by Erin Davis
For me, the most powerful way of dealing with my feelings has always been to put them into words, whether through the sappy verses I wrote about unrequited love in my teens (and that was just about the only love there was) or the pages upon pages I have filled in diaries since I was twelve years old. I continued to journal as I grew into adulthood; the online journal I began in 2003 has more lines than the little five-year diary I dutifully filled out every night back then. I have been fortunate to have the online journal, a place where I can peel back the layer of composure a bit and share the maelstrom of feelings with people who care enough to come by and visit.
Within my first year of having left Toronto, when I was feeling sad, lonely and disconnected, I was admonished following one post for being “depressing.” It came from a woman who had lost her husband a few months earlier and would turn to my journal for uplifting content. She felt it necessary to point out that “at least you still have your husband.” Disappointed was also in the subject line of that one, I believe. Never a good sign. After all, what right did I have to express myself on my own website? Sigh. As I say, it’s not easy putting it all out there. Even in these pages you’ve read here (and thank you for that), I’ve feared being too open about how difficult it has been to try to put our lives back together after they were so close to perfect.
And so, there’s one bit of writing I haven’t shared until now, something I penned on a rainy day in our little boathouse on Lake Simcoe. I’d gone down there to light some candles, burn a bit of sage and listen to a collection of meditation pieces. As my tears mirrored the water streaming steadily down the boathouse windows, I tapped this out on my laptop.
It is June 30th. Soon another month will be displayed on the calendar and we will no longer be able to say, “Our daughter, Lauren, died last month.” Time is passing and we will be expected . . . to heal . . . to get on with life . . . as though, through some alchemy of time, our tears can magically be turned into pleasant memories. No longer should we be “dwelling” on the unconscionable tragedy that has befallen us in losing you. But we will not forget. We cannot let you go. You were everything to us and now you are gone.
Our hearts tear afresh daily, the edges pulling away from where they began to mend just a day before. Every dawn brings new hope and misery, renewed faith and fresh desperation. Every night brings quiet darkness, the silence fertile ground for questions and sorrows, emptiness and loneliness.
We mourn together; we mourn alone. No one person, no army of loving hearts can hold us in their arms and fill the space that belongs only to you: that cherished holy ground, mossy and green in its freshness and promise. We weep at the stinging, ever-growing awareness of the vast emptiness of our lives without you: the sunshine of your spirit, the garden of loveliness, the beauty of your being.
Our lives will never be the same. Nevermore will we know the “bubble” of perfection in which—with full awareness—we found ourselves: proud, loving parents of a beautiful human being, and grandparents to a perfect, happy little boy. We looked toward the future, our eyes squinting at the brightness of the mid-morning sun. We wondered how we could be so blessed. We wondered when it would end.
It ended on May 11, 2015. It ended with a heart that stopped and like a clock that keeps time for the universe, the waves of change and sorrow stopped the earth.
I would tell anyone who asked how to move forward to find themselves a space where they can share their feelings, even if, when they’re done, instead of a circle of people quietly whispering “thank you,” or a doctor’s receptionist making your next appointment, they click Save and those emotions go wherever our documents hide until we search them out again. Maybe simply by writing the words or recording them into a smartphone, those feelings will be set free into the ether, and the healing can continue. I can imagine going back from the future to check in on where you were then, as compared to where you are now, and, hopefully, feeling a sense of accomplishment and healing. I know we do.
You might wonder, What if I’m not directly bereaved, but I’m concerned about someone who is? That is where Rob and I found ourselves ten years ago when a very dear friend passed away in his late seventies from rapid-onset brain cancer. A week after we said our goodbyes to Carl, his wife of fifty years was hospitalized, having suffered what was medically diagnosed as a heart attack, but what we all suspected was actually the very real possibility of a broken heart. To our great relief, Helen decided that she wasn’t going to leave her children with another funeral to plan. This woman of extraordinary strength seemingly willed herself back to great health and has spent the years since volunteering and helping others who found themselves in similar conditions in their process of recuperation and healing. But not everyone who has suffered such a huge loss can be like Helen, bouncing back with such determination and success.
Feelings are, as we well know, neither good nor bad, right nor wrong. They are just feelings, and they’re a necessary part of grief and sorrow. But as with nearly everything else we are forced to navigate in our lives, there are road maps. We were fortunate to find free advice in the form of printed materials through our local health system. Victoria Hospice (VH) is a non-profit society that has been established to enhance quality of life for those facing death: whether as patients, in a role of support or as someone who grieves. Hospice support is available either at the click of a mouse (search for “hospice” in your area) or via a phone call. All you need to do is ask.
The advice from VH includes honouring your sadness: accepting it as a natural and unavoidable part of having loved someone and recognizing that it is a part of your life right now.
If you can, share your experiences and your sadness with friends, family or members of a grief support group—anyone who will listen when you talk, when you cry, when you laugh and reminisce. And it doesn’t even have to be face-to-face. Victoria Hospice suggests we can use the internet or take up a project or an activity that allows us to maintain a greater sense of privacy. But whatever we do, it’s impossible to overemphasize how important it is to express our sorrow. Maybe it’s a regular time and place that we go to feel sad and to cry, whether during our morning shower or at a graveside. Perhaps we’ll take up meditation or find time to walk with nature to be with our loved one’s memory, or take those extra few moments in the milk froth of early-morning sleepiness. However, experts advise us to avoid expressing strong emotions at the other end of the clock, close to bedtime, as it may disrupt our sleep.
Another idea I found helpful: create ways of remembering. For example, try to find ways that help us to recall and honour the person who has died by talking or writing to them, celebrating their birthday, putting up a Christmas stocking, displaying photographs or talking about them.
Here’s what we’ve done in our home. Sitting on a piano near the living room, we have a high-school picture of Lauren holding her cello, and I almost always have flowers in a small vase there next to a large silver-framed photograph of her and Phil’s beautiful son. He’s wearing a tuxedo and a big, dimpled smile, all dressed up for a wedding. Near the piano is a tall, ladder-style shelf on which we have arranged favourite photos of our daughter as a child and an adult, both with us and on her own. Sometimes I’m a little afraid it comes off as a shrine, but then I ask myself why I should care. After all, it’s our home and she is our life, so we pay tribute to her in a way that is somewhat subtle and hopefully elegant, but oh so necessary.
I’m sorry in a small way that we didn’t have Lauren buried somewhere that we could go to visit her, sit quietly by her grave and feel as if she is actually someplace in or on this earth. The only location that would have made sense to us was in the graveyard of the tiny church at which she was married less than two years earlier, but now we are several provinces away. There has been a tree planted by a listener in Lauren’s memory in an area filled with young trees and small plaques. In another Ontario town, there’s a wall for which a woman has purchased and had placed a brick engraved with the wo
rds “Lauren PURE JOY.” We love that she is remembered in those places and are grateful for the thoughtfulness that accompanied those gestures. In our home we also have a large blackbird urn, a tiny matching one and a box that contains still more ashes. I’ve no doubt someone out there thinks that this is bad feng shui or is hindering our healing, but we’ll decide what to do with those ashes in time, when we’re ready. Which may be never, and that’s okay too, remember?
Victoria Hospice tells us that a bereaved person may experience hopelessness and despair, in which dealing with grief is harder than we expected or too difficult to put into words. It may even include depression. But we’re told—and we know—that these feelings are alleviated as one starts to see some signs of spring in the soul.
The hospice offers tips to help with feelings of hopelessness and despair that include accepting and honouring these emotions. They suggest spending time with others who have gone through a similar experience and survived it, people like family members and friends. Another idea involves joining a bereavement support group. Rob and I were astounded to learn what strength comes from hearing the stories of loss, of love, of grief and of hope. You find help wherever it may be, even in books or films that feature a character to whom you relate.
We are reminded to listen to what we need, to give thought and time to whatever is good for us. That’s so counterintuitive for those of us who are givers and doers for others. The strength to say “no,” without having to qualify your reasons, is sometimes hard to muster, but its rewards are countless. After all, you’re in the very serious business of trying to save your own life, or at least to return to some semblance of the one that has been ripped away from you so brutally.
We must identify what we need, whether rest and quiet time or physical and social activity. Of course, if you or someone you love has had thoughts of suicide, VH advises seeking help as soon as possible from a family doctor or an emergency department. There’s absolutely no weakness in saying you’re sinking. I know that for a fact.
I never had suicidal thoughts, but two and a half years after Lauren’s life ended, I decided I needed help dealing with my deepening feelings of depression. I knew what had brought this on, and it wasn’t as simple as the one major life event. You see, not only had Rob and I lost our daughter, but we were also now living in a completely new place. I’d left a high-profile and successful career and we’d moved to the far west side of the country, knowing no more than a handful of people. Talk about a life transformation! I had suffered two huge losses: our daughter and my own identity—not only as her mother but also as a radio host and what I hoped or imagined was my role as a part of people’s day. Apart from being Lauren’s mother and Rob’s wife (and Colin’s grandmother), radio had been my entire life since I was eighteen years old. I was missing that purpose, that laughter and adrenalin every morning. Most of all, I missed the feeling of connection—of being able to make a difference in the lives of our listeners. Please forgive me if that sounds as though I have delusions of grandeur, but I really, truly endeavoured every day to do just that: to let people know their world was safe and if, some days, it didn’t feel that way, that soon it would be all right again.
So in this new life of staying up until midnight, sleeping in until nine, and having few reasons to go out except for dog walks, I began finding it more and more difficult to garner enthusiasm for every day ahead of me. I felt increasingly rudderless. The question “What’s the point?” began to appear ahead of me at all times, like plumes of black skywriting. That’s when I decided to seek help from my new family doctor.
I’d taken antidepressants in those years of feeling overwhelmed by trying to be all things to all people: mother, wife and a successful woman in a (mostly) man’s industry. There was only one Wonder Woman, and guess what? It turned out not to be me. But in the past decade, having given up drinking as the way I dealt with the pressure and disappointments, I found my brain chemistry seeming to adjust. I’d stopped taking medication for depression because it didn’t exist anymore. But that was then. In 2017, I decided I would seek help where it was available, knowing I’d had success with it in the past. And even with the smallest prescribable dose, Rob and I both noticed an improvement in my outlook, my output and my demeanour. I was singing again. I was feeling able to cope with the stress of my workload and the expectations that had been laid upon me and that I had taken upon myself. I was embracing my vulnerability and getting help, just as I’d recommended to so many of the people who’d written to me in their own grief. How about that—actually taking my own advice!
Many of us feel guilt and blame when a loved one dies. We were fortunate that we did not (except for wondering if somehow Rob’s notably slow heart rate or my heart murmur might have played a role in the reaction of Lauren’s own heart). The coroner held on to some of Lauren’s tissue samples, so we won’t give up hope that, one day, a definitive cause of death for our daughter will be found. But for those people who suffer the added injury of experiencing guilt or somehow believing themselves responsible, we’re told these feelings often come with a belief that everything in life happens for a reason. Something life-changing has occurred, and we’re trying to understand how and why. We’re trying to make sense of something that has completely turned our lives upside down with no warning and certainly no explanation. That’s why we may blame ourselves or others, even though that may not be realistic. Some things that can help include examining our guilt and looking at what we may feel we’re guilty of—the real part—and then deciding what we need to do about it. It is also suggested that we begin forgiving ourselves and others and practising letting go, as we are ready.
We should be doing a reality check and asking trusted friends and family if they have experienced anything similar. If so, how did they handle it? We can also try talking to others who are familiar with the situation we’re in. Do they see things differently than we do? How helpful an outside perspective can be! Finally, Victoria Hospice suggests we take action if we find that there really are reasons for our guilt. Maybe we said something we shouldn’t have, or didn’t listen when we might have. Find ways—if there are any—to make amends, perhaps by volunteering with, making a donation to, or learning more about a cause that mattered to the person who died. They also suggest we might want to make a change in our lifestyle or behaviour based on what we’ve learned. What more appropriate way to help a loved one’s death make sense than to find a way to effect change for the better?
If anger is part of our grief, that’s completely normal. Even though Rob and I have often been grateful that this wasn’t an aspect of ours—we didn’t have anyone or anything in particular to be angry at or about—we’ve of course felt the inevitable unfairness of it all. And who wouldn’t be angry about losing your only child? But we’re told that when anger isn’t understood or expressed, it can become more intense and unpredictable. We might find ourselves exploding in situations where normally we wouldn’t.
What’s recommended is that we be safe by taking steps to prevent our anger from hurting us or others. Learn what to do when the feelings surface: take a walk or spend time in a soothing environment. Stop activities like driving; give ourselves a time out. Victoria Hospice recommends that we defuse our anger through things like working out, walking, stretching, swimming or doing things that have repetitive actions like hammering, digging or kneading. Anger can also be diluted by expressing ourselves through letter writing, journalling, taking on arts projects or talking with a counsellor or close friend. That may lend us some perspective as to what—if anything—needs to be done about the source of our anger. VH recommends that we then take constructive action, identifying the steps we need to follow to find peace. Maybe it’s writing a letter or working toward creating change. But it may also be a time for forgiveness, letting go or, as the good old “Serenity Prayer” reminds us, acceptance of what can’t be changed (and the wisdom to know the difference).
Of course, a trio of troublemakers—fe
ar, worry and anxiety—often accompany grief. I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t more afraid, worried and anxious than ever about anything happening to Rob. Every mole on his skin, every delayed return home, every bump or thump in the house, and my first thought is: I’m losing him. That fear, of course, comes from the absolute certainty that he is my world now. There is no one who can take care of me and all the intricacies of our lives, and certainly no one who will love me like Rob has and does. Naming that fear is the first step in helping to alleviate it. Breathing slowly and deeply, asking myself, What is going on with me right now? and being aware if I am having a panic or anxiety attack (and seeking professional aid and advice) is helpful. Ask questions and take action, we’re told. Identify what would help.
I know that Rob has tried to lessen my fears of losing him by taking care of himself and trying to stay healthy, but as we know (all too well), anything can happen. So he’s trying to keep me apprised of what files are where and whom to contact in case the absolute worst happens. Still, “going there”—when “there” is the worst possible scenario—isn’t a healthy thing for me to do. I’m told to remind myself that I’m safe, there is no danger and that I’m okay. In addition, sometimes, just as a reminder, we can hold onto a pet, have a hot bath or make this one of those “in case of emergency, break glass” occasions for chocolate. (That last suggestion is mine. You’re welcome.)
Thank you to victoriahospice.org for all of the other non-chocolate-based wisdom. You can be sure that there are similar resources in your town or city. They can also be found on the internet, at places like the Elisabeth Kübler-Ross Foundation.
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I’D like to share with you just one more story.
On the morning that Lauren died, three well-known women were having breakfast in a California home. They had gathered to spend another day writing music and lyrics for a new album aimed at comforting and helping those experiencing loss and grief.