Healing Milestones After The Death Of A Child

Healing Milestones After The Death Of A Child

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The death of a child is so profound, it’s like no other form of loss. There’s no such thing as getting over the death of a child. Instead, bereaved parents must learn to adapt to a life without our child. We must reconcile the reality that we’ll feel some level of pain for the rest of our lives. 

This is the long, slow process of healing after the death of a child. 

The intense pain in the aftermath of my daughter’s death felt devastating and unbearable. In most support groups I’ve attended, the most common questions I heard from newly bereaved parents is some version of, “How long will this pain last? Will it ever end?” 

The answer to that question is complicated because grief is a very individual experience. Like snowflakes, no two grief journeys will ever be the same. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, and there’s no standard timeline. Due to varying factors, some parents just learn to adapt and reconcile faster than others.

Since there is no end point of being fully healed after the death of a child, how can you gauge your healing progress? 

Looking back at my own journey after the death of my 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, I see three major turning points. These milestones are markers of when I was able to shift my perspective to better adapt to a life without her and reconcile my ongoing pain. 

Milestone 1: Separating the memories of my child from those of her death

For three years, my grief was entirely focused on the trauma caused by her death. I was trapped in endless questions of “What if?” and “Why?” Having been so focused on my pain, I eventually realized I had lost sight of what I was actually grieving the loss of: the love and joy Margareta had brought into my life. 

I began to fear that I was going to forget all the smaller details about her short life. And the idea of losing her all over again was terrifying. 

I had to emotionally separate my daughter from the day she died, and no longer let the devastation of her death overshadow the beauty of her life. That shift in focus allowed me to start adjusting to a life without her physical presence. And as I began to turn my thoughts to all the happy memories I have of her, the severity of my pain started to lessen. 

Milestone 2: The decision to forgive

Margareta drowned in 2009, and for years after her death, my overwhelming guilt intensified the pain of my grief. I felt as though I didn’t deserve any form of  happiness in a world in which I didn’t keep her safe. I had failed at my most important job.

For years, grief counselors and bereaved parents told me her death was a tragic accident and that I should let go of my guilt. Most of the time when we let our children out of our sight, they’re fine. Only on rare occasions they’re not. Logically, I understood their rationale, but emotionally I wasn’t in a place where I could let go of my guilt. After all, she was only four and it was my job to protect her. I begged for her forgiveness every time I went to the cemetery. 

But then something changed after I began to focus on Margareta’s life instead of her death. Instead of obsessing over my failing to keep her safe on the day she died, my memories of her reminded me of all the things I had done right as a mother. It dawned on me that I didn’t need Margareta’s forgiveness — I needed to forgive myself. Just as her death cannot overshadow her beautiful life, I decided my failure on that day should not define the entirety of mine. 

While I will always feel guilt on some level, my decision to forgive myself paved the way for allowing happiness back into my life. After all, I still have four wonderful living children and a loving, supportive husband. In cultivating happiness once again, the level of my day-to-day pain lessened even more.  

Milestone 3: Letting go of what was and acknowledging what is

Another difficult aspect of my grief is the fact that I (and other bereaved parents) didn’t just lose my child. We lost the person we used to be, and can never be again. Our hopes and dreams for our child are now shattered forever. And in the midst of being crushed by grief, many bereaved parents lose relationships and friendships they once thought would last the rest of their lives. 

The world we once knew is suddenly gone, and many of us desperately want it back. We want to go back to being the person we were; back to a time when pain didn’t suffocate every minute of the day. In my case, I wanted to return to the illusion that I had some amount of control over what happens to me. 

Like many others, I couldn’t bring myself to let go of the idea that I could reclaim my old life. Obviously my daughter would no longer be a part of it, but I thought that somehow I could otherwise go back to the way things were. I fought grief as if it could somehow be defeated. 

After I wrote down all my memories of Margareta, I started to journal about my grief. Over time, this allowed me to see that I could never defeat grief. Journaling showed me that my grief could transform from searing pain to a dull ache…but it could never fully go away. I will never stop longing for my daughter and feeling a sense of loss. 

By coming to terms with the fact that her death has changed me and my life in ways that cannot be undone, I finally decided to stop fighting grief. And when I did that, I began to see that some of the changes in me were, in fact, good. I learned more about myself and my needs in a few short years than I had in the entirety of my life prior to Margareta’s death. My grief led me to grow as a person and begin to cultivate a new life that focused on what matters most to me. 

It’s been 12 years since Margareta’s death.

While my grief can still occasionally intensify and overcome me, most days the dull ache of missing her is easily managed. I’ve learned to focus more on the present moments of day-to-day life, which makes my pain barely noticeable most of the time. 

I still think of her every day. That is how I keep her present in my life. But these days, thoughts of my daughter are filled with love, not pain. And that’s my definition of healing. 

In the Glow of Moonlight

In the Glow of Moonlight

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You were like a sun in my sky;
big and bright and brilliant
as I orbited around you.

Your radiant love enveloped me
like a blanket of warm sunshine
on an otherwise cloudy day.

We lived and laughed and loved
as that clichéd saying goes;
when the world still made sense. 

But then it all suddenly disappeared;
like a sun sucked into a black hole,
extinguishing your brilliant light.

It feels cold here in the darkness;
a chill so pervasive, it rattles my bones
and burrows deep in my soul.

Noisy, jumbled thoughts and echoes
of screams and sirens and panic;
continually pleading, “What if…?”

I wouldn’t call this ‘living’ any more;
merely existing while waiting to die
for years after your death.

Yet there are too many signs from you
I can no longer ignore or write off
as merely coincidence.

It’s as if each one whispers in my ear,
“I’m here, Mama, I’ll always be with you;
just look for the moon instead.”

So each night I search for your light,
some days your moonlight fills the sky;
sometimes there’s only a sliver. 

No matter the moon’s phase, I know
it’s illuminated by your brilliant light
that once filled my sky.

I’ll always long for the sunlight I lost,
but I’m learning to live, laugh, and love
in the glow of moonlight. 

Bitter Sixteen

Bitter Sixteen

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In a little over a month, it will be the “would have been” 16th birthday of my daughter, Margareta. In other words, it would have been her “Sweet Sixteen”, a milestone birthday to mark the beginning of her transition into womanhood. Except that it is anything but “sweet”.

It is a bitter reminder that I’ll never get to experience seeing my daughter as a woman. Or as a mother herself.

It’s not like we would have thrown a large, extravagant party. We wouldn’t have bought her a new car. She wouldn’t have dressed up in a formal quinceañera-style dress. None of that. But as the only girl in a family of boys, her sweet sixteen birthday would have meant something special.

Instead, it will end up being just another “would have been” birthday she’s not here to celebrate. A day on which we’ll have our annual ritual we’ve created to remember with love the day she came into our life.

The lead up to her birthday each year surfaces much of the sorrow, regret, and pain I place in little compartments inside me throughout the year.

Compartments packed away to process another day as I go about my current day-to-day life. And as the years roll on, the compartments do not get nearly as full and overwhelming as they once did. Margareta was 4-years-old when she died, and I’ve had 12 years since her death to process that reality, learn how to better handle the pain, adjust to a life without her, and learn some positive things about myself and life itself along the way.

But in the month or so before her birthday – which happens to be the same month in which she died – all of those compartments seem to bubble over. Every year like clockwork.

The long simmering feelings that stewed in their own juices for months on end begin to fill me once again with anguish, bitterness, and even anger.

And so at the same time each year, I have the excruciating task of wading through all these pent up, painful emotions in an attempt to finally allow myself to experience and then let them go. Sometimes it feels like my penance for not keeping her safe and alive.

Most of the time when I write about my grief, I try to end it by focusing on how far I’ve come in my journey of healing, all the things I’ve learned, and how much I’ve grown as a person. It serves to reassure myself and anyone reading that with some work and time, it does get easier from those early days of intense grief. It provides hope for those suffering under the weight of their pain.

But each year when I’m caught up in the muck of my overflowing pain and regret, I give myself permission to just feel what I feel. And usually those feelings are angry and resentful. And that’s ok.

It has to be ok, because that’s reality. It’s not some self-pity party. The reality of being a bereaved parent is that these painful feelings will NEVER go away. Our child IS dead. Year after year; decade after decade. It may not be what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. The feelings may morph and soften, but they’ll always be there.

There is no happy ending to my story. At least not the one I want. BUT– that doesn’t keep me from seeking and experiencing happiness, love, and appreciation during the remainder of my story.

I’ll be acknowledging and processing my feelings throughout this next month the best I can. And once that’s done, I can resume the new life I’ve built. One that Margareta would have supported and enjoyed seeing me live. One that may not include her physical presence, but her presence in my thoughts and heart every single day.

No, You’re Not Crazy: The Need For Shared Experiences In Grief

No, You’re Not Crazy: The Need For Shared Experiences In Grief

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The death of one of my children was something I never thought I’d experience in my lifetime. I don’t think any parent does. 

In the aftermath of my daughter’s death, I was overwhelmed with constantly changing emotions and a landslide of unnerving thoughts. But one of the hardest things I experienced was my extreme sense of isolation. 

Losing a child is different than any other type of loss. I had no point of reference for what to expect. After all, the death of a child is seldom talked about. It is too painful for most people to even imagine. 

So, it felt as if I was left to experience all these horrible emotions and thoughts on my own. And many times, I didn’t know how to handle it. 

Being bombarded with all of these unfamiliar thoughts and emotions, it often felt as if I was going crazy from grief.

Without knowing if other people had gone through the same intensely painful experiences and irrational thoughts, early grief made me feel like I was losing my sense of reality. I often couldn’t understand what was happening or why I felt and thought the way I did. I’ve come to understand that many bereaved parents feel this way. 

It’s only when we hear from other people who’ve had similar experiences that we find a sense of hope that it won’t always feel this way. And then we can slowly learn to adapt to a new, different state of “normal”. 

But sharing our grief experiences is not so easy. 

In the United States (and other countries), our society is uncomfortable with grief caused by death. Most condolences try to alleviate our pain. They assure us that our loved one is in a better place, which implies we should feel happy for them. Extended, outward displays of sadness are often frowned upon due to the discomfort it causes those around us.

Soon after the funeral is over, we are expected to get back on track with our lives as if nothing major has changed. For example, many employers offer 2-5 bereavement days for the death of an immediate family member. Often, they “pay” for these days by taking them out of our sick or vacation days. After that, it’s back to business as usual. 

But after suffering a profound loss there is no such thing as “business as usual”. 

Because outward grief is unwelcome, it often becomes a very isolating experience — which only compounds the distress we feel. Yet, with billions of people on this planet, the chance of someone else experiencing the same or similar emotions and thoughts caused by grief are very high. 

Why are shared grief experiences important?

They’re not necessarily important to every grieving person. But for many, when we’re able to hear from people who’ve experienced a similar loss, we can start acknowledging and understanding our grief. Our sense of isolation begins to wane.

After all, grief is our innate healing process when we are faced with loss. So it would be expected that people’s built-in healing process would operate in similar ways.

Yet, since death and the resulting grief is a somewhat taboo topic, most of us have never been taught what those common reactions are. 

There is the exception of the widely known 5 Stages of Grief, but that was originally intended to describe the common reactions of a terminally ill person when faced with their own impending death. As such, the “stages” often don’t match what we feel after the loss of a loved one — particularly a child. 

Shared grief experiences help us know that the unfamiliar things we are thinking and feeling aren’t “crazy”.

Do you know the feeling that your child will walk through the door any moment or be on the other end of the phone when you answer it? That’s a normal grief reaction. Even months after their death.

What about being angry at God because you can’t understand how there could be any reason to take a child’s life? That’s normal too. 

Does the sound of laughter make you nauseous and feel like screaming at everyone to shut up because the idea of being happy now feels like a betrayal of your child’s memory? Again, completely normal. 

After you’ve been crying for what feels like days, do you ever suddenly switch to feeling apathetic and numb? Or abruptly rage out of control for no apparent reason? Normal. 

The list of normal grief reactions that otherwise seem completely out of control and irrational is extremely long. 

Too long to list here, anyway. But all of them have been felt by many people across cultures and around the world. 

Over the years, I’ve written a lot about my experience with grief after the death of my daughter. One of the most common responses I receive is that by having someone else validate those feelings, it helps make them feel like they’re not crazy after all. 

So the next time grief is making you feel “crazy”, just remember that countless other people have experienced the same thing. You can usually find them in support groups, whether online or in person. And chances are, they can and will help you through your grief if you just reach out to them for support. 

The Unbreakable Bond Between Mother And Child

The Unbreakable Bond Between Mother And Child

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For nine months you and I were inseparable. Our bodies and souls intertwined.

Your life began its long journey as you grew inside me. And as you grew, so did my profound new sense of purpose. A mother’s purpose.

On that wondrous day you were born, you left everything you knew behind. You entered this unfamiliar, bright new world and cried out; desperately searching for a familiar voice and a comforting touch. You quickly found your way to my loving embrace.

It didn’t matter that you were no longer inside me. You and I were still inseparable as I attended to your every need. Despite the immense work and challenges of caring for an infant, I cherished each tender embrace. Our souls were still indelibly intertwined.

As the days, weeks, and months passed, I reverently watched as you learned to navigate and adapt to your new world. I supported you with all of my love. In times of uncertainty, fear, or hurt, I whispered encouragement in your ear as I kissed away your tears.

Years passed. Although you gained independence as each new day and adventure unfolded, we still shared an unbreakable bond. No matter how far apart we found ourselves.

The strength of our bond faced its ultimate test on the day you died. A day I never expected to happen in my lifetime.

On the horrifying day you died, I left behind everything I knew about this bright world. I was transported into a darkness that was so intense and thick, it blocked out any trace of light.

I cried out, desperately searching for your familiar voice and loving embrace. But there was no trace of you. You were completely gone. I couldn’t understand how, but it felt as if our unbreakable bond had been severed.

Without you, I struggled to survive in this cold, dark, unforgiving new world. Despite family and friends at my side, I could feel no reason for living. Overwhelmed by unbearable pain, there were no signs of hope. I felt as though I wanted to die so I could be with you again.

But I did not die.

Like those early days, weeks, and months of your life, I was forced to learn how to navigate and adapt to this new world of mine. However, this time, you were not at my side. I ached to once again feel your touch, hear your voice, and feel at ease in your reassuring presence.

My eyes slowly began to adjust to this world. While I was no longer in the midst of complete darkness, this new world had no color; no brightness. Everything was dim and gray. All I saw was a horizon of endless pain and suffering.

I longed to feel our bond restored, but I feared it was irrevocably severed. You were constantly on my mind, but those thoughts brought no comfort; no bond. For they were thoughts of your death and my failure to keep you safe. I could think of nothing but all that I lost and would never get back.

Over time, I began to notice little things that gave me pause. Things that reminded me of you; reminded me of your beautiful life instead of your tragic death.

In the beginning, they appeared when I was suffering intensely and longing for your presence. I needed some sort of reassurance that it wouldn’t always feel this way. With each occurrence, I began to feel your presence once again.

I felt our bond beginning to be restored. It felt different than before, but the bond was still just as strong. Each small sign from you felt like a warm embrace and whisper of love as you comforted and guided me.

My anguished thoughts of your death were being replaced by loving memories of your life. Your vibrant joy that filled those memories began to add brightness and color to this new world of mine.

Though many years have passed since you died, you are still in my thoughts each and every day. I still see special signs that remind me of you, but not as often before. That’s because I don’t need them as much anymore. For I have learned to feel our bond just as strongly as I did when you were alive.

These days, signs from you usually come in flurries ahead of emotionally challenging days where your physical presence is especially missed. Days like your birthday or holidays such as Mother’s Day.

And while I would love to return to the world in which you and I were physically inseparable, I know without a doubt that our souls are still indelibly intertwined in this one.

Trapped In A World Between Living And Dead

Trapped In A World Between Living And Dead

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Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck somewhere between living and dead.

To be more specific, when my 4-year-old daughter died, a part of me died with her. For over a decade I’ve dealt with the pain of my grief. During that time, I’ve continually been learning how to reinvest in living a meaningful life.

Yet the part of me that died is tethered to the realm of the dead. A realm that contains my daughter, the world she was a part of, and the hopes and dreams I once had for her.

The realm of the dead is a sorrowful place.

No matter how much energy I invest in cultivating love, contentment, and enjoyment in my current life, I often find myself gazing back at the realm of the dead with a broken heart. A broken soul. It is a place filled with bittersweet memories, shattered dreams, and endless longing for a life that was, but can never be again. But it is also the place where my daughter is.

If I’m being honest, I don’t really want my tether to the realm of the dead to ever break. Our daughter, Margareta, was only four when she died. Not many people other than our extended family and circle of friends knew her. And many of those who knew her don’t think of or speak about her much anymore. It doesn’t mean they don’t still love or miss her. But that’s often what happens when people die. We move on with our day-to-day lives and remember them fondly (and sadly) from time-to-time. Especially on birthdays, holidays, and other special occasions.

Everyone eventually moves on — except bereaved parents.

No matter how much I try to adjust to a world without my child, the tether continues to pull on me. And after talking with many bereaved parents over the past decade, most of them feel the same. As a result, bereaved parents continually feel the dead part of us that lies deep within. Even years and decades after our children died.

It may sound hopeless and painful, and in the early years after the death of a child, it very much is. But that continual pull is what keeps our children present in our thoughts…and in our current lives. For me, it represents that Margareta may no longer be a part of this world, but she is still an important part of my world. Even if it is only in my thoughts; in the thoughts of her dad, brothers, and others who love her.

Though the finer details of her life are slowly fading, she is still very much loved and thought of every day. And the same is true for every child who was lost before their parent(s) — no matter their age.

So maybe being trapped between living and dead isn’t as bad as it sounds. It isn’t for me.