Resources for Grief, Loss, and Recovery
The Change of seasons is difficult. It reminds me that I must change if I am to live again. We can become stuck in our grief, full of self-pity and overwhelmed with pain. I do not believe our children would want us to live the rest of our lives in pain and misery. It is so easy to fall into the "black pit" and never have the strength or courage to crawl out- because crawl out we must… on our bellies.
We are different now, with different priorities and goals. We must find a new purpose for going on, and we must accept the changes in our lives- including ourselves, for we are different now. We cannot go backward, though there are times we yearn to. We must go forward. If we don't, we stay stuck at the point our world changed. I used to say "ended."
Change is difficult. To accept the loss of our child is the most difficult of all. Our comfort comes from believing that the love we share will always go on for all eternity and that we will be reunited again- and each day brings us closer. We must learn to live again, love again, feel joy and peace again- or our survival will be without value to ourselves or others.
The Wind was fierce and loud. Porch furniture had grown wings and was flying past my kitchen window. Trash can lids became Frisbees sailing through the air. Leaves, litter and lots of branches took flight on the gusting waves of this summer storm. Suddenly… a thunderous CRACK! One of my neighbor's magnificent ancient black walnut trees came crashing down, missing our house, but landing with an audible thump on our lawn, smashing my wife's garden where her carefully planted irises were waving their fond farewells till next year's blooming.
Andrew died three days after his sixth birthday. It was 2:30 in the morning. He died after a ten month struggle with leukemia that left his mother and me thoroughly exhausted. All the hard technical therapy approaches we had to learn about constantly clashed with our emotions that ranged from the softness of a mother holding her dying baby to a rock-hard rage that would gladly destroy the universe if it could. It was absolutely mind numbing.
Andrew's last great battle was two bone marrow transplants at a hospital far from our home which meant 100 mile round trips every day. As time went on, the pace became more frantic. With each passing month, Anne and I slept less and grew wearier.
At last, Andrew came home… to die. We had a party for him on his birthday. A hospice team helped us through his final hours. The funeral home came for his remains at 4:30 and the hospice team stayed until dawn. By mid morning, the equipment company had removed the medical paraphernalia; hospital bed, IV stand, beeping monitors -- all gone.
Later that day it stormed; a violent winter storm as if to punctuate the end of one struggle and the start of another. As I stood gazing out my kitchen window, the largest of my neighbor's massive trees fell in front of my eyes, hitting the ground with such force I felt the house quiver. Our phone and electric lines were severed. The quiet in that house was both real and metaphoric. Either way, the silence was deafening.
That echoing stillness lasted for five months. We finally dragged ourselves out to meet new friends at the Bereaved Parents group in Baltimore. At our first meeting, our hearing began to come back; just a little at first, but more and more over time.
Our neighbor planted new trees that began to grow, ever so slowly. Likewise, our hearing, gone since the storm, started returning a little at a time. Somehow, though shattered, we found our way to the place we needed to be.
We can occasionally hear that silence to this day, but we understand it a little better now. It's not so frightening anymore.
Many people are familiar with the concept of 'stages of grief', which was made popular by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in her trailblazing book "On Death and Dying".
Published in 1969, her book was important because it brought the uncomfortable topic of dying and death out into the light to be examined. It also gave us the framework of 'stages of grief' which helped popularize a way to discuss and explore the nature of grief.
The stages give us a convenient language with which to talk about the process of grief, but unfortunately they've been generalized to apply to many other life transitions. We now know that the complex process of grief is unique to each person's situation and can't be put into convenient boxes.
Also, the concept of a 'stage' implies a passive process; a place that we're resigned to being 'in'; reinforcing the feeling that we're victims of circumstances. It's important for us to acknowledge that we are in control of responses we make to our situations, which will move us towards feeling of empowerment.
Grief groups can create an atmosphere where we can make positive choices needed to move forward in our lives. The message we want to convey is that our situations are unique, that we know ourselves the best, and we're experts of our own grief.
Grief is like an ocean of emotions that we swim in. Recognizing and understanding these emotions will help us figure out how to navigate through the ocean and is an important part of working through the grief process. Here are some of the common emotions that make up this ocean:
This is often the most obvious emotion and it stems from the tremendous loss. It's a combination of missing the person and thinking about a future without them. Sadness often intensifies as the reality of the death sinks in.
This can be like a shotgun blast at healthcare professionals, family friends or God. And it's often hard to admit that we're angry at our loved one for dying. In many cultures, anger is looked at as a negative emotion, so being able to share your anger in the supportive environment of the group can be helpful.
The 'shoulda, woulda, couldas' are a part of the guilt, which naturally surfaces as we review our lives with the loved one. Judging another person's guilt is often damaging and it's important to realize that some guilt is reasonable, based on the person's unique situation. Guilt often subsides in the months following the death, as people see the death in the context of the entire lifetime of your relationship.
Many fears surface in the course of bereavement. Fears about the future, including changes in relationships and worries about new responsibilities are common. The group offers a place to 'normalize' these fears and to problem-solve specific issues that contribute to these fears.
This is probably the most persistent of the grief emotions. Loneliness often surfaces when we least expect it. The sense of being 'on my own' is ever-present, especially during holidays and anniversaries. Everyday situations will bring up recollections of the loved one, reminding us of our loneliness.
When hearing others share, bereaved people realize that their experiences are not so unique and that you're not "losing your mind". In the early stages of bereavement, they often don't know what "normal" is, the group will validate the normal parts of bereavement.
This group provides a supportive environment for sharing feelings. Even supportive family/friends grow tired of hearing the stories, but the group allows people to share beyond the social expectations of family/friends.
Groups help solve the problems associated with adjusting to being in the world without your loved one. Solutions range from learning new ways of being in the world to finding a service provider for household repairs.
The connection with others around your uniquely shared loss provides strong support for grieving people. This unique connection helps to ground us and give us some solace.
Submitted by dream1dancer, April 21, 2015 - The Grief Toolbox
Coming to terms with a new life we never wanted is hard. So many losses pile up as the weeks and months pass. Loss of our loved ones, loss of self, loss of the living. The one I struggle with now and have from the first night is loss of that feeling of being safe. You lock your doors and check your windows at night and feel that you are safely tucked inside your world, your life, your home. When death walks through those locks and changes everything you believe, helplessness abounds.
That exposed feeling started the moment I found Tim and has not left or eased up. It is not a fear of losing my own life, I lost that immediately. It is the fear of what else we have to endure. It is the fear that while we carry on, death is right there, a shadow in the corner, waiting… waiting.
We have found out, suddenly, without warning, just how precious and short life is. It leaves us reeling on our fear; drowning in our sorrow. We will never see that locked door the same as before. We will never feel that safety we took for granted. We no longer fear our own loss of life, but feel completely the fear of loss of another.
The fear is a battle we will fight everyday. Fear makes it difficult to get closer to anyone. What we know we wish we had never learned. But we did and it cannot be unlearned.
I think this fear keeps us alone. We withdraw in the beginning; only time and our determination can change that. Because those around us don't understand, many will leave us to sit and add to the sorrow. By the time we work through this, the secondary damage is already done. We lost trust in others as well as grieving for those we lost.
What I have gained: I have gained a deeper insight to others' suffering. I have gained a deeper love for those who matter to me. I have gained friends who travel this path with me. It has opened my eyes to what really matters.
We had no choice in death, but we have choices in life. Our lives are full of contradictions. How can joy and sorrow walk hand in hand? How can we find peace in turmoil? How can we go on living? We can, we must, we will stand up no matter how many times we fall down.
By Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D.
Though you should reach out to others as you do the work of mourning, you should not feel obligated to accept the unhelpful responses you may receive from some people. You are the one who is grieving, and as such, you have certain "rights" no one should try to take away from you.
by Carol A. Rannery
The writer of Ecclesiastes has just finished penning those well known words, "There is… a time to be born, and a time to die… a time to weep and a time to laugh… a time to search and a time to give up." (Ecc 3:1-6). The incomprehensible joys and sorrows of life were no different then than they are today and our response was the same -- What is God doing? We long for eternity, for unbroken relationships, for healing, for release from grief. We cannot comprehend why this has happened to us-- we grasp for bits of understanding-- Why him? Why her? Why me? And so often it seems the heavens are silent.
Isaiah 34 paints a picture of God's judgement that seems too much like our own lives. "They shall call Edom's nobles to proclaim the kingdom, but none shall come up in its palaces… nettles and brambles in its fortresses…" (verse 12) In grief, we are laid waste like a desert castle in a barren, parched desert, overrun with weeds, with only the voice of our memories to break the silence.
As we slowly heal from the terrible losses we have suffered, some with more difficulty than others, we begin to move from the barren desert experience of Isaiah 34 to the comfort and peace of the desert in Isaiah 35. "The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom. Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy." (verse 1-2)
We are still in the desert, but something has changed, so gradually that we may not have noticed until we turn a corner and see that bright bloom of the desert lily swaying gently in the wind.
God has set eternity in our hearts-- that desire for unbroken relationships and unending love. Comfort can come from memorial gardens, organ donation and other ways to both give our losses meaning and to continue the lives and memories of those we loved.
As you travel your own personal journey of grief toward healing and a "new normal," may you see the path with new eyes and discover many beautiful lilies along the way, and may the Lord make His presence known by your side.
Grief is a normal and natural response to loss. The greatest enemies of grief are loneliness and isolation. Be aware of them, and know that no one has to go through grief alone. You don't have to "white knuckle it" nor "be strong." Allow yourself to tell your story. Find support from those whom you trust. Allow others to comfort you. Find a support group. There is nothing weak about needing and asking help from others.
Beginning in childhood, many people have been taught to face life's crises with a "stiff upper lip" to "bear-up and be strong". As we are influenced by these subconscious messages, we may become fearful that any show of emotion, particularly tears, might be interpreted by others as a sign of weakness.
It is important for you to realize that what you are experiencing is most likely a normal, natural, and expected response to the loss of a significant person in your life.
"I feel sick to my stomach; I just can't eat." "I feel short of breath, weak, with a heavy feeling in my chest." "I have trouble getting to sleep and after I finally do, I only sleep for a few hours before I am up again."
"I can't seem to get organized. I'm up and down a hundred times during the day, here and there, never accomplishing anything." "I keep thinking I'm losing my mind. I can't concentrate on anything. I can't even decide what to wear today." "I can't get anything started; I forget everything. Sometimes I'm really tense and anxious."
"If only I had told him one more time that I love him." "The nights and weekends are the worst for me, empty and lonely." "It's as if anytime now he'll call or come walking through the door." "It's so painful and sad. And I burst out crying or get angry unexpectedly and uncontrollably."
"If my faith were stronger, I would be able to handle this." "I'm angry at God for what He's done, if there is a God."
Remember, do not panic if you find yourself experiencing these statements.
By Angela Miller
I have to tell you this. You didn't fail. Not even a little.
You are not a horrible mother.
You didn't choose this. You didn't want this to happen. You didn't do anything wrong. It just happened to you. Despite your begging, pleading, praying, hoping against all hope that it would not. Even though everything within you was screaming, no no no no no no no no no no!!!!
God didn't do this to you to punish you, smite you, or to "teach you a lesson". That is not God's way. You could not have prevented this if you: tried harder, prayed harder, or if you were a "better person". Nor if you ate better, loved harder, yoga-ed more, did x,y,z to the nth degree or any other way your mind tries to fill in the blank. You could not have prevented this even if you could have predicted the future like no one can.
Even if you did nothing more, you are already the best mom there is because you would have done absolutely anything to keep your child alive. To breathe your last breath to save theirs. To choose the pain all over again just to spend one more minute with them. That is the ultimate kind of love. You are the ultimate kind of mother.
So wash your hands of any naysayers, betrayers or anyone who sprinted in the other direction when you needed them the most. Wash your hands of the people who may have falsely judged you, ostracized you, or stigmatized you because of what happened to you. Wash your hands of anyone who has made you feel less than by questioning everything you did or didn't do. Those whose words or looks have implied that this was somehow your fault.
This was not your fault. This will never be your fault, no matter how many different ways someone tries to tell you it is.
And especially if that someone happens to be you. Sometimes it's not what others are saying that keeps us shackled in shame. Sometimes we adopt others' misguided opinions and assumptions about our situation as our own. Sometimes it's our own inner voice that shoves us into the darkest corner of despair, like an abuser, telling us over and over and over again that we failed as mothers.
Do not believe it, not even for a second. Do not let it sink into your bones. Do not let it smother that beautiful, beautiful light of yours.
Adapted from Rev. Kenneth Czillinger
By Melanie Dorsey
By Rabbi Dr. Earl A. Grollman
Someone you love very much has died. Part of you has been buried with your beloved. Pain and fear wash over you in waves. You may hurt so much that you may want to die, too. You wonder if you will ever survive.
By Lorelie Rozzano
I know you're angry, enraged and sad, all at the same time. If only you could reach back in time and pluck me from the path I'd chosen, but you can't. You never could. God knows, you tried. I wasn't completely oblivious to all you did for me. I thought I had time and the truth is- I was too damn smart for my own good.
I know you tried to tell me this. But I wouldn't listen. After I began using drugs I became desensitized. I thought I was immortal. I liked living on the edge. I felt so alive! Drugs filled a place in me that nothing else could. With them I was king. Without them I was just, well, me.
Maybe that was part of the problem. I never did feel right about being me. I always needed something more. At first it was candy and toys. Then it was my friends. I loved money. I felt entitled to nice clothes and nice things. I wanted the best. I hated waiting for anything.
I know I hurt you. I rejected your love. I rolled my eyes at you. I called you names. I stole from you. I lied to you. I avoided you and finally, I left you- for good.
I was so smug. There wasn't anything you could have said, or done, to prevent this from happening. I thought I knew it all. Death by overdose was something that happened to other people. Foolish people- people who didn't know anything about using. It wasn't going to happen to me, no way, no how, not ever.
And now- I want back.
But there is no back. There is only forward.
Please bring me forward.
Tell my story. Say my name. Have conversations with me. Include me in your celebrations. Rejoice in the time we had together. Cry, if you must, but not all the time. I know you're sad. I know you miss me. I know you love me. I know you did your best. But you never were stronger than the disease of addiction, and sadly, neither was I.
Please don't blame yourself, or me. It will only make things worse. We all did the best we could. You must believe this. If you don't, it will be like me dying all over again, each and every day. We will all stay stuck, and that would be a tragedy.
I want you to take all the love you have for me, and put it into the rest of our family. Every time you miss my hugs, grab one of them. Then it will be like I'm part of the hug. Give them a great big squeeze and I promise, I'll feel it- all the way up in heaven.
I hope you find peace in knowing I'm free, in a way I never before was. Up here, there is no addiction. There is only love. The kind of love that is greater than any of us will ever know, below.
The Children's Room creates safe, supportive communities so that no child, teen or family has to grieve alone. They offer peer support groups at their main center in Arlington, in schools, and at community-based organizations. On their website you can find various grief support services and resources.
Provides support to bereaved families after the death of a child for four decades. To find a local chapter near you and their meetings, utilize the 'find a local chapter' feature on The Compassionate Friends homepage.
Plymouth County Outreach - Family Support
You are not alone on this journey