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. 

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.

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.

The Positive Side of Grief

The Positive Side of Grief

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I recently saw a quote on social media that caught my eye.

“Maybe you’re not healing because you’re trying to be who you were before the trauma. That person doesn’t exist anymore, cause there’s a ‘new you’ trying to be born. Breathe life into that person.”

I don’t know who wrote it, but it made me stop and think about my journey as a bereaved parent. And I think it’s a good analogy for what so many bereaved parents struggle with in the aftermath of losing a child.

After my daughter’s death, my feelings of utter devastation were not just a result of losing my only daughter. It was also a reaction to becoming a completely different person. A person I didn’t recognize anymore.

I was 35 when my daughter, Margareta, died suddenly at the age of four. In those 35 years, I had developed a clear identity and a good understanding of my personality traits. I was a working mom and wife, juggling family life with my career. I had a predictable set of activities and routines. And while I would describe my underlying personality as shy and introverted, I had a circle of good friends.

Since childhood, I’ve been an emotionally sensitive and anxiety-driven person. Over those 35 years, I developed a mental toolbox and playbook for dealing with frustrating or difficult situations and emotions. That is not to say they were all healthy tools, but they did what I needed them to do. They kept my emotions in check and reduced the severity of my daily anxiety.

I had myself pretty much figured out. And then my daughter died and everything I thought I knew about myself was obliterated.

Before Margareta’s death I was a very patient person and great at remembering all the little details of life and work. After her death, my patience was nonexistent, and I could barely remember to eat or do basic things like brushing my teeth. Worst of all, while I prided myself in being a calm, composed person, I had become completely unable to contain any of my raging emotions. Whatever I was feeling was what I was outwardly projecting. All the tools I had developed to regulate my emotions and anxiety had become completely ineffective.

In the days, weeks and months after her death my emotions were all over the place and highly unpredictable. One moment I’d be sobbing with despair; the next I was completely numb and seemingly watching life go by without interacting with it. Sometimes I was engulfed in anger at things I normally didn’t care about. Other times I was overcome with intense fear, scared that I couldn’t survive in a world without my daughter—even with my husband and three sons by my side.

I didn’t recognize or understand the person I had become, and desperately wanted everything to go back to the way it was before.

Trying to get back to being the person I was before my daughter’s death was a losing cause and intensified the immense trauma I was experiencing.

I understood I had lost a future with my daughter in it. That fact was out of my control. But I fully believed that the ability to go back to being my former self was an attainable goal. My former self would surely be able to contain and control these constant, overwhelming feelings of anguish, despair, and hopelessness. My former self would be supported by my family and circle of friends; the people I now felt completely alienated and isolated from—even though I was the one pushing them away.

So, I decided to search out as much external support as I could. I attended multiple support groups and individual therapy. I searched the internet for any tidbit of information that could help me figure out what to do and read book after book on bereavement and healing. This went on for years.

All of this did, in fact, help me better control my outward emotions while at work and in public. But those feelings still raged inside of me. It had been over three years since Margareta’s death, and I didn’t seem to be getting any closer to who I used to be. And it was incredibly frustrating and disappointing.

In realizing I wasn’t getting any closer to getting back to my “old self,” something unexpected happened.

First, I came to terms that the ways I had been getting support were no longer as helpful as they had been. While they had been an invaluable lifeline in those first few years after Margareta’s death, I had begun to get fatigued from continually hearing newly bereaved parents describe their bitter anguish month after month. I started to realize that it was keeping me anchored to the tragedy of her death, rather than the love and joy Margareta had brought into my life. So, I decided to cut back my attendance at the various support groups I had been going to.

Second, I decided to change my approach to healing by doing something I loved: writing. I wanted to focus on writing about the joy Margareta brought me by documenting all my favorite memories. In doing so, I began to feel a change in myself. But this time it was a positive, welcome change.

Unfortunately, documenting my memories of the four short years she was with us was a limited activity. Afterwards, I began to write about my experience with grief. I wrote about how I was feeling, what I struggled with, and what I felt I had learned from my journey of grief. Surprisingly, in addition to helping me work through my feelings, it began to resonate with other bereaved parents who happened to find my blog.

Writing about my feelings and knowing that it was also helping others on their journeys became my greatest source of healing. And it began to breathe life into the “new me” that was waiting to emerge.

No longer hyper-focused on getting back to the person who could eliminate all those negative emotions, the “new me” was more willing to learn from them instead. The person I was becoming saw the value of embracing the change inside myself in hopes that it could ease my continued anguish. And it did. Slowly but surely.

Many years later, I am still discovering the “new me.” That is because the new me is continually evolving. I continue to discover the opportunities for personal growth that stem from the various obstacles thrown my way. I am a work in progress and always will be.

Letting go of the person I was before my daughter died has been the single biggest source of healing my grief.

I will always regret that I cannot watch Margareta grow into a beautiful woman. But I can instead watch my own growth and development—knowing that is inspired the gratitude I have for those four wonderful years and the love from her and for her that will forever exist inside me.

 

The Fading Tapestry of a Life Once Lived

The Fading Tapestry of a Life Once Lived

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On September 30, it will be ten years since you died. Ten years isn’t very long in the grand scheme of things. But considering you died at the tender age of four, it feels like so much more.

Memories of you have already begun to fade. Evidence of your very existence is far and few between. Clothes you wore, things you cherished, and art you created all fit into a few small bins. Bins that have long since been packed away with the rest of the things we rarely use. A few cherished items and photos of you are left out to admire.

But outside of our home—and outside of our hearts and minds—your short life went by unnoticed. Unknown to the world except by the few who knew you during those four short years, and whose hearts you indelibly touched.

Recently, we traveled abroad and visited cities that are centuries or millennia old. We explored ancient ruins that were abandoned long ago by the march of progress. Ruins that were literally buried under countless layers of dirt and modern adaptation. Fragile artifacts have to be painstakingly unearthed and preserved. Each one a small clue of lives that have long been forgotten.

Archeologists are left to look at impossibly small fragments of what once was. They merely guess at the most rudimentary details of people who were once so important to their family and friends. Without much to go on, they can never hope to know these people beyond their age, sex, status in society, and maybe a few more inconsequential facts. They’ll never uncover the beauty these people brought into the hearts and lives of those who loved them.

And when our lives come to an end, what then? When our belongings are rummaged through after we are dead and gone, what will they piece together about your life—so spirited and vibrant—that ended so long ago?

What will a box of favorite outfits, a few pairs of shoes, costumes, and other small trinkets tell them about you? Could these things ever convey your sense of humor and adventure? Will they tell of your guarded shyness around strangers, yet decisive bossiness at home? Could anyone who never met you begin to use these excavated objects as evidence of the depth and boundless imagination that vividly colored the world we shared together?

Unfortunately not.

We’ve tried to write down memories of you, but they can’t ever fully convey the rich tapestry of your brief life.

Memories only highlight fragments of who you were and the impact you had on those who loved you. They lack depth and detail of your complex, unique being.

Over a decade since your death, the brightly colored threads which had weaved together to form the story of your life have significantly faded and worn. And they’ll continue to do so as time ticks by.

While your family lovingly cares for your tapestry in our hearts and thoughts, we cannot stop or slow the continual damage caused by the passing of time. Each birthday and anniversary of your death serves as a harsh, sobering reminder of this reality.

No matter how faded or damaged your life’s tapestry becomes, you are a vibrant, brilliant part of our life tapestries. This is the one thing that will withstand the test of time. For the rest of our lives, you remain a constant presence; a beacon of love and a guiding light of purpose.