Grieving a Future I’ll Never Have

Grieving a Future I’ll Never Have

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When grief is new, it is excruciating and overwhelming. Many people get stuck in a quicksand of pain that is so thick and intense, it feels impossible to escape. You can’t imagine how you’ll survive as you struggle through those first few days, weeks, and months.

And yet you do survive. Despite all odds, you wake up each morning. Your body still functions. You find a way to quietly camoflauge yourself within with the “normal” world around you. You learn to live one day at a time. One moment at a time when the day is particularly hard.

Slowly – and painfully – you begin to acclimate to a world without your loved one in it. You do it because you have no other choice.

Over five years after the death of my 4-year-old daughter, Margareta, I’ve acclimated as best I can. I’ve continually faced and dealt with those painful feelings and emotions using every tool I can think of. Writing about my grief helps immensely. I go to grief support groups and talk to a grief counselor when I feel the need to. I talk about Margareta with those who want to hear. I’ve come to terms with the impossible reality that she is gone and never coming back.

My grief over my daughter’s death will never go away. Ask any grieving parent and they’ll tell you the same.

We’ll never “get over it.” What we have to do is accept it and learn how to live life despite of it. I’ve heard some bereaved parents don’t like using the word acceptance. That is because they associate the notion of accepting their child’s death with being okay with their child’s death. But you can accept the reality of something without ever being happy about it; without ever being okay with it. You can’t change the past, so you might as well accept it in order to begin to be able to heal from the devastation you find yourself in.

I have healed a lot over the years. The open, oozing, excruciating wound of my broken heart has since scabbed over. I’ll always have the painful scar that reminds me throughout every day that my daughter isn’t here. It’s that constant reminder that is the hardest for me now.

I’m grieving a future I’ll never have. I’m reminded every day of what could have been, but can never be.

I’m grieving lost hopes and dreams. And the loss of my only daughter and the mother-daughter relationship I only had a glimpse of. Instead of the intense, searing pain of early grief, it has transformed into a dull ache I’ll never escape from.

I don’t think I’ll ever feel fully at ease with this constant ache. I’ll always miss my daughter. I’ll always regret that I didn’t get to watch her grow. But I’m dedicated to learning how to live a happy, meaningful life despite of it. I do this in her honor and in the honor of my other children, husband, and family. I do it because I didn’t physically die when she did.

In her four short years, my daughter lived life to the fullest – full of love, honesty and without fear. It is now my goal in life to do the same. I know she would have wanted it that way.

What It’s Like to Lose A Child (The Journey of Bereaved Parents)

What It’s Like to Lose A Child (The Journey of Bereaved Parents)

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From the moment we found out you were coming into our lives, we felt electric: a mix of excitement, adrenaline, and a dose of fear for good measure. We dutifully began plotting the course of our lives together – starting with milestones like Kindergarten, puberty, graduation, career, wedding, and grandchildren. Then we began making our maps more detailed with our hopes and dreams for you. We prepared as well as we could for your arrival.

On the day you came into our lives, we held out our loving arms and said softly, “Welcome. We’ve been waiting for you.”

We stared into the vast universe reflected deep within your eyes with awe and wonder. You were a part of us; an extension of our very being. As you stared back into our eyes, a feeling of intense love for you took root in every cell of our body. This was true, unconditional love with no boundaries and no end.

Our lives were more meaningful with you in it. You gave us a greater sense of purpose and a profound sense of responsibility. Your life was ours to protect; ours to mold and guide. We needed to teach you all that we knew; try to help you avoid making the same mistakes we had made and afford you every opportunity to make your unique mark on this world. We wanted to make sure your life would become better than our own.

In return, all we asked from you was your continued unconditional love, because it felt wonderful. Better than anything else in this life of ours.

We did the best we could as parents, but weren’t perfect. There were plenty of mistakes intermixed with successes. We got off course of our map here and there and had to identify some new routes, but the destination was always the same: we would take care of you until one day you would take care of us.

At that point we would say goodbye and leave you to be on your own. By then you would have a family and be following your own map. We’d leave happy in the knowledge that we made the world a better place by bringing you into it.

But then the impossible happened. You died before we did.

On the day you died, our hearts shattered into a million pieces, as did the world around us. We were left in a dark, unfamiliar place where pain filled every cell of our body where your love once lived.

The air around us was now hard to breathe. Gravity was stronger than before, and the simple act of sitting or standing used up all of our strength and energy. Our map had disintegrated and we were hopelessly, utterly lost in the darkness of horror and misery.

Amid the darkness, familiar hands grabbed ours. Voices of family and friends guided us as we fumbled about in this strange new world, not knowing what to do. These family and friends all gathered around us to ceremoniously say goodbye to you.

And yet we couldn’t. The words never made it to our mouths. We were sure this was all a mistake – a nightmare that we would wake up from and find you standing over us smiling and laughing. We cried out for you, but got no answer in return.

As our family and friends left us to be on our own without you, the familiar world we once knew began to reappear around us.

And yet it was very different than before. We could interact with it, but we couldn’t touch this world because we were trapped in a bubble of despair. Most people couldn’t see our bubble. To them, it looked as if we were the same person we were before you died – maybe sadder, but basically the same. They expected us to quickly go back to our old routines and be our “old selves”. But they couldn’t see our bubble, and that we had fundamentally changed.

Inside that bubble, everything felt overwhelming. Our reactions to common sights and sounds were different than before. Laughter and joy made us angry and sick to our stomach. We were filled with resentment that the world itself hadn’t ceased to exist when you died.

Happiness was now out of reach, and we felt as though we’d never get it back. Some of us didn’t want it back if you weren’t there to share it with us. Even when we were surrounded by people outside our bubble, we felt hopelessly alone and misunderstood.

We became excellent actors worthy of an Oscar. We learned to pretend we were better and back to “normal” for the benefit of those around us. “Fine” is how we mostly answered the question of, “How are you?” We looked desperately around us for people who actually wanted to hear the truth. We were not fine.

When you left us, you took a part of us, and the void it left still ached with a pain so unbearable, we couldn’t find adequate words to describe it.

A few people could see our bubbles; most of them lived in bubbles themselves. Unlike the majority of people in the world around us, these people had the ability to reach inside our bubble and embrace us with understanding. We didn’t have to pretend to be okay around them. We could break down and cry as loud and long as we needed to without worrying about making them uncomfortable. We found a sense of community that we had lost when you died.

But none of this made the pain go away.

Over time, small cracks began to develop in our bubbles. These cracks let more light into our dim world. The air that came inside was easier to breathe. The gravity lightened a bit.

It still hurt to be alive in a world without you, but we began to learn how to adjust to it so that it wasn’t as debilitating as before.

Many of us learned to pry open the cracks in our bubbles a bit more to let in even more light and air. This changed the chemistry of the atmosphere inside our bubble from that of despair to a mix of memories and longing for you. We learned how to feel happiness and joy once again, even though it never made the pain deep within us subside. We began to learn how to better function in the world around us while still in the confines of our bubbles.

Our bubbles never fully go away. They change over time and may shrink considerably, but the pain will never leave us. This is because the pain was created by – and coexists with – your love that took root in every cell of our body when we stared into your eyes that very first time. And sometimes, we can momentarily release the feeling of pain by focusing our attention on you and the love you gave us that still lives in our bodies. You remain with us and a part of us.

The fact is we would have died for you. We would have gladly given up our own lives in a heartbeat if it meant you could have continued living. But no one has ever learned how to go back in time to make that sacrifice.

So we are left to live and breathe in a world without you. We have to create a new map that takes us into uncharted territory. We do this in your honor, and in honor of our family and friends that remain by our side.

We will continue down this new path until we take our own last breaths. And when we leave this world and head into the unknown, we hope to see you there with open, loving arms and hear you say softly, “Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you.”

©Maria Kubitz 2014

A New “Normal” After My Child’s Death

A New “Normal” After My Child’s Death

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What exactly is “normal” after a child’s death? Our daughter, Margareta, died suddenly a month after her fourth birthday in September 2009. On that day, in those moments, the world as I knew it shattered. Years later, I am still learning how to pick up the pieces.

I live my life as “normal” as I can. My activities as a busy mom of four active boys haven’t changed (chef, chauffeur, drill sergeant, nurse, circus ringleader, etc.). I love my family and still experience genuine joy and happiness.

But lurking below the surface is a pain and longing so deep and profound that it defies description.

The activities of everyday life usually keep these intense feelings of grief at bay. But in the quiet moments, or if something triggers me, emotions can suddenly overwhelm me like a sneaker wave on an otherwise calm day at the beach.

It can cause me to cry for no reason. Or sap my energy completely. It can rob me of any ounce of patience for seemingly “trivial” matters, and cause my brain to short-circuit and become forgetful. Sometimes it can make me feel like I’m going crazy. The list goes on. Holidays and celebrations involving family and children continue to be significant triggers for me.

My new “normal” includes regular trips to the cemetery. My new normal means having to think about how to answer the question “how many children do you have?” based on if I’m ever going to see this person again. Or cringing every time I hear, “Are you going to try for a girl?” when someone sees me with all my boys. It means looking longingly at girls in the park that are about the age Margareta would be and wondering what she would be like now?

The new normal means learning how to live with a pain that will never completely go away, but will soften over time.

Time alone will not heal this wound. Unlike the early days of grief, it might be feasible to stuff these feelings down inside and actively keep them at bay. But the longer I push the feelings away, the worse they get. Instead, I choose to acknowledge them and figure out how to accept them as part of my life as it currently is.

I seek out support from various resources on a regular basis, which helps, but it is still a slow healing process. One of the greatest sources of working through my grief is talking about it. I also love talking about my daughter, Margareta. Sharing stories about her — and all my kids for that matter — is one sure fire way to bring a smile to my face.

Sister Trouble

Sister Trouble

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When i was 6, my other sister was 4 and Madison was 2. So, Julia (the 4 year old) was being mean to me. So i threw a toy at her. She started crying and calling “Daddy! Mommy!” I took Madison with me and ran down the basement. I said to Madison, “Go upstairs and hit Julia with a book!.” Madison was confused.

“Why Shannon?” She asked. “Because, Julia is always mean to you. Don’t you want to get her back for it?”

Madison nodded. Got a book, went upstairs and started slapping it at Julia. Now of course a 2 year old can’t hit hard, but Julia just assumed it would have. Again Julia started yelling, “Daddy, Mommy!” While trying to grab the book away from Madison and hit her with it.

Finally my Dad came out and started yelling at Madison. She had no clue what was happening.

I felt so bad i started bursting into tears! “No daddy it was me! All me! I told Madison to hit Julia with the book.”

Madison hugged me and said “It’s okay Shannon, don’t cry.”

So my Dad understood and started yelling at me. And that was the end of that day!

Madison was always trying to make everyone else feel better and I miss her.
Submitted by Shannon Ritts in memory of her sister Madison Ritts

“Moving On” After the Death of a Child

“Moving On” After the Death of a Child

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We moved to a new house. A house my daughter never lived in, and never will. We left an old house where she lived her entire four short years. A house where she spent countless hours playing, eating, sleeping, dressing up, making mischief, making us laugh…the list goes on.

It was also the house where she died.

It was the house seared in our memories on that horrible day when our lives changed forever. A day we wish we could just figure out how to undo. As I prepared to move, I had to face a lot of memories and choices.

For three years after her death I kept everything my daughter had touched, wore, made, or played with. Some items were kept in bins kept under my bed or in closets. Others were displayed prominently. Some were just left as they were before she died.

As I packed, I was faced with the question of what to do with her things?

Do I keep her things until I’m dead and then let my other kids deal with the question of what to do? Do I get rid of all of it, knowing that these are just things and none of it will bring her back? 

The truth is, they are just things — but they are things that can have significant memories attached to them.

Some of her things have more significance than others. For example, a pair of plain pants she wore a handful of times are just pants. But the dresses or shirts she loved and wore over and over are special. So are the clothes that have very specific memories attached to them or are featured in treasured photographs. The toys she barely played with are just toys, but the toys and books and puzzles that occupied her for hours day after day are ones that meant something to her, and mean something to me as well.

So I came to terms with the reality of keeping what still held precious memories for me, and donating the rest.

Packing the house also brought with it a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

I didn’t know what “new” things of hers I would come across as I pulled out neglected boxes or cleaned out long forgotten drawers. Would finding these things bring floods of emotion and make me cry? Or would finding something new that she created — such as a drawing — lead me to a new treasure that I can cherish forever?

Finding hair from her first haircut took my breath away and turned my stomach into knots. How could I have been so careless as to keep it in a random place where it could have easily been thrown away? Finding her faded, broken sunglasses in the yard brought back memories of her wearing them upside-down and a cute photograph of us together. I kept the hair, of course, but in the end let go of the broken sunglasses. My memories are enough.

Moving to a new house was a lot of work. Do I miss the old house? No. Will I keep the memories? Yes. We may have “moved on” without our daughter, but we will never move on from our memories of her.