When you see me, you probably see what you would consider to be a strong person.
You see someone who appears to be living the “American Dream.” I juggle a family, a career, a social life, and even a volunteer position for a good cause. You see a person who came back from the death of a young child. And as you usually put it, someone who has “moved on” with life. You see someone who has seemingly taken lemons and turned them into lemonade.
But unless I want you to, you don’t really see me. You see a “normal” version of me through a veil that I wear.
I began to wear this veil as soon as I was forced to interact with the “normal” world. A few weeks after my 4-year-old daughter’s sudden death. It felt awkward and didn’t fit well when I first put the veil on.
But I put it on because of your reactions to my overwhelming grief. They seemingly made my life even harder than it already was. I put it on because I couldn’t handle your looks of pity, your awkward pauses, or sometimes your indifference to my pain.
I wore the veil because I didn’t want to call attention to myself in my darkest hour.
When I had no choice but to go back to work, you saw someone who didn’t smile or interact with you much. But you thought that was to be expected — at least for a little while. From your side of the veil, I appeared to be throwing myself back into work with a passion and concentration you hadn’t seen before. You even commented on how impressed you were with my work ethic.
After avoiding me for a few weeks, you decided it was time to go back to your normal interactions with me. You casually asked how I was and expected the standard, “I’m good, how are you?” Apparently, you wanted me to feel included in the “normal” world again. You started telling me your latest dramas and the juiciest gossip.
From my side of the uncomfortable and ill-fitting veil, I was barely able to hold a thought for more than a few minutes before my mind turned to my daughter, her death, and the nightmare I was living in.
Most of the time, I was desperately trying to hold back the tears that were constantly welling up behind my eyes. This went on day after day and week after week. I used the veil to try to shut you out. All I wanted was to get through each day without bursting into tears and screaming at you all to shut up. I didn’t care about work, your dramas, or gossip.
None of it mattered any more. Nothing mattered anymore. I bit my tongue, painted on a fake smile, and told you I was “fine” for your convenience. And by the way, you’re welcome. I guarantee you would not have liked being around me without my veil on at that time.
Behind my veil it was exhausting to keep up appearances for your side of the veil.
Behind my veil I constantly wished for you to not look in my direction. I wanted to stay invisible and avoid your small talk. When you did engage me, I summoned up all the energy I had to pretend to be normal. To pretend my world was still the way it was before she died.
When I saw you in the supermarket or doctor’s waiting room or my kids’ soccer and baseball games, you saw someone who usually avoided eye contact. But who smiled back at you and said hello if you managed to catch my eye. You saw someone who politely made small talk with you and seemed perfectly personable.
Inevitably, when you saw me with my four boys, you asked the question I dreaded most. “Are you going to try for a girl?” Thoughts raced through my mind of how I should answer. Was it betraying my daughter to pretend she hadn’t existed so I could avoid this torture? Most often I gave my standard response that politely laughed it off. I answered, “No, four kids is enough,” in hopes you would change the subject. If I was in the rare mood to tell you the truth, you heard my brief, but sobering statement that I had a daughter who had died. You said a brief condolence and then politely changed the topic, stopped talking, or said goodbye.
The veil has changed a lot in the years since her death.
I got so used to wearing it that it began to feel comfortable and even normal. Even though it began to feel normal to wear, I never fully embraced it. I looked forward to the times I could take it off and just be myself around you.
As I changed over time, so did your reactions. I learned how to better harness the pain of losing my daughter into learning how to live a more meaningful life. My grief softened and felt less threatening to most of you. I’ve often surrounded myself with those of you who don’t want me to wear a veil. And for all of you I am truly grateful.
These days I don’t wear my veil very often. But I keep it in my back pocket and wear it on days that are particularly hard — often for no apparent reason.
I wear it when I get triggered in public by certain special events, an innocent comment, disturbing image, or the sounds of sirens screaming by. The veil was an invaluable tool when I was early in this journey of grief, but I would love to live to see this society become one that tolerated authentic grief in a way that made the veil altogether unnecessary. Wouldn’t that be something.
This website was inspired by the memory of Margareta Sol Kubitz in hopes of helping others work through the pain of grief.
This is wonderful, Maria, so true, and so worth sharing. Thank you for your beautiful writing and your willingness to share your hard-won wisdom with the rest of us. ♥
Thank you Marty 🙂
My son died 2 and a half months after his fourth birthday, in 2012. Thank you for writing this Maria, so true. “When you did engage me, I summoned up all the energy I had to pretend to be normal; to pretend my world was still the way it was before she died.” I do that too sometimes, it is just easier that way. The other option, to be honest about the pain and horror of having a child who died, is just too much to take for non bereaved parents. I am sorry that your daughter is not with you.
Thank you Carina. I’m also sorry your precious son is no longer with you. Wishing you peace, Maria
This is all so true. To make sure even more people read it, I put a link to this post on my site (right above the link to your blog).
Thank you. And thank you for your continued support and all you do to help others in their grief. Maria
Beautifully written. I feel like you are speaking the words that I feel each and everyday. You articulate the feeling that ‘we’ who have lost a child feel each and everyday. I could not have said it better. God Bless you….
Thank you Monica. While I’m very sorry that you have lost a child, I’m glad my words have brought you a sense of understanding and some level of comfort. Wishing you peace, Maria
To Maria, Carina, Marty and others who read this::
AfterTalk Blog Radio is working on an interview:” Lost of a Child”.
Maria, you have given me some wonderful insight how you walked the walk after your daughters
passing….and I am so sorry.
I want this interview to be informative, but shifting for those who listen…..perhaps they have no
support system.
Would anyone care to comment or pose question(s) for me to ask for this interview?
Wishing you peace of mind, and that sometimes your heavy heart is lifted.
Thank you so much,
Lisa
AfterTalk
So sorry, Maria, for your daughters death. It is totally understandable that you chose to put the veil on. People have no idea what to say in the face of loss. It seems like it’s easier to say I’m fine when we are not, but it is so destructive. The academy award we receive for our acting ability means nothing. It took me a long time to realize this. I now assist others with their losses. My Elena died in 1987 and it took way too long to get help. May you and your family find a way to share openly about Margareta Sol and remember her in special ways.
Thank you Denise. I am very grateful that I no longer feel the need to hide my feelings about my ongoing grief…but it took a lot of hard work to get here. I am sorry for the loss of your daughter. Take care, Maria
This is all so true! My daughter died 11/26/13 at 37 years old and my world stopped. 5 days of bereavement doesn’t quite get it does it…so I returned to work out of necessity with a veil…I still wear a veil most days as reality is just too painful some days and I wouldn’t be able to function so thank you for writing. I don’t feel so “fake” reading your article and it is comforting to know I’m not alone. Vicki
Thank you Vicki. I’m so sorry for the loss of your daughter and that the pain is still so overwhelming for you -although I understand completely. While we know the pain of losing a child will never go away, hopefully over time the pain will soften some for you and you will find more opportunities to not feel you have to hide your true self from the world. Wishing you peace, Maria
I wish this article were more available in many formats. Those who have not had this loss can be helped to understand those who have. Thank you for your articles. They are all important.
Thank you SD. I’m grateful that my words have touched you. Maria
Hello Maria .. my oldest child Rebecca died during the night expectantly 11 days ago. She was a woman of nearly 45. I watched her fight illness and pain for about 18 years wherein she changed from a beautiful young woman to someone barely recognizable as herself. Even so her sudden death caught us all by surprise. Rebecca’s Father passed away nine years ago .. after our marriage of 37 years in a double fatality car accident. Both suddenly gone. We were originally the ‘5 R’s’ Ray Robyn Rebecca Richard and Rowena. Now only three of us remain.
I truly don’t know how to feel .. I have another wonderful daughter and son .. my 11th grandchild on the way .. and even my first great-grandchild .. Rebecca’s first and much eagerly awaited grandchild .. due in 5 weeks .. and a business that has to continue working.
I feel like I am abandoning her when she is in need of me to comfort her .. which is what a part of our relationship had become .. even though she kept a laugh in her voice and love for all around her till the end of her troubled life.
I feel like she needs me and I’m ignoring her pleas for help. I want to find a way to reach out to her and help her. She died and I wasn’t there .. and I’m her Mother and should have been able to hold her. Feeling guilt for the times I got mothering wrong and hurt her poor little heart.