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.

Looking for Hope in the New Year After the Loss of a Loved One

Looking for Hope in the New Year After the Loss of a Loved One

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For many, welcoming in the New Year is a celebration of optimism and hope. Many see it as a fresh start. The New Year’s resolution tradition is a yearly chance to improve your life and perhaps yourself.

Of course, this isn’t a view shared by all.

For the newly bereaved, the New Year’s “celebration” can be an incredibly painful milestone and reminder.

My 4-year-old daughter died on September 30, 2009. In my overwhelming grief, I had been preoccupied with anxious anticipation of how I was going to handle Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I had agonized over what I should do or not do to make those three holidays any less painful. I had worried about whether I would break down or have a panic attack on days that were supposed to be celebrations. Since I had never been much of a participant in New Year’s Eve festivities, it didn’t even occur to me that the New Year holiday would be a big deal.

And yet, I was completely blindsided by just how painful the New Year’s holiday was for me. In the week between Christmas and New Year’s, I began to realize I was actually dreading it.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that a new year was coming and my daughter wouldn’t be alive in it.

New Year’s would bring me no resolutions, hope, or optimism. All I saw was more impossible pain on the horizon. The harsh reality that my daughter wasn’t going to be alive in 2010 made me downright angry that this new year was being welcomed and celebrated by the rest of the world.

Some of you reading this may feel the same despair I did those years ago. The idea that anything good can ever happen again may feel impossible. The mere idea of smiling, laughing, and enjoying life may feel like a betrayal of your loved one. And if you feel that way, it’s okay. It’s a normal reaction to grief.

Only when you feel ready, I encourage you to give yourself permission to look for hope again. But this time with a new perspective.

Perhaps it is like a New Year’s resolution. Not the myriad of resolutions that are doomed from the start because they are too ambitious and too vague. Most people fail these broad resolutions because they try to take on too much at once. They don’t have the willpower to change the lifelong habits that are barriers to their goals.

The resolutions I am suggesting are ones that have very specific, small, and ACHIEVABLE goals. The key to success is to try to un-learn every day habits that normally get in the way of achieving your goals. You can change your habits by setting mini goals that are SO simple to achieve, you actually do them. And if you do them consistently for a certain length of time, they become new, positive habits.

Getting back to the idea of allowing yourself to look for hope in the New Year. If I were to suggest mini goals based on my personal experience with grief, here’s what they might be.

Say or write ONE word that describes how you are feeling every day.

One of the hardest parts of grief is our natural reaction to try to suppress the pain. This might be done through outright denial, keeping busy (and therefore distracted from it), numbing it with drugs or alcohol, etc. The problem with this approach is that suppressing the pain only makes it worse. And it can even prolong the severity of your pain.

By saying or writing one word that describes how you feel each day, you begin to learn how to express your feelings. And when you express them, you can begin to work through them. When you work through them, you can ultimately let those painful feelings go. Words that I might have used four years ago to describe how I felt could include: despair, guilt, panic, fatigued, hopeless, numb, disbelief, angry, despondent. The list goes on.

Acknowledge ONE nice thing that happened every day.

When you are deep in grief, you tend to focus on what you’ve lost and the searing pain associated with it. Your world might become bleak and filled with despair. By acknowledging one nice thing that happened that day, you can begin to create a habit of gratitude, hope, and optimism.

Even if you had this habit before your loss, you will likely experience it in a more meaningful way. Nice things could be as simple as someone holding the elevator door for you. Or as significant as a friend stopping by to say hello and let you know they care about you.

Do ONE thing to take care of yourself every day.

This may not be difficult for some. But for myself and many others I know, this can be challenging even when you are NOT grieving. But in early grief, your energy is usually completely gone most of the time. Even basic chores like cooking or laundry can feel downright impossible. If there is one time in your life that you need to take care of yourself, it is now.

For example, you can ask your family or friends to help with things you normally take for granted. Things like cooking a meal, doing a load of laundry, etc. You can eat something healthy when you don’t have any appetite. Or take a nap when you feel exhausted. You can let yourself cry if you feel the urge. Taking care of yourself could even be something like treating yourself to a massage to help relieve the aching tension you are likely feeling.

Smile ONCE every day.

For some, this may be the most difficult mini goal of them all. For a long time it was for me. I felt that if I smiled, it would somehow mean I was okay with my daughter’s death. For a long time I literally thought I had to be miserable for the rest of my life because of how much I missed her.

Yet, for the sake of my other children, I forced myself to smile again. At first, the smiles weren’t authentic. But eventually the fake smiles led the way to real smiles. Further down the road, the permission to smile led to feeling happiness and even joy once again. Happiness and joy lead to hope and optimism.

That is my ultimate wish for you – happiness, joy, hope, and optimism. You will likely have to re-learn how to invite them into your life. Yet your ultimate motivation and guide will likely be the deep, enduring love you feel for the loved one you lost. And I know there is no end to the depth of that love.

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.

The Anniversary of A Loved One’s Death

The Anniversary of A Loved One’s Death

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Soon it will be the anniversary of my daughter’s death.

Over the years, I have struggled with how to deal with this particular day. It isn’t like her birthday. Her birthday is painful now, but represents a wonderful day in my life. Instead, the anniversary of her death represents the worst day of my life.

A day full of images, sounds, smells, and chaos that I’d rather erase altogether. It represents a day filled with horror. There is no other word I can use to adequately describe it. It may not have been a mass shooting or terrorist act that got 24-hour media attention, but it shattered my heart into a million pieces and part of me died that day too.

The year leading to the first anniversary of her death was agonizing.

Everything that first year was new, uncharted territory. Each “first” – Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, family birthdays, vacation – was like swallowing broken glass. How could we celebrate when she wasn’t here to celebrate it with us? The fact that her birthday is 29 days before the anniversary of her death compounded the stress. These weren’t just societal holidays to celebrate with the rest of the world. They were specifically representative of her.

Coming up on the first anniversary of her death, I would lay awake in the middle of the night. Anxiety overwhelmed me as I wondered how I could possibly get through that day without completely losing it? I decided I would hide from the world that day.

I stayed home like a hermit, and the day came and went. But it was a day full of sadness. A day where I couldn’t hold back the images of that horrible day from invading my thoughts. A day when I replayed the “what if” and “why” questions I had let go of months before.

For the second anniversary of her death, I was determined not to hide in sadness. Instead, I wanted to somehow transform the day into a positive one.

I decided it would become a day of gratitude for the people who tried to help on the day she died. I wrote thank you cards to those who were involved in that day and the aftermath. One of the stops was the fire station down the street that first responded to the 911 call. Taking two of my sons with me, we walked up to the fire house door and knocked.

Three firemen came to the door and I explained why I was there. Two of them said they had come to our house and worked on my daughter. With tears in my eyes, I thanked them for their efforts even though she hadn’t made it.

With tears in their own eyes, they said they never forget the times that little kids don’t make it. While I’m glad I had the opportunity to talk to them in person, it didn’t provide me with the peace I was hoping for.

The third anniversary of her death, I tried to treat the day like it was just any other typical day.

That attempt simply ended in outbursts of anger resulting from repressing my emotions. The fact is, it isn’t just any other day to me. And I can’t pretend otherwise.

I don’t think there is a right or wrong way to approach the anniversary of our loved one’s death.

What “works” for me may not “work” for anyone else. I’m sure my thoughts, anxieties, expectations, etc. will evolve over time. These days, I just take it as it comes and know that it will be a sad day no matter what I do.  I’ll just have to be ok with that.

I don’t really have any other choice.