My Friend Forever

My Friend Forever

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I met Sue when I interviewed her as a potential daycare provider for my son. She was a larger than life personality, but at the same time, gentle and loving. She had a special way with children that was clear from that very first interaction with my son. I recall her telling me years later that she actually preferred interacting with children to adults because children were authentic and honest beings. They say what they feel and live in the moment – which is exactly what Sue was like.

It took me a while to get really close to her. Having been a shy, quiet person all my life, I gravitated towards these loud, outspoken, energetic people, but I often just lived in their shadow. One morning when I was dropping my son off at her daycare during an extremely difficult situation in my life, Sue simply asked me, “Are you OK?” It was if the flood gates crashed open. I poured my heart out to her, letting her see every ounce of vulnerability in me. Sue did exactly what I needed most: listened intently, didn’t judge, didn’t offer advice. She was just a loving, safe shoulder for me to cry on. From that moment, my most important friendship was born.

Sue and I were different in a lot of ways, but emotionally, we were very similar. We both trusted each other enough that we could be 100% honest and say anything without fear of judgement. It was my first real understanding of what unconditional love felt like with someone other than my children. For that, I am truly grateful.

Often, I would take extended lunches from work and go sit with Sue in her living room while the children in her daycare napped, and we would just talk and enjoy each others company. We would act as sounding boards to whatever was going on in our lives. No topic was off limits, and even if we disagreed about something, we both knew that either of us would support the other no matter what.

Unfortunately, some years later I was laid off from my job. After that I lived and worked too far away to see her very often. But the distance did not lessen the importance of her friendship. I still considered her my best friend.

When my daughter died, Sue was the second person I called. She dropped everything and she and her husband came to stay in a hotel in our town for a number of days. I hadn’t asked her to do this, she just did. She was with me every step of the way in those horrible first few days. She took charge of making those impossible arrangements: mortuary, cemetery, location for the memorial, etc. She made sure I ate when I had no appetite. She took my hand and led me to my room when she saw I needed to collapse and get away from everyone. She even insisted to the staff at the mortuary that she be the one to comb my daughter’s hair and get her dressed for the viewing and memorial service so that it was done by someone who loved her. To this day, words could never adequately express my appreciation and love for Sue.

After battling heart issues for years, Sue passed away in her sleep at home several days before the first anniversary of my daughter’s death. It hit me like a ton of bricks. She was too young to die. Too full of life. I didn’t want to believe it. But as I’ve learned all too well, life is precious, unpredictable, and whether we like it or not, comes to an end at some point.

The morning after I heard that Sue died, I saw the most amazing sunrise. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I smiled, remembering what a wonderful friend she was and how I had become a better person through knowing her. My friendship with Sue will remain one of the most important relationships of my life. I miss her with all my heart.

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of her friend, Susan Coronado.

Just Let Me Be Sad

Just Let Me Be Sad

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We live in a world where – if you have the means – pain and suffering are to be avoided at all costs. People are always looking for the next “quick fix” to alleviate discomfort. Preferably with the least amount of effort required. In many cases, this means treating the symptoms while ignoring the root cause of the problem.

Our society is so uncomfortable with emotional pain that when someone dies, the outward mourning period is expected to end once the funeral is over.

When the bereaved do not cooperate with these prescribed time tables, they are often accused of “wallowing” in their grief. They are indignantly told to “move on” and “get over it.”

But is prolonged outward grief is a sign of weakness? Or maybe self-pity? Do they think the bereaved secretly enjoy the pain and the attention it brings? For those of us who have lost someone dear to us, we know none of this could not be further from the truth. If we could, we would give ANYTHING to not feel this pain.

The problem is our outward projection of sadness is an unwelcome reminder.

It represents all the negative emotions they’ve managed to stuff deep inside until the pain is suppressed. 

So which is healthier? Suppressing grief, only to have it lie dormant until some tragedy unearths it again – but this time stronger and more painful? Or to acknowledge there is no quick fix to alleviate the overwhelming pain of losing someone you have built your life – and in some cases, your identity – around?

Suppressing grief is like following the latest fad diet.

Everyone wants to lose weight quickly without exercising or changing  eating habits. Maybe you’ll pop some appetite suppressing pills and lose weight in the short term. But the chances of you keeping the weight off are slim. The reality is that the next time you try to lose weight, it will likely be harder than the time before.

The alternative means facing the harsh reality that transforming your body to a stable, healthy weight is challenging. It requires permanently changing your eating habits and amount of regular exercise. You likely need to readjust your expectations of what your ideal body should look like. Sadly, most of us will never look like supermodels or pro athletes. In other words, the second option is HARD WORK, but it has the greatest likelihood of becoming a permanent reality.

But if I’m being honest here, I have to admit that given the opportunity, I would have gladly chosen to bury the overwhelming pain when my daughter died. Suppressing pain and emotions is what I had done my whole life until that point.

The fact is the pain of losing someone I loved MORE than my own life was too much to bury.

I reluctantly – and resentfully – took on more pain than I could bear. I did so because I had no other choice.

For the first time in my life, I learned how to slowly take small steps with that unbearable load on my back. In support groups and counseling, I learned sharing my story and my pain reduced the load. Even if it was only a very slight amount each time.  

By reducing the load over months and then years, it became easier to carry. I have since come to understand that the load will never fully go away, but I have learned how to balance it with the rest of my life. And as time goes on, the balance will become easier still.

That is not to say that occasionally, the load won’t suddenly feel nearly as heavy as it did when my grief was new. And when it does, I’ll remember how to go back to taking small, careful steps until it feels lighter again.

To all those who cringe in discomfort when they see me experiencing outward emotional pain, I say this: just let me be sad.

My intention is not to make you feel uncomfortable. I don’t expect – or want – you to follow in my footsteps. But I do expect you to respect the path I have been forced to take on my journey through life. I truly hope you never have to carry this load yourself.

In the Garden

In the Garden

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During her visit in late spring of 2009, our sister Patsy planted a wonderful vegetable garden on the side of our house with the help of our kids. We had been wanting a garden for a while, so we watered and cared for the garden in anticipation of the carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, and other wonderful vegetables that would come.

The garden started producing its bounty in the summer, and we enjoyed fresh vegetables with most of our meals.

One afternoon, our daughter, Margareta, decided she was going to water the garden. In true Margareta fashion, she used her quirky sense of style and imagination. Dressed only in underwear (a common sight in our home), shoes, and a red super hero cape, she went out to water the garden with a water gun we had just gotten.  After seeing her head out the kitchen door in this getup, I followed her with the camera to see what she was up to with a smile on my face. Here is what I saw:

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I miss my beautiful girl with her vivid imagination and sense of whimsy. I think of these pictures often.

Submitted by Maria Kubitz in loving memory of her daughter, Margareta Kubitz.

The Isolation of Grief

The Isolation of Grief

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Now, I’ve never been a stranger to isolation. The kind that comes from feeling like you just don’t fit into your surroundings. But I’ve never felt as isolated as I did after the death of my daughter.

As a child, I was a shy, introverted person who felt different than the people around me. At the time, I never really knew why. I didn’t like the feeling of isolation, but I didn’t understand what caused it. So it just became a fact of life.

My shyness lessened over time, but remains a fundamental part of my personality. I’ve learned how to handle and enjoy various social situations. But I still prefer interacting with small groups or one-on-one conversations.

After my daughter died, my sense of isolation grew exponentially as a result of grief.

In the immediate aftermath of her sudden death, our house was filled with family and friends. They showed support by helping us do what had to be done. Things like planning the memorial and visiting the cemetery to secure a plot. Some helped work with our insurance company or write an obituary. Family and friends prepared meals, made sure we were left alone when we needed our space, gave us hugs, and shed tears with us.

The phone rang often. I found myself doing most of the talking when the other end of the phone was uncomfortably silent. People struggled to find the right words to say. Even in my numbness, I was able to understand the dilemma of “I’m sorry” doesn’t seem to be enough when someone has just lost a four-year-old little girl.

A few days after the memorial service, everyone went home. Less sympathy cards arrived in the mail until there were none. The phone stopped ringing. Our daughter’s preschool arranged a weekly meal donation and then my work did the same. The meals were a huge help, but eventually those stopped coming too.

We were left alone to figure out how to pick up the pieces of our shattered hearts and shattered lives. To find help, we went to counseling and support groups. But we were forced to accept the fact that life was going to keep moving forward without our precious girl in it. It was devastating.

That devastation led me to a self-imposed isolation from a world I could no longer stand to be a part of.

I didn’t want to talk to people who couldn’t understand my pain because I didn’t have the energy to explain myself. The sound of laughter or gossip produced outright anger in me. Everyday acts of going to work, chores, grocery shopping, or even something as simple as showering were agonizingly painful and almost impossible.

I wanted nothing to do with any of it. I found myself not answering the phone and not returning messages. When friends who weren’t sure how to help me invited me over, I politely turned them down.

I managed to make sure that I fed my surviving kids and took them to school and practices. But I was no longer the mom they were used to. They stopped wanting to talk to me about how they felt because they thought it would make me even sadder. My kids were frightened that not only did they lose their sister, there was a potential that they were losing the mom they thought they knew.

Over that first year after her death, the suffocating pain began to lessen. Though not by as much as I would have hoped. Everyday tasks didn’t seem so impossible anymore. I began to adjust to the “new normal” any grieving person must accept.

After a while, the isolation of grief began to change.

While I started answering the phone and accepting some of those invitations, I felt isolated in a different sense. I continued to think of my daughter and experience the pain constantly, but very few people talked about my grief or even mentioned her name any more. Even surrounded by friends, I felt completely alone.

Support groups and counseling helped. So did reaching out to other parents who had lost children. At that time, I preferred their company over others. I found myself part of the secret society of grieving parents who mostly keep their grief to themselves. They only tend to share their grief with those who are faced with the same loss and pain. I found that sharing my feelings with these people helped me immensely.

With the passage of time, I’m learning how to balance becoming fully reinvested in life while respecting my continuing needs for grief support.

I still look forward to support groups and talking with other bereaved people. But I also appreciate that when I allow myself to enjoy and appreciate everyday life, joy will come even without my daughter being physically here.

I still long for her to be at my side and to experience the wonder of watching her grow. But I know that she will always be with me in spirit. She is forever in my heart, my memories, and my thoughts. And these days, I don’t mind sharing that with anyone who cares to get to know me.

The Fear of Forgetting a Loved One

The Fear of Forgetting a Loved One

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My daughter died just after turning four years old. One of my biggest fears has been that she will be forgotten. But what does that fear actually mean? What exactly am I really scared of? And how do I combat the fear?

The idea that she will be forgotten is actually two separate fears.

The first fear is that friends and even family will stop thinking of her and, in essence, “forget her”.

In reality, this is the natural course of life. I have beloved relatives and dear friends who have passed and yet I rarely think of them. Does it mean they didn’t exist or have any less impact on my life? No. Nor does it mean I love them any less. What it does represent is that life goes on and current matters occupy our minds.

When family and friends stopped talking about my daughter it felt like they no longer thought of her. And though it’s been years since she died, my daily thoughts are still filled with memories and longing for her. In the first few years of my grief, this disconnect made me feel even more isolated from the “normal” world.

Our society tends to not want to talk about grief or the lingering pain of loss after the funeral is over. So I and many other grieving people go about our business and lead two lives. We have the “normal” life that goes about trying to live and act the way we did before they died. Then we have our “private” life where we still struggle to figure out how to work through the pain of grief. We must learn how to once again embrace the love, joy, and adventures that surround us.

The second part of my fear has to do with me and my memory.

With every passing day, and with all the new information coming in, memories of my daughter tend to get crowded out and forgotten.

All those everyday moments that I took for granted at the time have already faded into the abyss of memories lost to time. With my daughter no longer physically here, memories of her have become precious commodities. Those few memories of specific moments captured in time allow me to momentarily remember not just who she was, but remember life before the pain of her death forever changed me and my world.

It makes me sad that her older brothers say that they have very few specific memories of her. It makes me sadder that her baby brother never had the chance to meet her. He will have to rely on our stories and descriptions of her if he ever wants to get to know her.

To combat this fear, I have tried to write down as many memories as I can – even if they are mundane.

I keep them in a journal, and some I post to www.aliveinmemory.org to share them with others. This way I can refer back to them and share them with whoever is interested in reading them. Her brothers can read these memories and share them with their eventual families.

But I wonder, is my fear of forgetting my memories really necessary? Does it make me a bad mother that I can’t remember more moments I shared with her? Of course not. Does it mean my love for her will fade with the memories? Absolutely not.

I wish I could remember more specific memories of the time we shared with her. But I will try to be content knowing that I will never forget how much I love my daughter or how much she means to me. I will never forget her personality quirks, her vivid imagination, and endless creativity. And I will never forget how her life – and her death – have helped me grow tremendously in my understanding of this life and how best to live it.