical most of the time.)

When I heard Katie talking about wanting to be happy, I was reminded of how far I had come from those dark days. I reinforced all those choices I made along the way to be happy again.

Happiness IS a choice. It is a choice based wholly in perspective.

You can choose to focus on what is wrong and bad and painful in your life. And in doing so, you can make yourself miserable.

Or you can choose to focus your energy and attention on what is right and good and loving in your life. You can do it without pretending that nothing is wrong or painful. This is the essence of happiness.

Don’t believe me? Try it. Don’t just say you’re going to try it and do a half-assed job. Give the good things in your life your FULL attention. Write them down. Engage in them. Make choices that help encourage more of those good things.

Do that, and your mood and energy and perspective will change. Maybe not as much as you’d like at first, but with practice you’ll get better at it.

I choose to try to focus on the good in my life. The love. The happiness. This doesn’t mean I don’t get caught up in anger and sadness and frustration. But I can choose not to stay there. I choose to refocus my perspective when I’m ready and able to do so.

And it has made all the difference.

And it can for you too.

Lost in the Forest of Grief

Lost in the Forest of Grief

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There is a common expression, “You can’t see the forest for the trees.”

It means you can get so caught up in focusing on what is right in front of your face, you lose sight of the bigger picture or perspective. It is very easy to do.

Every day we must react to the multitude of things that are thrown our way. Things from our job or many other responsibilities. If you’re anything like me, your mind is almost constantly churning. I often feel overwhelmed by all the different things that seemingly need my attention every minute of the day.

It’s easy to get stuck living moment to moment, seeing only the “trees” that represent the immediate activities and emotions of your life. It’s often hard to view the entire forest that represents your overall life.

We can lose sight of the path we have taken so far, and the direction we want to head in the future. And we can unexpectedly be thrust into a life we didn’t plan for…or want.

My 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, died suddenly in 2009. And I found myself transplanted into a thick grove of new, unfamiliar “trees” in the forest that is my life.

These trees were big and scary. They grew so thick and tight, they blocked out any trace of the light from the sky. While I had some sense of direction in the previous area of the forest I inhabited, this grove of trees filled me with an indescribable pain and left me groping in the dark. I desperately tried to find a way out and back to the area I was before. But I could find none. I was lost in the forest, overwhelmed with grief.

Each humongous tree that surrounded me represented a painful feeling or emotion that I was forced to grapple with.

These trees signified feelings of guilt, helplessness, hopelessness, isolation, disbelief, despair, torment. And too many more to list. Every time I tried to force my way out of this grove of trees, I was just left bruised and battered and stuck. It exhausted me to the point where I would just fall down and sleep for long periods of time.

After remaining in this grove for quite a while, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Now, when I looked, I could make out the trees in the distance that once surrounded me. But they were out of reach. There was no path I could find to go back. It was all irrevocably blocked by the horrible reality of Margareta’s death.

I resentfully resigned myself to the understanding that I was stuck in this grove of darkness and despair. I tearfully understood that the life I once led would never come back. Once you feel this level of pain, it is like innocence lost forever to the harsh realities of life.

Then a strange, unexpected thing happened.

Instead of fighting to escape these trees of grief by squeezing my way out, I forced myself to accept them.

I embraced them as a representation of how much love I still have for my daughter. In doing this, I discovered I could climb these trees; grasping each limb on their thick trunks. I worked to express my feelings about those trees in counseling, support groups, and writing about it. Each time I did, I could climb a bit higher to where the branches thinned out and let light and fresh air in.

Over the course of several long years, I climbed all the way to the top of that grove of trees. And from that vantage point, I could see that all hope was not lost.

I could see the forest of my life. The path I had taken to get here and different ways I could move forward and out of this thick grove of grief trees. But it would take work and dedication. It would take a new perspective on the meaning and purpose of my life. And a willingness to accept that it will never be the path I intended to take.

I slowly climbed down the outer branches of that grove, trusting that they would not break and let me fall. I climbed down with a new understanding. While all of these trees in my forest of life appear to be separate from above the ground, their roots are forever intertwined below it. These intertwining roots of good and bad, love and pain, happiness and despair strengthen my forest and keep it alive and thriving. We cannot truly understand and appreciate each of these feelings without having experienced their opposite.

So as I continue to make my way through my forest of life, I find that I experience things on a deeper level than before.

I choose to focus my attention on the trees that bring the most meaning to my life. These trees usually represent relationships, passions, and feelings of purpose.

I no longer am certain of the path my life will take, but I know that no matter what happens there will always be a way forward. And if I get lost among unfamiliar trees, I will once again embrace and climb them to remind myself of where I came from, where I am now, and where I can go from here.

And you can too.

Distance in Grief

Distance in Grief

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“Time heals all wounds.”

I’m certain you’ve heard that saying. It’s a nice thought. But the truth is not so simple and clean cut as that. It makes me think whoever coined the phrase hadn’t yet suffered the devastating loss of a loved one that both shatters and redefines the world you live in.

Another new year was ushered in this past week. It will be another year that my daughter did not live to see. An unwelcome reminder that she has been gone for more years than she lived to experience. It takes me further away from her. Further from her birth, her short life, and the impossible moment of her death.

It is distance.

Distance is a difficult concept to grasp or explain in the context of grief.

It is both good and bad at the same time. Both painful and liberating. It can both soften your devastation while solidifying the difficult reality of loss.

It can help close the door to the agony of early grief, just as it unearths new aspects of grief that you hadn’t expected. And weren’t altogether ready for.

I am thankful for the distance between where I am now and the horror of the day my daughter drowned.

I no longer fear that if I close my eyes I might be forced to recall and relive the worst day of my life. I’m no longer a complete wreck who can’t manage basic functions in the world around me. I am no longer at the mercy of uncontrollable waves of emotion that might leave me a crying, angry, trembling mess for the majority of the day.

But it isn’t just distance. It is distance combined with hard work. If I had not acknowledged my grief or faced my emotions head on, I might still be trapped in a web of despair concealed by numbness. I might have completely cut myself off from any meaningful interaction with life. Or swallowed my pain and pushed it so deep that it transformed itself into a devastating and debilitating illness.

Time alone does not heal all wounds. Time just gives you more opportunities to work through your pain…or to find new ways to try to hide from it.

Distance has given me perspective. The perspective that the four years I did get to spend with my daughter is much more than those who are denied the opportunity to have children in the first place. Or those who lose children before they even take their first breath. And while I am forever grateful for having more than a few days, weeks, or months with her, distance also makes me envious of those who got to spend more time – even decades – with their children.

Four years worth of memories of my daughter don’t add up to much. I don’t have a treasure trove of stories to tell. The milestones are limited and weren’t cataloged all that well to begin with. After all, I was expecting a lifetime of them. She didn’t have friends, lovers, or children who will remember her in perpetuity. Her brothers were too young to remember most of the time they spent with her.

All those everyday moments I took for granted are eroding away on the treacherous path of distance. Details are being lost to time. My mind tries to fill in the gaps based on pictures or conjecture, but it only serves to make me question the validity of those memories I once felt so sure of.

When memories are all you have left, distance becomes your enemy…and a new form of grief.

I don’t know what distance has in store for me. Each passing day, week, month and year seem to bring new healing and personal growth. For that I am truly grateful. But it is always with an undertow of longing. I suppose it is representative of life itself. With love comes pain. With pain comes understanding. Understanding leads to growth. Personal growth brings wisdom, purpose, and fulfillment.

I suppose if I am forced to live the rest of my life without watching my daughter grow, I will continue to try to grow and thrive in her honor. From that perspective, I can’t wait to see what the future will bring.

The Worst Has Already Happened

The Worst Has Already Happened

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Growing up, I wanted to think I was a “glass half full” kind of person. But the truth is, I was always anticipating and worried about the next bad thing I was sure would happen to me. I lived amid the constant feeling that life around me was unpredictable, chaotic, and often unfair. That is a bitter pill for a little kid to swallow.

My solution to get rid of the ever present anxiety was to continually try to change myself and my behavior.

It was a desperate attempt to control the people and situations around me. I’m sure you can guess that this never seemed to work. It might have an effect for a short while, but then something would “go wrong” again.

Ironically – and unbeknownst to me at the time – it caused even more anxiety. I was constantly trying to mentally catalog the apparent cause and effect my behavior and actions had. If I did A, then B happened. Except that sometimes when I did A, then D, G, or even L happened. It was too confusing and hard to keep track of. But being prone to perfectionism, I kept trying.

Looking back, I have to wonder what my ultimate fear was.

I know for sure I didn’t like the feelings of sadness, loneliness, shame. And certainly didn’t like feeling like I was at the mercy of this unfair universe. But what was it that I was scared would happen if I didn’t keep trying to keep it all under my control? To this day, I’m still not sure.

Those feelings of anxiety and desperate attempts to control the people and situations in my life followed me into adulthood. It just became a way of life for me. And it became more complex as the years went on. There were more people and more situations I had to juggle to try to control. And bigger risks at stake.

Instead of just making sure I was getting good grades in school to get into college, I now had to make sure I kept my employers happy so that I could keep a roof over my head and food on my table. After having a family of my own, I felt the responsibility of not only trying to keep my own life under control and happy, but theirs too. The anxiety intensified, and it became overwhelming.

Overwhelming or not, it was my life, and I did the best I could at trying to balance all of it.

Amid the anxiety and complexity of my life, I was able to find some happiness. My children were beacons of light and love that I held tight to. After ending a disappointing marriage, I found love again and added a stepson and then a daughter to my beloved family.

We were a tight-knit family that focused all our free time on finding new adventures and memories to share. The anxiety and challenges never went away, but it was better balanced by the rewards my family brought.

That all ended on September 30, 2009. On that day my 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, drowned in our pool while we were at home.

On that day, I learned my ultimate lesson: no matter how tightly we try to control our lives and everything in it, we are not in charge of what happens to us.

That stark reality is scary and horrible and can be incredibly unfair, but we cannot change it.

At first, the grief of losing my daughter was like experiencing all those feelings of anxiety, sadness, loneliness, unfairness, and chaos over the course of my lifetime times infinity. True to my lifetime of experience, I tried desperately to overcome the intense feelings of grief by controlling my actions and behaviors. It didn’t work; it seemed to have the opposite effect of just intensifying them instead.

This beast that was grief was unlike anything I’d ever encountered. The harder I fought to suppress it, the worse it seemed to get.

The pain remained unbearable, so I waged this battle against grief for several years. Just as I had done before, I mentally cataloged all of the grief triggers I experienced in hopes to avoid them the next time. I adjusted my response and behavior to each trigger to try to find which ones made the pain lessen. To my frustration, none of them did and the triggers remained unpredictable and intense.

At some point, I realized that my lifelong urge to try to control my life was actually making things worse. And made the choice to stop fighting grief. In doing so, I finally began to understand what I had always been looking for. The irony that I learned this lesson in the face of my worst nightmare come true was not lost on me. It became the silver lining around the dark cloud that I was immersed in.

The reality is that the worst has already happened. My daughter is dead and there is nothing that I can do to change that.

Knowing that I survived the worst pain I will ever face has significantly reduced my anxiety and changed my perspective forever. Challenges that used to seem insurmountable or cause for alarm now appear manageable in comparison. I now know I have the inner strength to handle whatever comes my way. I now have the humility to know that I cannot control the emotions or reactions of anyone else. Showing my vulnerability and asking for help is not a sign of weakness, but one of courage and strength.

I choose to no longer look at life with a “glass half full” versus “glass half empty” mentality. The glass is what it is.

We will have good days and bad days. Our experience will include joy as well as sorrow. We will be filled with love and with pain. And we will continually be faced with challenges and uncomfortable feelings.

This is the ultimate lesson I have learned: I am not in control of my life. I never was. The only control I have is the choice to allow life to happen to me without fighting it. To accept each situation – no matter how difficult or painful. And instead, focus my attention and energy on answering the question, “What do I do next?”