The Physical Side of Grief

The Physical Side of Grief

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When we think of grief, we usually focus on our emotions. As anyone who has suffered a great loss can tell you, the emotional pain and suffering it produces can defy words to describe it.

But grief also has a physical side, which isn’t talked about as much.

After my daughter’s death, my grief manifested itself in a variety of physical ways. My physical symptoms of grief included debilitating exhaustion, body aches, and pains to feelings of nausea. In fact, any overwhelming emotional pain from grief is often accompanied by a physical symptom.

In the first few weeks and months after my daughter’s death, my entire body was painfully tight and sore.

I have always held tension in my shoulders, resulting in neck and shoulder aches most of my life. But this felt as if I had just done the hardest full body workout of my life with weights that were too heavy. It was even painful to walk.

I got a professional massage to try and alleviate the pain, which helped relax my muscles a little. But by the next day, the pain was just as bad as before. It took months before the body aches fully dissipated.

Exhaustion was also a major problem. The overwhelming emotional pain completely sapped me of all my energy, and I felt like a zombie walking around going through the motions of daily life.

I was so tired all the time that it felt like I had lead shoes on. Every step was heavy. Little things like showering became almost impossible because I felt more fatigued than at any point in my life. I can only imagine that level of exhaustion is what it would feel like if I didn’t sleep for days on end. And yet all I did in my down time was just that – sleep. Sleep was the only escape from everything going on around me.

Nausea was another physical symptom that showed up often. I literally felt sick to my stomach when faced with various emotions.

Most often, that sensation is associated with remembering and reliving the trauma of the day she died. But it is also associated with feelings of guilt or regret. And it is often accompanied by a pain in my chest and feeling short of breath. Not quite a full-blown panic attack…but close.

Years after her death, I still feel nausea and chest pains every time my memory of the day she died is triggered. Such as the sight and sounds of fire truck and ambulance sirens. But sometimes the triggers are not so obvious. I’ve learned to just let the physical sensations take over, knowing they are only momentary.

Another physical symptom that accompanies grief can include weight loss or gain. Depending on whether you lose your appetite completely or mindlessly eat to try to distract yourself from the pain.

I experienced both. In the first few weeks, it was almost impossible to eat anything. Between not being hungry and feeling nauseous the rest of the time, I had to force myself to eat. It helped that friends graciously donated meals for our family to eat. After that initial phase, I gained weight by eating unhealthy food and eating when I wasn’t hungry to try and gain even a little ounce of comfort. Food brought no comfort, but I just ate anyway. Today, I’m still trying to permanently lose that extra weight brought on by mindless, emotional eating.

Grief can also produce insomnia, a lowered immunity, and some people believe it can manifest itself in diseases or serious conditions.

Whatever your physical symptoms are, it is your body’s way of reacting to the unbearable emotional pain you’re experiencing. It can also serve as a reminder that it is important to take care of ourselves during this difficult time.

My grief was a wake-up call that I had to put my needs first – something I was not in the habit of doing. I have since learned to take better care of myself – both physically and emotionally – and I am grateful for that.

The Irrationality of Grief

The Irrationality of Grief

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Have you ever thought to yourself that a loved one who died will come walking through the door at any moment? The anticipation of seeing and hearing them again feels SO real, even though you know they are dead.

It’s more than just wishful thinking. It is a common example of when intense grief can make the irrational seem rational.

I personally never experienced the thought that my daughter would come walking around the corner after her death. However, I vividly remember one of my first irrational thoughts. It happened one day about a month after she drowned at the tender age of four.

The day was cold and windy and pouring down rain. Heavy tears ran down my face while knots formed in my stomach. I was overwhelmed with the feeling of helplessness as thoughts of my daughter ran through my head. I was fully convinced she was alone, cold, shivering, and incredibly afraid out there under the soaking wet ground at the cemetery. All I could do was sob because there was absolutely nothing I could do to help and comfort her.

Looking back, it was a completely irrational thought. But at that moment, it was as real to me as the hot tears running down my face.

Though some irrational thoughts have no basis in reality, many others start from a justified idea or thought. But they become twisted with convoluted reasoning.

For me, examples of these types of thoughts included my daily compulsion – multiple times a day – to look for dead bodies in our pool where she drowned. I did this even though I knew no one had been anywhere near it most days.

I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of anything that she wore or touched because, in my mind, it would mean losing her all over again. Or all of the times I woke up at night fully convinced that my youngest son (born after his sister’s death) had died of SIDS because I couldn’t hear him on the baby monitor. This went on for years.

I’m sure anyone reading this who has experienced significant grief can come up with multiple examples of their own irrational thoughts.

Why does grief cause us to have these irrational thoughts?

There is likely some scientific or psychiatric rationale for this phenomena that I’m not aware of. To me, it seems like irrational thoughts happen when our minds try to make sense of something that inherently doesn’t make sense to us. Death came when it wasn’t supposed to. Our loved one died – possibly tragically, or suddenly, or unfairly, or all of the above. And we can’t imagine how we are going to survive the rest of our life without them.

Whatever the case, irrational thoughts during early grief are actually quite normal. Most people seem to have them to varying degrees. I’ve spoken to many people in grief support groups who said they felt like they were going crazy because of them at one point or another.

The good news is, they seem to subside over time as you more fully accept the reality of their death.

Looking back, these irrational thoughts are a part of life in general; not just associated with grief.

For example, before my daughter died I was fully aware of all the accidents that can befall us and all the things that can go wrong with raising a child. As any parent would, I took precautions and steps to protect my children and taught them how to be safe. The nightly news constantly shows stories about death and tragedy. But I was fully convinced that as horrible and heart-wrenching as those events were, none of them would ever actually happen to me or my family.

Why? I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps it was because we mostly played by the rules and didn’t take huge risks. Or maybe it is simply because I just didn’t want to believe it could happen. Looking back, the idea that we were somehow immune to significant tragedy was an irrational thought in itself. Of course, it didn’t feel that way at the time.

Ironically, I think one of the most pervasive and harmful irrational thoughts related to grief is the one shared by various cultures around the world. 

It is the idea that once the funeral is over, mourners should quickly move on and get over it. And if that’s not possible, then the pain should be suppressed and hidden because it makes others uncomfortable.

This unreasonable idea denies a basic, universal truth. Grief is hard. Grief is painful. And while no one wants to experience it, at some point in your life, grief is unavoidable.

And no, as much as you want it to, it will NOT go away after a week, a month, or in some cases, for the rest of our lives.

But another universal truth about irrational thoughts in grief is that it is the result of a profound, unending love for someone.

That love, combined with the willingness to deal with your grief rather than suppress it (and get support for it), will allow you to work through it. Though it will be unbearably painful at times, you will survive it.

And whether you believe it or not, you can grow and even thrive in the shadow of it. And I promise you that is NOT an irrational thought.

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.

Feeling Guilt After the Loss of a Loved One

Feeling Guilt After the Loss of a Loved One

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Guilt is a powerful emotion.

For me, it’s a combination of various feelings: sadness, regret, embarrassment, shame, incompetence, failure. The list goes on. No matter what feelings go into forming it, the result is always the same: blame. Whether we deserve it or not, guilt sets in when we blame ourselves for something we think we did wrong or wish we could have done better.

For many who have lost someone dear to them, guilt often creeps in almost immediately.

We feel guilty when we didn’t say everything we should have or didn’t spend enough time with them while they were here. In situations where we make choices for their care or medical treatment, we guiltily question whether we made the choice they would have wanted. Some feel guilty that they didn’t fight hard enough to keep them alive. Others blame themselves for not seeing the warning signs early enough.

In some situations, guilt after a loss is more complicated and often unwarranted. The loss of a child often brings misplaced guilt. Parents feel a responsibility for taking care of and protecting their children. Even when their children are grown.

I’ve heard bereaved parents blame themselves for just about any type of death at any age.

A parent whose young child died of cancer blamed themselves for not seeing the symptoms soon enough. They even felt guilty for passing along the gene that caused the cancer.

A college-age child died in a spring break car crash when his friend fell asleep at the wheel. His father blamed himself for not stopping his son from going on vacation in the first place.

The parent of an adult addicted to drugs blamed themselves for not doing enough to help their child overcome their addiction. As if it were in their power to do so.

The stories go on and on.

In some cases, guilt is expected (and some may even believe deserved). These are the “preventable” deaths.

My daughter’s death was one of these preventable deaths; she drowned. Not only did she drown, she drowned in our backyard pool while we were at home.

It is still hard for me to say that. I spent hours pouring over every detail of what happened that day. I could tell you until I am blue in the face that her death was a complete accident. Had I known what was going to happen, I would have gladly traded my life for hers.

But the fact is that many who hear that a four-year-old girl was near an uncovered pool alone – no matter for how short a time – will lay blame upon me for not being with her or taking steps to prevent it. And I cannot argue with them.

My deep guilt magnified the despair I felt after she died.

It made me feel like a complete failure as a mother, and even as a human being. Feelings of guilt led me to thoughts of suicide, which I thankfully never came close to acting on.

I was ashamed to tell anyone how she died and chose my words carefully to avoid having to disclose the reason. Saying, “She passed away” or “We lost our daughter,” seemed the most acceptable description. “She died,” or, “She died in a tragic accident,” were the most likely to lead to the dreaded response, “Oh I’m sorry. May I ask how?”

I spent years in counseling and support groups working through my grief and guilt. They told me over and over that it was a terrible, tragic accident and that I shouldn’t feel guilty. I’ve heard all the reasons why it was an accident, and how it could have happened to anyone. And often does. The sad fact is that drowning is the leading cause of death for children under the age of five. I listened and nodded in understanding.

But deep down, the guilt remained.

While I cannot say that my guilt over my daughter’s death is completely gone, it has loosened its grip.

Why? I think it all comes down to choice and perspective.

I read an article describing how humans have an inherent tendency to focus on the negative. Born out of primal survival skills, when we are aware of the danger around us we are better prepared to run from it. As a result, we’re often unconsciously looking at the downside to every situation and anticipating the next potential threat.

The problem arises when tendencies turn into habits. Then long-term habits begin to shape our reality without us even realizing it. But when you hit the proverbial “rock bottom” – in my case, the death of my daughter – and survive it, one of the only ways to go is up.

“Up” for me has been slowly learning a new perspective on life using the lessons I’ve learned the hard way. I began learning how to embrace life and live it to the fullest. I’m continually trying to work on replacing tendencies of negative thinking with conscious choices based on love, truth, compassion, and joy. I’m slowly learning how to stop worrying over the past and future, and focus on what I can control here and now. It has not been easy to try to overcome lifelong habits, but it has been rewarding.

To combat the grief and guilt, I chose to focus less on the circumstances of her death and more on her and how she lived.

I’ve chosen to remember how vibrant, confident, adventurous, and loving she was. I know these qualities are testament not just to her inherent personality, but to the loving, supportive environment we provided for her.

I’ve chosen to acknowledge that it’s unrealistic to think we can keep an eye on our children 24 hours a day. I recognize that for the most part our children DO stay safe; but accidents can happen. I’m confident that I remain, and always have been, a loving mother who adores her children and provides a nurturing environment for them. And I can happily say that I know how much my children love and adore me.

Whether my guilt will ever completely go away remains to be seen.

Until then, I’m going to keep chipping away at it by sharing the unending love I have for my daughter with the world as my witness.

Grief and the Loss of Control

Grief and the Loss of Control

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Possibly one of the hardest aspects of grief for me has been that I can’t control it.

The majority of my life was filled with desperate attempts to try to control everything in it. I wanted life to be predictable and – above all – peaceful. The problem has been what I tried to control and how I’d gone about it.

I spent many, many years trying to control the people and situations around me. I did this through careful, strategic use of my own words, actions (or lack thereof), and responses. It was exhausting and depressing. And as you can imagine, it never really worked. Maybe I could temporarily create the illusion of control; but it would never last.

Many, including myself, try to control our lives out of a need to feel safe or secure in our surroundings.

Fear of the unknown can be incredibly scary, and even panic-inducing. We experience many uncomfortable feelings like hurt, anxiety, frustration, anger, or guilt due to various situations and people around us. And we tend to want to do anything and everything to make those feelings subside. Sometimes, we can take various actions to change the situation or influence the person to behave differently.

But many times, we are completely at the mercy of unpredictability and the unknown. Death and grief are one of those times.

On the day my daughter drowned, there was a chaos of paramedics trying to revive her. I remember pleading with whoever happened to be listening to save her. I can hear myself screaming, “Please save her. SHE CAN’T DIE.” This was all amid my hysterical sobs and falling to my knees.

The idea that she was dead and couldn’t be saved was unacceptable. No. Through sheer determination, I would will her back to life. And yet, even on that day while I watched the paramedics and then the ER staff desperately work on her for what seemed like hours, part of me knew she had already died.

The grief that took over in the aftermath of her death was overwhelming.

Looking back, I’m not sure what was worse: the excruciating pain of missing my daughter, or the complete and utter lack of control of anything.

I couldn’t change what happened and bring her back to life. I couldn’t control my thoughts or emotions and was a complete wreck for days and weeks. Things that used to be automatic and easy, like cooking or showering were now unbearable and almost impossible. I could no longer tell my other children everything would be ok when I couldn’t possibly imagine that anything would ever be “ok” again.

But it wasn’t just a loss of control. It was being face-to-face with the unknown.

Questions raced through my head. What if I had just stopped to play with her the last time she asked? What if I had brought her with me that morning? Why did it happen to us? Will I ever be ok again? What is going to happen to my family? My other children? My marriage? What happens after we die? Will I ever see her again? None of these questions could be answered. I couldn’t control any of it by choosing the “right” words or actions.

As time went on, my grief took many unexpected twists and turns. I never knew how I would feel from one moment to the next.

I never knew what would trigger my emotions and leave me a crying mess, or in an angry rage, or in a state of panic. And the triggers themselves were random and unpredictable. I would desperately try to figure out what triggered me to try to avoid it in the future. But most of the time, I felt completely out of control. And despite attending counseling and support groups, there was nothing I could really do about it.

I’m not sure when I came to terms with it.

I’m not sure when I accepted that grief, in its very nature, is unpredictable and uncontrollable. But when I did finally accept it, it had an unexpected result: I felt relief.

It was as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Now, when intense grief appears seemingly out of nowhere, I am better able to accept it, process it, seek support for it. And I know that it will eventually pass.

I don’t know what the future will bring, but for the first time in my life, I’m okay with that.

I work on resisting the urge to control others with my words and actions. Instead, I try to speak the truth and express my feelings and needs. I’m okay with focusing on the here and now, yet not forsaking planning for the future. It takes less energy, produces less anxiety, and provides more contentment. It allows me to enjoy the moment.

But I would be lying if I didn’t admit I still wish I could change the past.

I love and miss you, Margareta.

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.