Yesterday, it was officially eleven weeks since Christina took her life and it is not getting much easier. True, I've had some days that felt almost normal; but just below the surface, the pain remains. And, without warning, the images of That Day re-emerge. My mind may forget - for small chunks of time - but my body remembers.
I've been thinking about that a lot these past few weeks - about how the body remembers, even when the mind is otherwise occupied. The memory of this trauma, I've come to realize, is stored primarily in my face, throat, arms, and chest. I know why: as we struggled to take her down, I wanted to scream, but could not. I knew that for the sake of the kids we had to act quickly and quietly. So the screams within my were trapped in my throat. Then, in our physical efforts to take her down, I held her up to take the tension off her neck so that the cord could be loosened and removed. In the process of holding her, I felt the weight of her body in my arms. I held my breath, perhaps because I knew she could not breathe (had she any life left in her), but perhaps also just because of the physical effort. I held her - and my breath - until my chest hurt. And there, the memory of the trauma remains. I fear I will always remember, physically, what it felt like to take her down from that beam. And when those body-based memories surface, I feel it again, almost like re-living the experience, and I fear I will be forever haunted by it.
And so, even while Life goes on, there remains a part of me that is stuck in those moments of struggling so urgently, so desperately, and so overwhelmed with pain and sorrow, as we hurried to release her. Those moments of shock, disbelief, and yet stark realization that my daughter had killed herself - that paradox - remains forever embedded in my mind, body, and soul.
Is it any wonder then that I would suddenly begin to cry, without warning? Can I truly expect to be free of the trauma?? Nothing - nothing has ever traumatized me so greatly and so deeply. I now, as a direct result, fear losing another loved one. I fear tragedy. I know now that anything can happen. I know now that Life can turn quickly to death, happiness to pain. Anything can happen. BAD things can happen - without warning. And even if there IS warning, it can go unrecognized.
Some have said that Christina would not want me to suffer endlessly like this; but I wonder. She resented me so deeply. Was this revenge? Did she do this to me, intentionally, in anger and hatred? Did she laugh to herself before taking that final step off the couch as she envisioned the pain she would inflict upon me for the rest of my life? Or was she simply not thinking at all? Was she thinking only of ending her own misery, as others have concluded? I'll never know. I'll never be quite certain. And in the uncertainty comes more pain.
I want desperately to resolve this. I want to be able to evaluate what has happened, picking it apart, and creating an explanation that I can live with and that will allow me to close that chapter and move on; but I have not been successful in that endeavor. Every time I think I have satisfactorily synthsized all of the events leading up to her action, and subsequently resolved the aftermath, I unearth another aspect of the trauma that I must confront and come to terms with. Most recently, it has been my regret (oh, how I despise regret) for calling 911. We should have instead allowed ourselves time with her right here at home. There was nothing the paramedics could have done. And the police were an unwelcome intrusion. What she did was not a crime. A tragedy, yes. But not a crime.
And so I have felt overwhelmed - not so much by what happened eleven weeks ago, but with Life intruding upon my ability to process what happened on That Day. I resent that Life goes on. I resent that I feel as if Life has not afforded me the opportunity to fully process her death before moving on to yet another day, another week, another month. Time is having its way with me. And I resent Time's intrusion.
Showing posts with label healing from loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label healing from loss. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
EMPATHIC GRIEF...AN EPIPHANY
I have had a bit of an insight...and epiphany...about my grieving process, and so I shall share. You all know that I write for the cathartic effect; the sharing is actually a byproduct of the technology.
I have come to the realization that I would likely be further along in my grieving had Christina not been a mother. Had she not left two children behind in my household, I think I would be more able to cope with her leaving. In essence, I am grieving the loss of my daughter, but I am also grieving empathically; I grieve on their behalf.
I noticed that since Christina took her life, I have needed my own mother much, much more and am grateful I have her to turn to. And today, I realized why:
When I was in 3rd grade...I was 7 years old...my mom's appendix ruptured. She went to the ER, but they sent her home, erroneously. Later that day, her pain became even more unbearable and she returned to the ER. This time, she was properly diagnosed and the appendectomy was performed. I was devastated by my mother's hospitalization; deeply traumatized by her absence. That first night when she was in the hospital, I was laying in my bed with my usual insomnia. I could hear the adults in the house talking about what had happened. And I remember my father telling my uncle, "...and the doctor said if we had waited another 15 minutes to get her to the hospital, I would've had to kiss my wife goodbye because she would've been DOA." While I did not know what DOA meant, I understood exactly what he was saying: My mom came within in minutes of dying.
The fear of losing my mom originated much earlier than her ruptured appendix however. Even prior to that, I remember being told about my grandmother's tragic childhood. HER mother had been killed when she was struck by a car walking home from work one night. My grandmother was only about 8 years old at the time she lost her mother and she carried her grief with her throughout her entire lifetime. I could see it on her face and hear it in her voice; even when my grandmother was happy, she was sad. And knowing her story very early in my childhood triggered a lot of fear and separation anxiety within me; I knew from an early age that fate alone could take a mom forever.
The remainder of my childhood was filled with the fear of losing my mom. Then, as I became an adult and had children of my own, I feared that something would happen to me that would leave my own kids motherless. Being a motherless child has been my greatest fear...for myself, then for my own children, and eventually for my ten grandchildren.
And then IT happened.
While there is no doubt that my grief has everything to do with losing Christina, I believe it is amplified by this deep-rooted childhood trauma-based fear. What I have feared most in life has occurred. Yes, I lost my daughter. But in addition to losing my daughter, Damien and Ada have lost their mother, just as my grandmother had lost hers and just as I had nearly lost mine.
Strange, how my life...and even my generational history...has primed me for this experience. A common thread. There are some in the family who suspect that my grandmother's mother's death was not an accident, but a likely suicide, but we'll never know for certain. All we can do is speculate. But whether she died due to a mental illness like Christina did, or died as the result of being struck by a car, she died leaving my grandmother forever a wounded child. She often told the story of her mother's death: how she was waked in their home without being embalmed, how my great-grandmother had been dressed in a beautiful pink satin dress, and how my grandmother had been brutally traumatized when blood began to leak from her mother's nose and got all over the pink dress as they were getting ready to transport the casket to the cemetery. And how my grandmother never recovered from losing her mother.
While Damien and Ada never saw Christina that morning the way WE saw her, nor did they see her attached to all the life support equipment, they will still forever be motherless chidlren. The Christina that they saw at the memorial service looked sort of like their mom, and sort of NOT like their mom. Even though she shed no blood as my great-grandmother did, it still could not have been anything less than traumatic - though necessary - for them to see her that way on the day we buried her. And so I mourn, on their behalf, fearful that they will forever carry that trauma, as my grandmother did and as their father does (for he is also traumatized by the unanticpated and tragic loss of his mother during his teen years).
So I grieve, exponentially and empathically - for my motherless grandchildren, and for motherless children everywhere.
I have come to the realization that I would likely be further along in my grieving had Christina not been a mother. Had she not left two children behind in my household, I think I would be more able to cope with her leaving. In essence, I am grieving the loss of my daughter, but I am also grieving empathically; I grieve on their behalf.
I noticed that since Christina took her life, I have needed my own mother much, much more and am grateful I have her to turn to. And today, I realized why:
When I was in 3rd grade...I was 7 years old...my mom's appendix ruptured. She went to the ER, but they sent her home, erroneously. Later that day, her pain became even more unbearable and she returned to the ER. This time, she was properly diagnosed and the appendectomy was performed. I was devastated by my mother's hospitalization; deeply traumatized by her absence. That first night when she was in the hospital, I was laying in my bed with my usual insomnia. I could hear the adults in the house talking about what had happened. And I remember my father telling my uncle, "...and the doctor said if we had waited another 15 minutes to get her to the hospital, I would've had to kiss my wife goodbye because she would've been DOA." While I did not know what DOA meant, I understood exactly what he was saying: My mom came within in minutes of dying.
The fear of losing my mom originated much earlier than her ruptured appendix however. Even prior to that, I remember being told about my grandmother's tragic childhood. HER mother had been killed when she was struck by a car walking home from work one night. My grandmother was only about 8 years old at the time she lost her mother and she carried her grief with her throughout her entire lifetime. I could see it on her face and hear it in her voice; even when my grandmother was happy, she was sad. And knowing her story very early in my childhood triggered a lot of fear and separation anxiety within me; I knew from an early age that fate alone could take a mom forever.
The remainder of my childhood was filled with the fear of losing my mom. Then, as I became an adult and had children of my own, I feared that something would happen to me that would leave my own kids motherless. Being a motherless child has been my greatest fear...for myself, then for my own children, and eventually for my ten grandchildren.
And then IT happened.
While there is no doubt that my grief has everything to do with losing Christina, I believe it is amplified by this deep-rooted childhood trauma-based fear. What I have feared most in life has occurred. Yes, I lost my daughter. But in addition to losing my daughter, Damien and Ada have lost their mother, just as my grandmother had lost hers and just as I had nearly lost mine.
Strange, how my life...and even my generational history...has primed me for this experience. A common thread. There are some in the family who suspect that my grandmother's mother's death was not an accident, but a likely suicide, but we'll never know for certain. All we can do is speculate. But whether she died due to a mental illness like Christina did, or died as the result of being struck by a car, she died leaving my grandmother forever a wounded child. She often told the story of her mother's death: how she was waked in their home without being embalmed, how my great-grandmother had been dressed in a beautiful pink satin dress, and how my grandmother had been brutally traumatized when blood began to leak from her mother's nose and got all over the pink dress as they were getting ready to transport the casket to the cemetery. And how my grandmother never recovered from losing her mother.
While Damien and Ada never saw Christina that morning the way WE saw her, nor did they see her attached to all the life support equipment, they will still forever be motherless chidlren. The Christina that they saw at the memorial service looked sort of like their mom, and sort of NOT like their mom. Even though she shed no blood as my great-grandmother did, it still could not have been anything less than traumatic - though necessary - for them to see her that way on the day we buried her. And so I mourn, on their behalf, fearful that they will forever carry that trauma, as my grandmother did and as their father does (for he is also traumatized by the unanticpated and tragic loss of his mother during his teen years).
So I grieve, exponentially and empathically - for my motherless grandchildren, and for motherless children everywhere.
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...
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