I'm feeling overwhelmed. Considering all that has happened, could I expect anything else? Even under normal circumstances, I need solitude, order, quiet, and predictability. But now after the trauma of losing Christina, I need it more than ever. And yet, I feel pressured to perform and am overwhelmed by the lack of stillness. Is there ever a time when the house is quiet and still??
My senses are raw and bleeding. And yet, I am being pressured to return to who I was. I am gone. I will not return. The person who used to be me has been forever altered and so dramatically wounded that she cannot return. I am traumatized, and yet, am not afforded the luxury to heal. I guess I am required to stand my ground, but it won't be liked. It won't be well-received.
Still, I am determined. My books arrive tomorrow and so I will now have something constructive to do. It will be like medicine for my aching soul. My intentions are to sit by the pool until sometime in August and just read, rest, recover and seek restoration. Too bad if people disagree. Too bad if people think I am ruminating - which I am - and too bad if people think I should just "get over it" already.
I am frightened by the absolute trauma of losing Christina. Her suicide was not just a death. When someone dies of natural causes, it is usually because of age; it is anticipated and normal. This was not like that. It was sudden. Abrupt. Violent. Gruesome. Heart-wrenching. Painful. Horrifying. It was shocking, unexpected, a nightmare. It broke my soul in a million pieces...and like shards of glass, they are piercing my every moment.
So I am desperately trying to gather those broken shards and piece them back together. It won't be the same; it will forever be tainted, imperfect, and compromised. What if I cannot find all the pieces? Will my soul forever be just broken junk?? Still, I am determined to gather what's left of it and repair it as best I can. Rebuild. Reconstruct. Refurbish. To the best of my ability - but in my own way and in my own time.
I am frightened by the trauma. Like a veteran suffering from shell-shock, I am sent into a state of panic: when I hear sirens (someone is facing a trauma), when I hear someone use the number 18 (because that was the day of the month that "it" happened), when I hear the kids cry (because crying is so sad). I can't even hang my clothes to dry because when I see them hanging it conjurs images of seeing Christina "that day." Evenings trigger sadness...because it marks another day without her. Then there are the things that are said in casual conversation that haunt me: "Are you hangin' in there?" Or, "it just KILLS me when..." Do people realize how brutal our conversations really are??
I am frightened by the trauma...that the images continue to barge into consciousness...the blueish tinge around her mouth. The swelling of her tongue. The coolness of her fingers and toes. How unnatural she felt once she was embalmed. I am haunted by the echoes of things said. "Don't get your hopes up." "Your daughter consented to organ donation..." "...basically brain dead." "..they detect a weak pulse..." All these bits and pieces continue to intrude into my thoughts and rip through my heart and soul.
And I am frustrated that no one around me seems to be aware of just how traumatized I really am. They don't see blood gushing or bones protruding, so they assume all is well; but I'm not. I'm traumatized. I've been side-swiped, knocked to the ground, shattered to pieces, and robbed of my stability.
So I will stand my ground and do this MY way. I have that right.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
FOREVER CHANGED
It's been less than six weeks since Christina's been gone. I'm still at the beginning of the grieving process, and still assimilating her absence. So many thoughts race through my mind every conscious moment of each day about what this all means in the Big Scheme of Things.
I wish I believed in Heaven. What a comfort that would be to trust that there was a God that would bring me to Heaven upon dying where I would one day be reunited with my daughter. But I don't. I can't. I want to, but I can't. For all I know, we simply cease to exist upon death. But how much nicer it would feel to be comforted by a belief that I'd see her again. So I am desperately seeking answers about the afterlife; I've become obsessed with the paranormal. Can I communicate with her and her with me? Will it help if I create an altar in her honor and light a candle? If I sit by her gravesite, will she know I am there? Does she "see" all of us? Is she aware of how deeply and profoundly she is missed? Is that really her speaking through the Tarot cards? Was that unexpected chilly breeze I felt on my back while doing the dishes her? Or, when Michelle and I were sitting at the kitchen table talking about her and the light began to flicker and the bulb suddenly burnt out - was THAT her??
Then there are the thoughts about how this has changed me. I am not who I was when I woke up on May 18th. I was, that morning, thrust into a new identity: A mother who has lost a child, a suicide survivor, a grief-stricken individual. How can I ever be who I was prior to her leaving: she took part of me with her.
Some say I will become stronger as a result of this trauma. I believe that is likely. But I may also become somehow less than I once was, since part of me is forever gone. I certainly FEEL like less. A part of me is missing. I feel distant from Life right now, as if part of me is truly there, on the Other Side, with her. Part of me died with her. If she had only known...
Some say I will be able to help others as a result of this experience. I believe that is likely too: as a grief counselor, as a crisis counselor, as the founder and facilitator of a grief/suicide survivor support group, as an author of a book...all of those are potentials. But it's hard to be excited about those opportunities because they are not worth losing Christina. Still, if I can save just one life as a result, Christina will have indirectly been the reason.
I am forever changed because I am now so painfully aware of just how devastating a suicide can be. There was a time when I felt it was a human right to take one's own life. But now...now I am not so convinced. Sure, those who are terminally ill seem to deserve the right to a dignified death (Dr. Kevorkian-style). But that is not really the same as suicide...is it??
I am frightened by the statistics:
* There is one suicide every 15 minutes in the United States.
* It's the 11th leading cause of death.
* Slightly more than HALF of all U.S. suicides are done with firearms.
* Some say there are about 25 attempted suicides for every suicide death.
* There are an estimated 6 survivors for every completed suicide, which means that in the U.S., there are currently about 4.6 million people who have lost a loved one to a suicidal death.
- Taken from the American Association of Suicidology (http://www.suicidology.org/) -
So yes, I am forever changed, with part of me forever deleted, and with a new facet to my identity. I want to survive. I want to feel joy and happiness again some day. I want to reach out and help others, some day, in honor of my daughter. But for right now, I am just a grief-stricken mom, overcome by morbid intruding images of that last day with her, and forcing myself to smile and interact with my still-present grown children and grandchildren. I am forcing myself to get out of my bed and into the sunshine of the day. I am forcing myself to face each day, one moment at a time. In fact, I am forcing myself to behave as if I am alive, because regardless of feeling like losing her has killed me, it has not; I am very much alive - but still very much in pain. I am forever changed.
I wish I believed in Heaven. What a comfort that would be to trust that there was a God that would bring me to Heaven upon dying where I would one day be reunited with my daughter. But I don't. I can't. I want to, but I can't. For all I know, we simply cease to exist upon death. But how much nicer it would feel to be comforted by a belief that I'd see her again. So I am desperately seeking answers about the afterlife; I've become obsessed with the paranormal. Can I communicate with her and her with me? Will it help if I create an altar in her honor and light a candle? If I sit by her gravesite, will she know I am there? Does she "see" all of us? Is she aware of how deeply and profoundly she is missed? Is that really her speaking through the Tarot cards? Was that unexpected chilly breeze I felt on my back while doing the dishes her? Or, when Michelle and I were sitting at the kitchen table talking about her and the light began to flicker and the bulb suddenly burnt out - was THAT her??
Then there are the thoughts about how this has changed me. I am not who I was when I woke up on May 18th. I was, that morning, thrust into a new identity: A mother who has lost a child, a suicide survivor, a grief-stricken individual. How can I ever be who I was prior to her leaving: she took part of me with her.
Some say I will become stronger as a result of this trauma. I believe that is likely. But I may also become somehow less than I once was, since part of me is forever gone. I certainly FEEL like less. A part of me is missing. I feel distant from Life right now, as if part of me is truly there, on the Other Side, with her. Part of me died with her. If she had only known...
Some say I will be able to help others as a result of this experience. I believe that is likely too: as a grief counselor, as a crisis counselor, as the founder and facilitator of a grief/suicide survivor support group, as an author of a book...all of those are potentials. But it's hard to be excited about those opportunities because they are not worth losing Christina. Still, if I can save just one life as a result, Christina will have indirectly been the reason.
I am forever changed because I am now so painfully aware of just how devastating a suicide can be. There was a time when I felt it was a human right to take one's own life. But now...now I am not so convinced. Sure, those who are terminally ill seem to deserve the right to a dignified death (Dr. Kevorkian-style). But that is not really the same as suicide...is it??
I am frightened by the statistics:
* There is one suicide every 15 minutes in the United States.
* It's the 11th leading cause of death.
* Slightly more than HALF of all U.S. suicides are done with firearms.
* Some say there are about 25 attempted suicides for every suicide death.
* There are an estimated 6 survivors for every completed suicide, which means that in the U.S., there are currently about 4.6 million people who have lost a loved one to a suicidal death.
- Taken from the American Association of Suicidology (http://www.suicidology.org/) -
So yes, I am forever changed, with part of me forever deleted, and with a new facet to my identity. I want to survive. I want to feel joy and happiness again some day. I want to reach out and help others, some day, in honor of my daughter. But for right now, I am just a grief-stricken mom, overcome by morbid intruding images of that last day with her, and forcing myself to smile and interact with my still-present grown children and grandchildren. I am forcing myself to get out of my bed and into the sunshine of the day. I am forcing myself to face each day, one moment at a time. In fact, I am forcing myself to behave as if I am alive, because regardless of feeling like losing her has killed me, it has not; I am very much alive - but still very much in pain. I am forever changed.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
THE SPIRITUAL SIDE OF GRIEF
In the past, my spiritual beliefs helped to introduce me to myself at a time in my life when I felt I had no identity. I wasn't sure who I really was, but as I explored my spiritual thoughts and feelings, I became acquainted with the divine feminine and began to appreciate myself.
This new awareness of feminine theology introduced me to the connection between the agricultural Wheel of the Year and stories of Gods and Goddesses. It was through these stories and through the cylical nature of Life that I began to form a conceptual perception of what might be Holy. Although I always knew that while mythological stories can be inspiring, they are just stories and not histories. So my concept of the Divine presented itself in female form because I could more easily identify with another woman as Divine Maiden/Mother/Crone than I could relate to a Father-God. The agricultural cycle seemed parallel to the cycle of a lifetime and provided many relevant analogies, especially regarding birth-life-death-rebirth. In the Spring, new life is born. In the Summer, the new life matures. In the Fall, life begins to die. Then, in mid-winter, we celebrate the promise of new life and the return of the Sun on the Solstice (or Christmas).
Then, as time went by, I found that the older I became, the more like myself I became. I no longer depended so greatly on religious and spiritual mythologies and analogies to support me. But now, with the recent suicide of my youngest daughter, I am once again retreating to the stories of old to help me come to terms with my loss. I have been plunged into the Underworld, void of light and life. My grief must be experienced, just as Life becomes dormant during the Dark Half of the year. While it may be the height of the Light Half of the Year, for me, I am in a state of suspended animation...hibernating, nursing my wounds, experiencing the Darkness from which eventual new life will emerge.
There is a season for all things; this is my season to mourn, to cry, to withdraw and seek seclusion. I feel compelled to retreat into the caverns of the earth as if to somehow approach the Other Side, inviting communication and signs from those who have gone before me...from my daughter. I want to reach my hand into the depths of the Spirit world to touch her and to come to terms with her departure. The only way for me to do this is to escape into solitude where there are no demands or distractions. I must be left alone to nurse my wounds - and in doing so, I shall eventually recover and emerge back into the light of Life itself.
In essence, I feel the need for sabbatical retreat. Solitude. Silence. Pseudo-Death. I must symbolically die from the pain of my grief, with the promise of being born again brand new, full of life, light, and the magic that I once possessed. I must surrender to the pain allowing it to fully break me before I can hope to find renewal.
But no one seems to understand this need. It is nature's way, to die; but the promise of rebirth is always there, on the horizon. It is what I must do. I must endure this plunge into my own mental underworld of grief, pain, and death if I am to ever recover and rise with a renewed sense of life. And so, I embrace the Darkness of symbolic death and allow the pain to wash over me and to consume me...for now...for as long as it takes. And, once consumed and wiped clean of this agony, only then will I be able to bring forth new life from within. Only then will the sun shine down upon me and from within me. Only then...
This new awareness of feminine theology introduced me to the connection between the agricultural Wheel of the Year and stories of Gods and Goddesses. It was through these stories and through the cylical nature of Life that I began to form a conceptual perception of what might be Holy. Although I always knew that while mythological stories can be inspiring, they are just stories and not histories. So my concept of the Divine presented itself in female form because I could more easily identify with another woman as Divine Maiden/Mother/Crone than I could relate to a Father-God. The agricultural cycle seemed parallel to the cycle of a lifetime and provided many relevant analogies, especially regarding birth-life-death-rebirth. In the Spring, new life is born. In the Summer, the new life matures. In the Fall, life begins to die. Then, in mid-winter, we celebrate the promise of new life and the return of the Sun on the Solstice (or Christmas).
Then, as time went by, I found that the older I became, the more like myself I became. I no longer depended so greatly on religious and spiritual mythologies and analogies to support me. But now, with the recent suicide of my youngest daughter, I am once again retreating to the stories of old to help me come to terms with my loss. I have been plunged into the Underworld, void of light and life. My grief must be experienced, just as Life becomes dormant during the Dark Half of the year. While it may be the height of the Light Half of the Year, for me, I am in a state of suspended animation...hibernating, nursing my wounds, experiencing the Darkness from which eventual new life will emerge.
There is a season for all things; this is my season to mourn, to cry, to withdraw and seek seclusion. I feel compelled to retreat into the caverns of the earth as if to somehow approach the Other Side, inviting communication and signs from those who have gone before me...from my daughter. I want to reach my hand into the depths of the Spirit world to touch her and to come to terms with her departure. The only way for me to do this is to escape into solitude where there are no demands or distractions. I must be left alone to nurse my wounds - and in doing so, I shall eventually recover and emerge back into the light of Life itself.
In essence, I feel the need for sabbatical retreat. Solitude. Silence. Pseudo-Death. I must symbolically die from the pain of my grief, with the promise of being born again brand new, full of life, light, and the magic that I once possessed. I must surrender to the pain allowing it to fully break me before I can hope to find renewal.
But no one seems to understand this need. It is nature's way, to die; but the promise of rebirth is always there, on the horizon. It is what I must do. I must endure this plunge into my own mental underworld of grief, pain, and death if I am to ever recover and rise with a renewed sense of life. And so, I embrace the Darkness of symbolic death and allow the pain to wash over me and to consume me...for now...for as long as it takes. And, once consumed and wiped clean of this agony, only then will I be able to bring forth new life from within. Only then will the sun shine down upon me and from within me. Only then...
CALL ME SELF-CENTERED, I DON'T CARE
Call me self-centered; I don't care. I feel like I have earned the right to be as selfish as I want to be. For so many years, I gave, continuously. When the babies were coming every two years, I shared my bed night after night. I shared my body...carrying them for nine months, nursing them for months and years, holding them, carrying them...I was selfless. I relinquished myself for their benefit. I put their needs ahead of my own. I did so willingly, not as a martyr, but willingly because, I reasoned, that someday my kids would be grown and then I would be able to care for and indulge in myself.
Well, those days are here! My youngest is twenty-two. True, a few of them still live at home - with their girlfriends. But they aren't dependent babies; they are adults. And this is MY time to do as I please.
Yet, I am chastised for wanting and insisting that things be done a certain way. I have my own standards for how I expect the house to look, now that I don't have small children. I have that right. I've earned it. But I'm being called neurotic. That's ok. Call me whatever you want; it's MY house and so we will do it MY way. Still, I hear hurtful remarks.
More and more I want to be alone...very, very alone. Yes, I love my grown children. But I deserve to have at least some of my life back. I'm tired of being just the housekeeper. I'm tired of feeling compelled to do for others. I'm tired of feeling guilty for being who I am. I'm tired of feeling obligated. I just wanna be me. I want to sleep only when I'm tired and eat only when I'm hungry. I want to clean my house - and then have it remain clean, at least for a day or two! I want silence. I want things MY way, damn it. I'm tired of feeling overwhelmed. I'm too old for this tired argument.
So call me self-centered; I don't care. I've earned the right.
Well, those days are here! My youngest is twenty-two. True, a few of them still live at home - with their girlfriends. But they aren't dependent babies; they are adults. And this is MY time to do as I please.
Yet, I am chastised for wanting and insisting that things be done a certain way. I have my own standards for how I expect the house to look, now that I don't have small children. I have that right. I've earned it. But I'm being called neurotic. That's ok. Call me whatever you want; it's MY house and so we will do it MY way. Still, I hear hurtful remarks.
More and more I want to be alone...very, very alone. Yes, I love my grown children. But I deserve to have at least some of my life back. I'm tired of being just the housekeeper. I'm tired of feeling compelled to do for others. I'm tired of feeling guilty for being who I am. I'm tired of feeling obligated. I just wanna be me. I want to sleep only when I'm tired and eat only when I'm hungry. I want to clean my house - and then have it remain clean, at least for a day or two! I want silence. I want things MY way, damn it. I'm tired of feeling overwhelmed. I'm too old for this tired argument.
So call me self-centered; I don't care. I've earned the right.
Monday, June 13, 2011
LOOKING FOR A RHYME OR A REASON
I've heard it said that there is a reason for everything and I myself have often claimed that "everything is as it should be" as a sort of life-mantra to explain the rough spots in life; but this time, those cliches offer no comfort. How can this be a justifiable, "should-be," part of my life??
It will make me stronger, it's been said. Will it, really? And, aren't there better ways to gain emotional strength than losing a daughter to suicide?? What kind of sick logic is that?
Some have said that god will give you nothing that you can't handle. Really? And what about Christina? Wasn't she given more than she could handle??
While I believe that, in the end, I will survive, recover, heal from my grief and move on, I will also be forever changed. She has taken part of me with her. Is it a part of me that I can do without? What "part" of me has left with her? I'm not sure what that means, but know that some part of me feels...gone.
Then there is my irrational preoccupation with the paranormal as I desperately want to sense her presence. She can't be just...gone. I need some proof that she is still somewhere, still aware of us, still in existence, somewhere, somehow. I light candles, hoping to attract her spirit. I watch tv shows about ghosts and hauntings trying deperately to find some proof that what I want - a sign from her - is possible and not just wishful thinking.
I remember when my grandfather died and several weeks later, I "saw him" while at a restaurant. It was a very real, yet unreal experience. It's not that I rule out the paranormal. I've lived in two "haunted" houses and know that the unexplained happens. But while those two homes were apparently inhabited by something from the other side, it was more or less meaningless (and unnerving) because the ghosts were not mine but just some unknown remnant of the past. When I saw my grandfather at the restaurant, I got the impression he was saying, "I'm still around. Remember me like this. This is who I was." Will Christina do the same? Will she offer me some proof, some message, some tangible evidence that she is still "out there?"
I look at the collection of photos we have of her - lots of them - and she seems so strong, so self-confident, so beautiful; but then I get a flash of what she looked like when we found her, or how helpless and lifeless she appeared attached to all the life support equipment and I wonder: Why?? How could this be real? Why did this have to happen?? She had so much potential. So why didn't she see that?
I want to go to the cemetery; but then again, I know I am not ready. I can't. I simply cannot. I fear the emotions that still simmer just below the surface. Sure, I've cried. But I'm no where near being done with that. Not yet. Perhaps never will the tears be fully gone.
So why? Why?? How does tragedy fit in? Why do bad things have to happen? How do we rise above a tragic loss and accept it as something that "should be?" I feel confused, as if my acceptance of Life has been shattered. I feel somewhat bitter and jaded, as if I am building a wall or donning a coat of armor to protect myself from the harshness of Life. Help me Christina! What am I supposed to do from this point on? I want to honor you, to "be there" for your kids; yet I feel so empty now and so mortally wounded. How is what you did supposed to be something that will strengthen me when, right now, I feel weaker and more vulnerable than I've ever felt before. So, what? Where is the rhyme or reason? Where is the bigger picture that will explain it all? Why? How? And, where are you now??
It will make me stronger, it's been said. Will it, really? And, aren't there better ways to gain emotional strength than losing a daughter to suicide?? What kind of sick logic is that?
Some have said that god will give you nothing that you can't handle. Really? And what about Christina? Wasn't she given more than she could handle??
While I believe that, in the end, I will survive, recover, heal from my grief and move on, I will also be forever changed. She has taken part of me with her. Is it a part of me that I can do without? What "part" of me has left with her? I'm not sure what that means, but know that some part of me feels...gone.
Then there is my irrational preoccupation with the paranormal as I desperately want to sense her presence. She can't be just...gone. I need some proof that she is still somewhere, still aware of us, still in existence, somewhere, somehow. I light candles, hoping to attract her spirit. I watch tv shows about ghosts and hauntings trying deperately to find some proof that what I want - a sign from her - is possible and not just wishful thinking.
I remember when my grandfather died and several weeks later, I "saw him" while at a restaurant. It was a very real, yet unreal experience. It's not that I rule out the paranormal. I've lived in two "haunted" houses and know that the unexplained happens. But while those two homes were apparently inhabited by something from the other side, it was more or less meaningless (and unnerving) because the ghosts were not mine but just some unknown remnant of the past. When I saw my grandfather at the restaurant, I got the impression he was saying, "I'm still around. Remember me like this. This is who I was." Will Christina do the same? Will she offer me some proof, some message, some tangible evidence that she is still "out there?"
I look at the collection of photos we have of her - lots of them - and she seems so strong, so self-confident, so beautiful; but then I get a flash of what she looked like when we found her, or how helpless and lifeless she appeared attached to all the life support equipment and I wonder: Why?? How could this be real? Why did this have to happen?? She had so much potential. So why didn't she see that?
I want to go to the cemetery; but then again, I know I am not ready. I can't. I simply cannot. I fear the emotions that still simmer just below the surface. Sure, I've cried. But I'm no where near being done with that. Not yet. Perhaps never will the tears be fully gone.
So why? Why?? How does tragedy fit in? Why do bad things have to happen? How do we rise above a tragic loss and accept it as something that "should be?" I feel confused, as if my acceptance of Life has been shattered. I feel somewhat bitter and jaded, as if I am building a wall or donning a coat of armor to protect myself from the harshness of Life. Help me Christina! What am I supposed to do from this point on? I want to honor you, to "be there" for your kids; yet I feel so empty now and so mortally wounded. How is what you did supposed to be something that will strengthen me when, right now, I feel weaker and more vulnerable than I've ever felt before. So, what? Where is the rhyme or reason? Where is the bigger picture that will explain it all? Why? How? And, where are you now??
Thursday, June 9, 2011
GRIEVING
Perhaps it is too soon to say. It's been only three weeks since she's been gone. Only three weeks - three weeks that have both rushed by and have felt like months. But, regardless, my experience thus far with grieving the tragic loss of my youngest daughter is not what I expected.
I've always said that I don't fear death - just untimely death, and that was always in reference to my own moment of passing from this life. I had never really considered the loss of one of my offspring. Well, every mother fears losing one of their own, but it was a thought I never contemplated. Instead, as a mom, those thoughts would run through my head causing a shudder and perhaps a tear, but then the internal shout of "NO!" - banishing the thought from consciousness. Too painful to contemplate. No, the statistics were on my side: Mothers just don't bury their children.
I've had to face loss only minimally - until now. When my paternal grandmother died as a result of her diabetes, I was a young teen and had never been close to her. I went to the wake, saw her, and her death became part of my family history. No tears. No sadness. Just a fact.
When my maternal great-grandfather died, it was again a non-traumatic event. He was old. It was his time. Then, years later when my maternal grandfather died, I felt grief. But not like this. I was sad because I loved him like a father and I cried because I knew I'd never see him again. I thought about all the good memories I had of him, but again, he was old enough for it to be "his time" and a simple fact of life. I cried and knew I would miss him, but accepted his passing as a natural part of life.
Then, about ten years later, my maternal grandmother died. A week or two before, my mother had called and told me, "You may want to go see your grandmother. She doesn't seem to have long to live." I went to see her and clearly she was dying. She was transferred to a facility where she could get more care than the assisted living site she'd been living in for years. I went to see her again. Took a picture of her. But, it was clear she was on the threshold of death. I barely recognized her. She looked so small. One week later, she died. Again, I felt grief, but not like this. While she was like a mother to me my whole life, it was her time. She was ninety-two. I went to the wake and funeral and shed tears. But, I accepted her death, like that of my grandfather's, as being a normal, expected part of the life cycle.
Those have been my primary experiences with death. Peripheral acquaintences have passes, unexpectedly, and those were sad; but they did not involve grief - just shock, sadness, and then quickly processed. My life went on, in spite of their tragic departure.
Then, three weeks ago, my youngest daughter took her own life. At first, my grief was experienced as shock and numbness. It seemed so hard to believe - even though it was me and two other family members that took her down from where she hung herself. In spite of that visual memory that cannot be purged, it initially seemed unreal, surreal, and more like a bad dream than reality.
In the days that followed, I was side-tracked and distracted by phone calls, visitors, and planning her funeral. How do we explain her absence to her two small children? How do we pay for services? Where shall we bury her? What should she wear? She was an organ-donor?? Why didn't she leave a note? Can we put her piercing back in for the burial? Then, there were all the usual mundane tasks that still persisted each day: dishes needed to be done, clothes needed to be washed, kids needed to be fed, bathed, and comforted.
The day of the funeral, I felt as if I was attending some generic family gathering. Again, it seemed unreal, as if I was physically present, but not mentally. Emotionally, I was still numb and it seemed like things were moving too fast. I wasn't ready to bury her. I still needed to see her...to touch her...to process the fact of her passing. But that was not an option...at least, not one that I could afford.
Internally, I knew that it would be only after the funeral that the reality of my loss would sink in. Once there were no more calls to make, no more final plans to tend to, and once guests and visitors returned to the normalcy of their daily lives, only then would it likely hit me.
And that is the part that has surprised me the most so far: the paradoxical nature of my grieving. I can be functioning in one moment, as I tend to the tasks of daily life when suddenly, without warning, I feel overwhelmed with apathy, and find myself just sitting, mindlessly, lost in altered state of...emptiness, shock, pain, sadness, and yet wanting to scream, yell, and cry out loud to the world, "HOW DARE YOU ALL GO ON WITH YOUR LIVES?!! MY DAUGHTER IS GONE!! FOREVER!!!"
How can something that has caused such a profound and permanent change in my life not affect the rest of the world??
And then there are the disjointed thoughts that run through my head as I sit in this immobilized, frozen state of forced acceptance of a reality I want nothing to do with: How will her children ever know who she really was? What am I supposed to do now with all of her personal possessions? Do I say now that I am the mother of five children, or will I always be a mother of six - or, six minus one? Will she - can she - communicate with us from the other side? Did she plan to do this, or was it just one final impulsive act that was done without much forethought? Did she think we would find her in time to save her? What if it had been her kids that found her?? How often should I go to her gravesite? How long will I continue to walk through life feeling as if she took me with her??
And then, there are the changes in my daily life: I sleep for a few hours, then wake, drinking cup after cup of coffee hoping to feel alert. Then, back to bed. Sleep through most of the afternoon. Get up again. More coffee. Not hungry. Not motivated to accomplish much of anything. Evening comes, and along with it, deep sadness - as if the sun going down alerts me to the fact that another day has gone by, without her. The facts have not changed. And night falls. I am alone in the silence and find contentment and peace with the solitude, until the birds begin to chirp - and another day dawns.
The death certificate is ready for pick-up. Cause of death: asphyxiation. I knew that. But seeing it written on the formal, authentic, notarized, government-issued form jolts me into reality: Christina is dead. Cry some more.
Thank you notes need to be written and sent. Another welcome distraction. "Thank you for your kindness and generosity." "Having you present at my daughter's memorial was deeply appreciated." "The flowers you sent were beautiful. Thank you for your condolences."
Back to having nothing to do but ruminate. My religious beliefs are being questioned - by others and my my self. What do I believe? I remember telling one of the funeral directors at the cemetery that our family is "inspired more by nature than by scripture," and that best summarizes the foundation of my spiritual beliefs. At a spiritual level, I accept the life-death-rebirth cycle of life; but does that help me now? Only somewhat. I am agnostic; while I am open to the possibility of a god, a creator, a Master of the Universe, I also realize that all of our current religions are based upon mythological tales. Mythology can be inspiring, but they are made-up stories. While I am inspired by stories about Demeter, Persephone, Jesus, the Buddha, and many, many more, I realize that none are real gods - and that's okay; they remain inspiring. But, because I don't believe in a literal Heaven or Hell, I wonder: Where are you Christina?? Have you been reborn, reincarnated into another life? Have you been returned to the Earth only to return to basic, organic compounds? Is your soul, your spirit, lingering, watching from above, or just a figment of my wishful imagination?? And, I am frustrated by the lack of proof regarding the afterlife. While I am open to all the possibilities, I am also skeptical without scientific evidence and realize that my desires for signs and wonders from "the other side" is rooted deeply in wishful thinking.
A call comes in: Christina's teacher from the GED classes she recently finished. Christina's graduation has been scheduled for next month. "Ms. Stone, I chose your daughter of the 150 students I had this term to be the one I would honor by reading some of her essays - which were wonderfully written." I tell her what has happened. More condolences and shock. We are welcome to attend and would someone in the family like to accept her diploma on her behalf?" The call adds to my disbelief. How could she have done this when her life was finally beginning to show promise??
Then there is the room. That Room. The place where she did what she did. We removed the beam. It wasn't structurally necessary, except for Christina's last act. But now, it will always be "the room where it happened." I avoid it. Yet, every few days I approach the doorway, look inside, and see the events of that morning flash through my memory: her screams of anger? frustration? despair? I thought she had seen a spider that freaked her out. Hadn't she screamed like that just a week prior when she woke up because a spider was crawling on her? Flashes of her throwing herself down on the couch in that room, crying. Me begging her to tell me what was wrong. The next time I would see her - only an hour later - she'd be hanging there from that damn beam. Taking her down, lying her on the couch. The paramedics, laying her on the floor, injecting her, trying desperately to bring her back. And then, I must walk away. No. That room. It will never be anything other than...That Room.
So this is grief?? This madness? This altered terrain of flashbacks, longing to hear her voice, and unanswered questions? This is what it feels like to suffer the loss of a child? And, worst of all, I won't wake up from this, will I? No. It will only become more real. And me? I will be forever changed. Forever.
I've always said that I don't fear death - just untimely death, and that was always in reference to my own moment of passing from this life. I had never really considered the loss of one of my offspring. Well, every mother fears losing one of their own, but it was a thought I never contemplated. Instead, as a mom, those thoughts would run through my head causing a shudder and perhaps a tear, but then the internal shout of "NO!" - banishing the thought from consciousness. Too painful to contemplate. No, the statistics were on my side: Mothers just don't bury their children.
I've had to face loss only minimally - until now. When my paternal grandmother died as a result of her diabetes, I was a young teen and had never been close to her. I went to the wake, saw her, and her death became part of my family history. No tears. No sadness. Just a fact.
When my maternal great-grandfather died, it was again a non-traumatic event. He was old. It was his time. Then, years later when my maternal grandfather died, I felt grief. But not like this. I was sad because I loved him like a father and I cried because I knew I'd never see him again. I thought about all the good memories I had of him, but again, he was old enough for it to be "his time" and a simple fact of life. I cried and knew I would miss him, but accepted his passing as a natural part of life.
Then, about ten years later, my maternal grandmother died. A week or two before, my mother had called and told me, "You may want to go see your grandmother. She doesn't seem to have long to live." I went to see her and clearly she was dying. She was transferred to a facility where she could get more care than the assisted living site she'd been living in for years. I went to see her again. Took a picture of her. But, it was clear she was on the threshold of death. I barely recognized her. She looked so small. One week later, she died. Again, I felt grief, but not like this. While she was like a mother to me my whole life, it was her time. She was ninety-two. I went to the wake and funeral and shed tears. But, I accepted her death, like that of my grandfather's, as being a normal, expected part of the life cycle.
Those have been my primary experiences with death. Peripheral acquaintences have passes, unexpectedly, and those were sad; but they did not involve grief - just shock, sadness, and then quickly processed. My life went on, in spite of their tragic departure.
Then, three weeks ago, my youngest daughter took her own life. At first, my grief was experienced as shock and numbness. It seemed so hard to believe - even though it was me and two other family members that took her down from where she hung herself. In spite of that visual memory that cannot be purged, it initially seemed unreal, surreal, and more like a bad dream than reality.
In the days that followed, I was side-tracked and distracted by phone calls, visitors, and planning her funeral. How do we explain her absence to her two small children? How do we pay for services? Where shall we bury her? What should she wear? She was an organ-donor?? Why didn't she leave a note? Can we put her piercing back in for the burial? Then, there were all the usual mundane tasks that still persisted each day: dishes needed to be done, clothes needed to be washed, kids needed to be fed, bathed, and comforted.
The day of the funeral, I felt as if I was attending some generic family gathering. Again, it seemed unreal, as if I was physically present, but not mentally. Emotionally, I was still numb and it seemed like things were moving too fast. I wasn't ready to bury her. I still needed to see her...to touch her...to process the fact of her passing. But that was not an option...at least, not one that I could afford.
Internally, I knew that it would be only after the funeral that the reality of my loss would sink in. Once there were no more calls to make, no more final plans to tend to, and once guests and visitors returned to the normalcy of their daily lives, only then would it likely hit me.
And that is the part that has surprised me the most so far: the paradoxical nature of my grieving. I can be functioning in one moment, as I tend to the tasks of daily life when suddenly, without warning, I feel overwhelmed with apathy, and find myself just sitting, mindlessly, lost in altered state of...emptiness, shock, pain, sadness, and yet wanting to scream, yell, and cry out loud to the world, "HOW DARE YOU ALL GO ON WITH YOUR LIVES?!! MY DAUGHTER IS GONE!! FOREVER!!!"
How can something that has caused such a profound and permanent change in my life not affect the rest of the world??
And then there are the disjointed thoughts that run through my head as I sit in this immobilized, frozen state of forced acceptance of a reality I want nothing to do with: How will her children ever know who she really was? What am I supposed to do now with all of her personal possessions? Do I say now that I am the mother of five children, or will I always be a mother of six - or, six minus one? Will she - can she - communicate with us from the other side? Did she plan to do this, or was it just one final impulsive act that was done without much forethought? Did she think we would find her in time to save her? What if it had been her kids that found her?? How often should I go to her gravesite? How long will I continue to walk through life feeling as if she took me with her??
And then, there are the changes in my daily life: I sleep for a few hours, then wake, drinking cup after cup of coffee hoping to feel alert. Then, back to bed. Sleep through most of the afternoon. Get up again. More coffee. Not hungry. Not motivated to accomplish much of anything. Evening comes, and along with it, deep sadness - as if the sun going down alerts me to the fact that another day has gone by, without her. The facts have not changed. And night falls. I am alone in the silence and find contentment and peace with the solitude, until the birds begin to chirp - and another day dawns.
The death certificate is ready for pick-up. Cause of death: asphyxiation. I knew that. But seeing it written on the formal, authentic, notarized, government-issued form jolts me into reality: Christina is dead. Cry some more.
Thank you notes need to be written and sent. Another welcome distraction. "Thank you for your kindness and generosity." "Having you present at my daughter's memorial was deeply appreciated." "The flowers you sent were beautiful. Thank you for your condolences."
Back to having nothing to do but ruminate. My religious beliefs are being questioned - by others and my my self. What do I believe? I remember telling one of the funeral directors at the cemetery that our family is "inspired more by nature than by scripture," and that best summarizes the foundation of my spiritual beliefs. At a spiritual level, I accept the life-death-rebirth cycle of life; but does that help me now? Only somewhat. I am agnostic; while I am open to the possibility of a god, a creator, a Master of the Universe, I also realize that all of our current religions are based upon mythological tales. Mythology can be inspiring, but they are made-up stories. While I am inspired by stories about Demeter, Persephone, Jesus, the Buddha, and many, many more, I realize that none are real gods - and that's okay; they remain inspiring. But, because I don't believe in a literal Heaven or Hell, I wonder: Where are you Christina?? Have you been reborn, reincarnated into another life? Have you been returned to the Earth only to return to basic, organic compounds? Is your soul, your spirit, lingering, watching from above, or just a figment of my wishful imagination?? And, I am frustrated by the lack of proof regarding the afterlife. While I am open to all the possibilities, I am also skeptical without scientific evidence and realize that my desires for signs and wonders from "the other side" is rooted deeply in wishful thinking.
A call comes in: Christina's teacher from the GED classes she recently finished. Christina's graduation has been scheduled for next month. "Ms. Stone, I chose your daughter of the 150 students I had this term to be the one I would honor by reading some of her essays - which were wonderfully written." I tell her what has happened. More condolences and shock. We are welcome to attend and would someone in the family like to accept her diploma on her behalf?" The call adds to my disbelief. How could she have done this when her life was finally beginning to show promise??
Then there is the room. That Room. The place where she did what she did. We removed the beam. It wasn't structurally necessary, except for Christina's last act. But now, it will always be "the room where it happened." I avoid it. Yet, every few days I approach the doorway, look inside, and see the events of that morning flash through my memory: her screams of anger? frustration? despair? I thought she had seen a spider that freaked her out. Hadn't she screamed like that just a week prior when she woke up because a spider was crawling on her? Flashes of her throwing herself down on the couch in that room, crying. Me begging her to tell me what was wrong. The next time I would see her - only an hour later - she'd be hanging there from that damn beam. Taking her down, lying her on the couch. The paramedics, laying her on the floor, injecting her, trying desperately to bring her back. And then, I must walk away. No. That room. It will never be anything other than...That Room.
So this is grief?? This madness? This altered terrain of flashbacks, longing to hear her voice, and unanswered questions? This is what it feels like to suffer the loss of a child? And, worst of all, I won't wake up from this, will I? No. It will only become more real. And me? I will be forever changed. Forever.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
ALL-CONSUMING GRIEF
Less than three weeks into losing my daughter. I never realized grief could be so tight, so gripping, so all-consuming. I didn't realize it would creep into my dreams so that even sleep is not always an escape from the pain.
I didn't expect grief to be so paradoxical, so twisted, so ironic. I never expected to be swept away by tides of sadness, engulfed by sorrow and loss, and never thought that any emotional pain could drown me so completely while moments later, I find myself in a state of numbness, disbelief, and denial. I couldn't have imagined being able to laugh light-heartedly at the silly things life throws at us, while at the same time, feeling the deeply entrenched pain that accompanies the loss of one of my own.
I brought her into this world...and she took herself out, so brutally, so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and without adequate explanation. No final note. No final goodbyes. Just...gone.
All of this, in less than three weeks. It doesn't get easier...not yet anyway. It is still mounting, gaining in strength and intensity, growing exponentially. When will it crest?
The mundane...the dishes that need to be washed, the bank deposits that need to be made, the groceries that need to be purchased...all seem so wrong. "Life goes on," people say; but does it? Really? It feels more like limbo...like I am living in an altered state of being neither here nor there. Yes, Life goes on - but right now, I resent it. Every new day is simply another one without her.
Why? Why Christina?? You were so loved! You had such potential! And this is so final, your parting. Forever. And still, in this fog of grief, I still cannot comprehend nor believe it entirely - and yet, knowing. It's true. This really happened. You took your life. And there is no turning back. If only, as your five year old son so eloquently lamented, if only we could rewind.
Rest in peace, my baby girl. I love you.
I didn't expect grief to be so paradoxical, so twisted, so ironic. I never expected to be swept away by tides of sadness, engulfed by sorrow and loss, and never thought that any emotional pain could drown me so completely while moments later, I find myself in a state of numbness, disbelief, and denial. I couldn't have imagined being able to laugh light-heartedly at the silly things life throws at us, while at the same time, feeling the deeply entrenched pain that accompanies the loss of one of my own.
I brought her into this world...and she took herself out, so brutally, so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and without adequate explanation. No final note. No final goodbyes. Just...gone.
All of this, in less than three weeks. It doesn't get easier...not yet anyway. It is still mounting, gaining in strength and intensity, growing exponentially. When will it crest?
The mundane...the dishes that need to be washed, the bank deposits that need to be made, the groceries that need to be purchased...all seem so wrong. "Life goes on," people say; but does it? Really? It feels more like limbo...like I am living in an altered state of being neither here nor there. Yes, Life goes on - but right now, I resent it. Every new day is simply another one without her.
Why? Why Christina?? You were so loved! You had such potential! And this is so final, your parting. Forever. And still, in this fog of grief, I still cannot comprehend nor believe it entirely - and yet, knowing. It's true. This really happened. You took your life. And there is no turning back. If only, as your five year old son so eloquently lamented, if only we could rewind.
Rest in peace, my baby girl. I love you.
Friday, June 3, 2011
TWO WEEKS INTO GRIEVING
To Those Who Love Me…
Know that I love you too. In fact, now more than ever, I am grateful for your love. Know that I am here for you – but I’m not sure where “here” is. Since Christina’s been gone, and especially since the funeral, I feel…displaced, confused, cloudy, and disoriented. Sometimes, I find myself feeling particularly good and even optimistic; then, suddenly, without warning, I feel spent, exhausted, sad, and over-stimulated.
This is all new to me – just as it is for each of you. We are all still in a state of shock and even some disbelief. I’ve been told that is normal. So when I retreat, or when I stay up all night, or when I seem to not hear you, or perhaps appear to ignore you or look through you…please be kind, please be forgiving, please understand and have patience. I don’t know where I am on this road I’ve never traveled.
Hugs help.
I’ve lost my sense of motivation. That scares me, but again, I’ve been told it is a normal response. Do you all feel that way too??
I want to be the one you can turn to, the one you can always count on, the Tower of Strength. But when I find myself needing the same, I don’t like it. I don’t like the weakness and vulnerability I feel since this has happened.
Solitude helps.
And knowing that you all know that I love you deeply: that helps too, because right now I feel emotionally drained – and at the same time, emotionally overwhelmed.
One thing I am sure of: I love you and need you more than ever. I want you by my side. I’m grateful you are a part of my life. Please know that.
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