The Terms of My Surrender

The Terms of My Surrender

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From the moment you came into my life, I hated you. I despised you. You came on the heels of my worst nightmare come true – the death of my young daughter.

I didn’t know your name at the time. I just knew that you brought with you all the horrible feelings and emotions I had spent a lifetime learning how to repress and ignore.

You broke my defenses down like they were candles trying to stay lit in a hurricane. You pounded me with pain, panic, anger, confusion, hysterics, anguish. And too many more to list.

Mostly you came in waves. Pounding one emotion down on me after another, but in such quick succession it was hard to even breathe or stand. Sometimes the feelings and emotions came in combinations, leaving me a shaking, sobbing, angry mess.

Soon, people around me who knew better told me that you had a name. Your name was Grief.

When I realized who you were and how you operated, I decided to wage war on you. I felt I couldn’t possibly continue the barrage of emotions that constantly debilitated me, so I became determined to stop you in your tracks and send you back to the depths of darkness you came from.

In the early weeks and months, my first defense against you was to “play dead” like an opossum being hunted by predators. My mind became numb to dull your overwhelming pain. I felt as though I had become an automated machine going through the motions of life without really experiencing it. The sensation felt like when you stare at the open road in front of you on a long, boring drive and then can’t remember how you got from one place to another. But over time, you found ways to defeat my numbness.

I then tried distracting myself with work; burying myself with so much busyness you couldn’t force your way in. But you were always there lurking in the shadows waiting for your moment to strike. Most often you would pounce when someone broke me out of my busy stupor by innocently asking, “How are you?” At that moment, my concentration broke and you flooded into every crevice of my body. Enraged, I thought to myself, “Do you REALLY want to know how I am?” But I’d bite my tongue and flatly answer, “Fine,” while you surged your pain through my body.

Having lost these battles, I began scanning over countless books and articles to try to discover your tactics and secret weapons so that I could plot my next moves.

I attended therapy and support groups to learn from the experts and others who had survived you so that I could gleam their winning strategies and use them for myself in defeating you. It didn’t do much good. I found myself withdrawing from everything and everyone around me to try to isolate myself from you and all your triggers. It only served to strengthen your resolve.

Occasionally, I won small victories. Talking about you and your oppressiveness to others seemed to send you away momentarily. But in the quiet moments, you always reappeared. Writing about you made me feel as though I had the upper hand, but the glow of victory soon faded after the last word had been written. Exercising seemed to alleviate your oppression, but in retaliation, you often cranked up your attacks to leave me too exhausted – physically and mentally – to find the motivation to work out. Spending time in nature often gave me a sense of peace and inner strength that softened you some, but could never defeat you altogether.

I spent years fighting you until I finally accepted this fact: I cannot beat you. I cannot make you go away.

In fact, the more I fight you, the stronger your feelings and emotions take over me. I’ve found that you feed on fear and anger. I’ve discovered you thrive and grow from any attempts to control or resist you.

So, if I can’t win, I officially wave my white flag and surrender. But I do so on my terms:

I Will No Longer Fear You

Despite the few times when I thought the only escape from you was to end my own life, I am still here; still standing. I have survived every painful emotion; every panic attack; every uncontrollable rage; every bout of severe depression. I am stronger than I ever thought possible, and will no longer fear your attacks. While I know some will still come out of nowhere, take my breath away and bring me to my knees, I will stay calm and know that your attack will eventually subside. I will ride the wave and let it take me where it will, knowing that eventually I will find my way home.

I Will Support Your Other Victims

Much like others supported me in my time of need; I will reach out a supportive hand to anyone who is within your grasp. I will listen quietly to their story as many times as they need to tell it. I will share my experience with those who seek it in hopes it will bring them a sense of understanding and community.

I Will Learn From You

Since you can be a destructive force to those who resist you, I will instead pull you closer and look to you as my ultimate teacher. For I have learned that deep within your pain and suffering lie kernels of truth and knowledge on how to live a meaningful life: a life without fear; a life filled with love and compassion. As you were created by losing a cherished loved one, you have love at your core. I will learn how to find the love at the center of every pain. I will learn to find the truth at the center of every fear. And when I learn these truths, I will share my knowledge with the world.

These are the terms of my surrender, and I know you have no choice but to accept them.

How to Support Someone Who’s Grieving

How to Support Someone Who’s Grieving

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I lost my 4-year-old daughter in 2009. Until that point, my experience with death was limited. I had experienced deaths of people I knew throughout my life. But I hadn’t lost someone so significant in my life that I couldn’t imagine living without them.

Before my daughter’s death, I never knew what to say to someone in their profound grief.

I had been to more funerals and wakes than I cared to remember. Viewing the people in their caskets was excruciatingly uncomfortable. I couldn’t distract myself from the sickening sensation of being exceedingly aware of my own mortality.

Offering condolences to the immediate families was difficult too. I could never figure out anything except, “I’m so sorry,” which never felt like it was enough. I would try to put the whole experience out of my mind as soon as the funeral was over. That way, I could more easily avoid those uncomfortable and painful feelings associated with death and loss.

Now I’ve been on the receiving end of those condolences and uncomfortable silences. I can offer my perspective of some of the best ways to support someone who has experienced the loss a loved one.

Don’t try to lessen the pain of loss.

With best intentions, people may try to justify the loss in order to soften the pain. How many times have you heard, “It’s part of God’s plan”? Even if you believe it to be true, it doesn’t make the pain of loss any easier. Neither does, “They’re at peace now,” or, “They’re in a better place.” In fact, trying to justify the loss usually just makes bereaved people feel worse.

What’s a helpful alternative? Be honest, and let them know how you feel. I would have rather people admit that they didn’t know what to say, or that they felt horrible about what happened. I would have liked to hear how much they loved my daughter and that they would miss her terribly. It would have made me feel less alone in my devastation.

Don’t try to compare losses.

If you are tempted to say, “I know how you feel,” please resist the urge. Maybe you think you do, but chances are you don’t. Every loss is unique because every relationship is unique. And every person has a different set of life experiences. If you don’t know what else to say, sometimes the best thing to offer is a silent hug and shared tears.

Offer practical assistance.

Depending on the person and the loss, some people may appreciate assistance with basic needs. If a loss is especially devastating, you can offer to bring a prepared meal or help with chores like laundry or shopping. While some people may feel embarrassed by the offers, others will find them invaluable. I welcomed donated meals from caring friends and coworkers. It was immensely helpful during a time when cooking and cleaning seemed impossibly hard.

Be understanding and supportive long after the funeral is over

One of the hardest things about losing someone so close to you is that they may remain prominently in your thoughts long after the rest of the world appears to have forgotten about them. The pain of loss does not have a set timetable. For some, it will last the rest of their lives. One of the best acts of support you can offer someone is to let them know you still care about their loss months and even years later. Just mentioning their loved one’s name can mean the world to them – and so will you.

While these are a few things based on my personal experience, there are many more things you can do to support someone who is bereaved. There are wonderful resources in books and on the Internet, and I encourage you to seek them out.

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.

How Are You? A Silent Signpost for the Bereaved

How Are You? A Silent Signpost for the Bereaved

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“How are you?”

The question is seemingly so simple and benign. So often it is just a polite, meaningless pleasantry. Just as often, those who answer the question would never think to respond with anything other than the implicitly expected “I’m fine” or “Good. How are you?” Even if everything wasn’t fine.

Unfortunately, for people struggling with overwhelming grief, the simple phrase, “How are you?” reinforces a deep isolation from the rest of society.

For someone who has recently lost a loved one, it is a silent signpost marking the moment they must take two simultaneous paths. The path visible to the outside world puts on a show that everything is “okay.” The veiled, lonely path is created when society quickly tires of their ongoing pain.

I spoke with a mother who had lost her son a short time before. She talked about the incredible support she received from her family, religion, and friends. It helped her handle her overwhelming grief. But more recently, she sensed their supportive tone was beginning to change when they asked, “How are you?” She said the question was being asked in a way that implied they were ready for her response to return to the standard, “I’m fine.” They were ready for her to move on with her life.

It reminded me of my return to work a month after the death of my daughter. While some people welcome the return to work in an effort to distract themselves from the pain, I returned only because I needed the income. The first day back I made a beeline to my desk, desperately avoiding eye contact with everyone.

I dreaded the inevitable question, “How are you?”

And yet, it came. Many people did their best to avoid me just as I avoided them. But some stopped by my desk to offer their condolences and ask how I was. If I was being honest with them, my response may have sounded something like this:

How am I? I’m completely devastated. The skin around my eyes is raw and hurts from crying so much. Yes – even a month after her death. And there’s no sign of it stopping any time soon.

I’m completely exhausted – physically and emotionally. It took all my energy just to get out of bed this morning. It seemed almost impossible to get in the shower, dress, and drive to work. On the drive it was hard to see through my tears. Several times I felt like steering my car off the road and into a telephone pole, but thankfully I didn’t.

In addition to a constant feeling of pain and nausea in my stomach, I’m angry when I look around and see that everything is “business as usual” around here. I can’t understand how the world continues to march on without my daughter in it. The sound of laughter makes me want to scream. How could anyone be happy right now?

I don’t care at all about my job or what needs to be done. But seeing as how I need the money, I’m just going to put my head down and immerse myself in work. Hopefully it will mean that for a few hours today I’ll be distracted from the overwhelming pain I feel. Yet every time someone comes up to ask me how I am, I’ll be dragged back to into reality and the nightmare I find myself in.

So, while I appreciate that you care, I’d rather you not ask. Maybe you could just tell me you’re sorry, or even give me a silent hug…and then walk away. I simply don’t have the energy right now to pretend that I’m fine.

But, of course, I wasn’t honest. My answer depended on how the question was worded.

If they asked, “How are you?” I replied, “Fine.” If they asked, “How are you doing?” I answered “I’m doing.” Both were spoken in a flat tone of voice that implied I was not fine. It was intended to discourage them from continuing the conversation. This may sound mean, but it took a lot of energy to keep myself from bursting into tears and telling them how I really was.

Because if I really was “fine,” what would that say about how I felt about my daughter? In my mind, “fine” implied that somehow it was okay that my daughter died. It made me feel guilty and angry at the same time.

Over time, answering that question got easier and felt less of a betrayal to my daughter.

Eventually, I could answer “I’m fine” or even “I’m good” and truly mean it. But it took time and a lot of work. It took going to support groups where I could give an honest answer of how I was doing and no one would try to stop me. Everyone there would understand and encourage me to let it out.

Over the years, I learned how to acknowledge and express my grief when I need to. Because when you keep it inside, it simmers and grows. I’ve learned to accept that I have both good and bad days. Over time, the good began to outnumber the bad. I’ve learned to not let the guilt and pain associated with the bad days keep me from enjoying and appreciating my life.

How am I doing now? Even though I still miss my daughter terribly, I’m good.