Paying It Forward in Grief

Paying It Forward in Grief

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.

 

Let Me Help Carry Your Grief

Let Me Help Carry Your Grief

I see you.
I recognize the sadness in your eyes.
I feel the ache of your broken heart.
I’ve known the anguish and misery
after the death of a loved one;
not knowing how to continue living
in a world without them.

I’ve been on this journey a while now.
I remember how dark, treacherous,
and hopeless this road first felt.
I endured pain so big and heavy
it crushed the person I once was.
I see you there, suffering under
the insurmountable weight of grief.

Come and sit with me a while.
Share your story of loss, shed tears,
and let me help carry your grief.
Mine doesn’t feel heavy anymore,
and I can offer you a brief rest and
some relief from your intense pain.
Even if just for a moment or two.

Express all your feelings of torment
hidden from the rest of the world.
I’ll bear witness as someone who has
cried the tears that fill your eyes.
I’ll share with you all I’ve learned
to help lighten the burden of grief;
and not just survive, but thrive again.

Walk this path alongside me;
I’ll help you navigate your journey.
I can guide and offer you some hope.
Not the hopes and dreams you lost
when your loved one died.
New hope for a life that transforms
misery into memories and love.

Inspired by and dedicated to the people and programs of New Hope Grief Support in Long Beach, California.

Adrift in A Sea of Grief

Adrift in A Sea of Grief

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

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. 

You’re Not Alone In Your Grief

You’re Not Alone In Your Grief

If you’ve lost someone who meant more than life itself to you

You’re not alone

If you can’t believe they’re gone
or think they’ll walk through the door at any moment
or they’ll be on the other end of the phone when it rings
or you can’t bring yourself to delete them from your phone contacts

You’re not alone

If you can’t fathom how you’re going to go on living
yet you inexplicably wake up every morning
and somehow go back to work because you have to
and can’t understand how the world can just go on like it was before they died

You’re not alone

If you’re angry at your god or the world
and can’t stand hearing people laugh
and don’t think you’ll ever be able to be happy again
and bite your cheeks to keep from smiling at something funny
because you think if you are anything other than miserable it is a betrayal of your loved one

You’re not alone

If you sob uncontrollably
and make those around you uncomfortable
or can’t cry at all and wish you could
or cry over things that aren’t sad and have nothing to do with your grief

You’re not alone

If you feel like you’re going crazy
and think things like how cold and wet they must be at the cemetery when it rains
and can’t seem to remember simple things anymore
and hear their voice when you know they’re not there

You’re not alone

If you feel so exhausted you can barely stand
and every muscle in your body is sore
and your heart literally aches
and feel nauseated
and either can’t sleep or can’t stay awake

You’re not alone

If you feel isolated and alone
and completely misunderstood
and feel like you no longer relate to your family and friends
and even lose some relationships you thought would last forever

You’re not alone

If you feel like you’re losing all hope
and feel like life is not worth living anymore
and have thoughts about ending your own life

Please reach out for help
because you’re not alone

While your loss is unique to you
others have experienced similar losses
and similar thoughts and reactions
and made it through those impossible early days of grief
and learned how to be happy once more
and learned how to live a meaningful life
and are here to support you on this journey

Because you’re never alone
and people care about you