No, I Don't Understand

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One thing I've discovered is that the phrase "I understand" hurts more than it heals.  I met with another friend in mourning, a widow, and she emphasized how much it hurts to hear this phrase and know that the other person can't fully understand your particular loss because each kind of mourning is so very different.  Even two people who experience the same kind of loss or even lose the same person can't possibly fully understand what the other is going through.  I once told this widow friend that I understood when I did nothing of the kind but was too naive to realize.  To claim "I understand" is to simplify and dismiss someone else's pain, to assume we can fully understand, we can possibly know, what another is going through when so much of the time, we don't really understand even what's going on inside us.

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That's why I try not to use that phrase as I reach out to mourn with others who are in mourning.  My brother's ex-wife recently had catastrophic heart failure, which landed her in the ICU.  The doctors didn't expect her to last the night.  I drove with my sister the hour down to the hospital the night it happened.  Kids who found home and belonging with her adult son, her boyfriend, her support dog and her in that little apartment stood in line to go in and tell her how much they loved and missed her.  Her kids hovered outside that room, praying like they don't usually pray, mourning in their own way a mother who was there but not there.  Her Catholic boyfriend frequented the chapel next door, praying for the one person who gives his life purpose, the love of his life.  My brother, her ex, brought one of her children, so we could all commiserate together.  I walked into that ICU room to see an empty shell of her sweet face, looking like she was already dead as the machine pushed air in and out of lungs that were no longer committed to life.

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What do you say in the face of raw pain?  What do you say to people who had already lost so much and who were staring into the maw of more loss?  They're still reeling from a dog that was far more than a dog to them.  He was their unifying force, their heart, the love that held together a family that found little in common anymore.  When he was gone, they lost more than words can say.  Now, they were looking into the face of another loss, another hole in their already ragged hearts.  I held one of them as he sobbed in my arms, fully realizing in that moment how much she meant to him.  I had cried like that when my brother died and again a month later, when my Alli died.  But I knew better than to utter that fallacy, "I understand."  I just held him and let him talk and sob like a lost soul.

Members of the church to which some of us belong came at the adult children's request and gave her a blessing.  Everyone united in prayer.  And the miracle came.  She survived that night and the next and the next.  She started to wake, to interact, to show her frustration at being trapped in her pain, unable to fully express herself.  We all have been filled with hope for the last week as she showed more signs of recovery.

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Then, today, just as our large family gathering had dispersed far enough that many of us could do nothing, the hospital called her eldest son to tell him he was facing her loss again.  She had taken a turn for the worse.  They told him chances were she would either pass away or become a vegetable.  Both options are grim and ones I would not want to face.  In my place, someone may say, "Well, at least they had two more weeks."  Well, the miracle of two weeks was a blessing, for which they are all grateful.  But "at least" for those in mourning is almost as bad or worse as "I understand."  A day, a week, or more.  It's never enough.  The loss they face is still real, raw, and filled with agony with which I can empathize but never understand.  I've lost my brother and my baby.  This family is praying they don't lose their mother.

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We have commonalities in our pain.  We can mourn with each other, hold onto each other's healing warmth.  We can look---as at least one of them has--to heaven for comfort, healing, and miracles.  It may be their miracle was the weeks.  We may not fully comprehend each other's pain, but we can be there to mourn together, knowing that even if we are not fully understood, we are fully loved.  We are a community of mourners.

Update:  Two hours after I wrote this post, the worst happened.  She went Home, beyond the veil, where her mourning family can't follow.  Now, we pray for peace and healing as we deal with the agony of the aftermath and the hole left behind. 

The Side Effects

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When I lost Alli, I dealt with a lot more than an emotional hole in my heart.  I never thought about how the loss of a breastfed baby would result in soreness, infection, and physical pain that constantly reminded me of my emotional pain.  I never thought about how food would taste like dirt or salt for weeks.  I never considered that the thoughtful gift of live or cut plants would just depress me because I would have to watch them die.  

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Nor did I even once imagine that my brain would become like a leaky hose.  I can turn it on at full blast, and I get very few results.  Any question that starts with, "Do you remember" will inevitably result in a blank look by me.  I can't remember what I did five minutes ago, and it's been almost nine years since I lost her.  I used to be a bit spacy.  Now, I remember very little. Apparently, for someone who has had a recent loss, these symptoms---forgetfulness, confusion, and a difficulty concentrating--are normal.  For some of us, these symptoms don't fade in a hurry.  My husband is the same.  We both tell each other things with the hope that one of us will have a synapse fire at the right time.  Occasionally, it even works.  

[Small coffin.  Huge impacts that don't quit.]

But those aren't the only symptoms one might experience with grief.  You might be numb, bitter, preoccupied with loss, and straight up depressed beyond the ability to feel joy.  Right after he lost her, my husband stared at the shower for three hours, unable to summon the energy to get in.  That was the day he decided he needed help.  Your grief might even come out in physical symptoms like gut issues, fatigue, chest pain, soreness, and headaches.  It wouldn't surprise me if my older girl's frequent complaints of a mix of the above all traced back to the loss of her baby sister.  

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Grief strikes people differently and at different times.  It's a crazy rollercoaster that doesn't quit.  It just occasionally slows down long enough for you to take your breath.  For me, the symptoms have slowed to a manageable level.  I was told by a counselor just after we lost Alli that if your crazy rollercoaster gradually moves on an upward slope, you're normal.  You're okay.  If, however, your rollercoaster is all tipped downward with no ups for your downs, it's time to call someone and get help.  Grief is just a rough journey.  No one should have to face it alone.  Just know that you're not alone.  Many of us are in the same boat, the same rollercoaster, the same insanity.  It's all normal, even when it doesn't feel like it is.  We're all in it together.  

Varieties of Grief

When most people think of grief, they think of the loss of a sibling, a parent, a child, a friend, an animal companion.  These are truly a cause for mourning, whether that person or animal has lived a full, long life or not.  Some people feel guilty missing and crying over the loss of someone whose time has come, but the loss is still real and still painful.  It can be worse still when the loss is unexpected and/or premature.  It's hard to say whether seeing an impending loss coming or a experiencing sudden loss is worse.  Either way, it hurts.  There's no real point in considering gradations of pain and whose loss is harder when it all hurts and can be life-changing and all-consuming.  There are losses people don't consider when the words "grief" and "mourning" come up.  However, I have seen people in mourning just the same.

There are human losses that don't involve death.  This is considered ambiguous grief.  I've seen people hesitate to mourn when they know they may never see their child/parent/aunt/uncle/grandpa/etc. again in this life.  There are people who can't respond when you speak to them, like those in a coma.  There are those who are no longer the person we grew to love, like an alzheimer's patient.  Their loved ones sometimes seem to feel like like they haven't earned the right to mourn.  However, I've heard experts in the field validate this kind of mourning.  You have still lost the one you love.  And it still hurts.  It's okay to grieve, however you feel you need to grieve.

There are losses of expectations and familiar places like watching future dreams figuratively go up in flames or seeing your home or work literally go up in flames.  A mother who dreamed of sending her child to college, who then finds out he has severe disabilities, or a father whose child, so full of potential, makes a mistake that costs her a future still faces pain. It's still a loss.  It can be hard, and can hurt.

This isn't to say that all these losses are somehow equal, that mourning is mourning, and it all looks the same.  If I lose my job, there's no way I will be launched into deep mourning as I would be with the loss of a parent or child.  However, that doesn't mean all of these forms of grief aren't valid.  They are, and those suffering from loss deserve respect and understanding. Nor does this mean that all people who lose a child or all people who lose a job go through all the same things or should be expected to grieve the same.  Grief is hard.  Loss is painful.  We often don't know what others are going through or how much they have lost.  For this, we'd all be happier and have a better chance at healing if we treat each other with respect and understanding, so when we have our loss and pain, others will be there for us.

Survived the Birthday

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I actually did fairly well, all things considered.  I had a few breakdowns, but not so many I couldn't handle them. 

I had a breakdown the morning before, when I was driving into town.  I heard a romance song I've always liked and that I never associated with mourning, Richard Marx's "Right Here Waiting for You."   There was a line or two that particularly referenced romance, but the rest of it spoke to my soul at the moment I was thinking of my angel's birthday the next day.  I cried the whole time it played.  Afterward, I found peace in the LDS temple to which I was heading when the song played. I hoped but didn't expect that to be the last. 

The next day, the day of her ninth birthday, I reflected on her loss and cried again.  It wasn't long, and I had my husband to hold.  It felt good. 

As we like to do, we kept ourselves busy to avoid too much self-pity and fruitless reflection on loss.  We went out of town to celebrate my other daughter's birthday as a family.  It was fun and kept our thoughts on other things.  Then, the night came, and we gave Alli her birthday party with an angel food cake and a walk down memory lane through her birthday.  We even had a friend there to show moral support.  Coming to the end of her pictures always feels like a punch to the gut.  Especially when I get to the funeral photos.  It's been a long time since I've broken down that badly.  It hurt.  It will always hurt to pass through her birthdays, at least until we can hold her again. 

The Birthday Approaches

Here our angel's birthday comes again, as it does every year.  And as with other years, we try to find a way to feel the pain (inevitably) without swimming in it.  Sometimes, we go do something religious together (like go to an LDS temple), or we have a birthday party with angel food cake and little gifts.  Sometimes, we leave town to go on an impromptu vacation, though this works better on her angelversary because it's summer instead of winter with its unpredictable weather.  

This year, we will be spending my angel's birthday celebrating her older sister's special day.  We'll be doing something together not far from home, going to an aquarium with two of my girl's friends, so they can all pet the stingrays.  It should be fun that we'll be together, doing something both our surviving kids love, and it will keep us from dwelling too much on the pain of the day.  

We once had such beautiful visions of a joint princess party with both of our sweet little girls since they are three days apart.  When Alli died, those dreams turned to ash, and every party we had to throw for our girl on our angel's birthday brought with it a sense of added loss and pain.  Now, it seems like a good place to be, anywhere but home, doing anything but dwelling on loss.  We will still have our angel food cake at the end of the day.  We will still look through Alli's picture book by the end of the night.  My girl and my angel will still get their moment that day.  And I know my angel will be with us, celebrating.  I just wish I could see her, hold her.  I know I will break down at least once on or just before that day.  That part is inevitable and as predictable as the day marching toward us on that calendar.  We'll survive, as we always do.  And maybe, just maybe, it won't hurt so badly this time. 

A Rainbow Doesn't Heal All

Experiences of others that I've read indicated child loss was individualized, that there are usually some kind of similarities between experiences of mourning such that mourning can teach one empathy for another mourner, that faith can help one find solace, and, above all, the secret to healing from grief is to have a rainbow baby.  The new baby isn't supposed to replace the old baby, but mothers and father everywhere are supposed to find comfort in a new baby. 

This is one of many reasons I kept praying for a rainbow baby.  Instead, I tacked loss upon loss until my loss count was a lot higher than my live birth count.  I have had three live births, one of whom passed at four months, plus 15+ miscarriages, and we've found peace with giving up the futile efforts of talking my body into giving live birth.  People will often equate pregnancy with expecting.  After a while, the only thing I began to expect with another pregnancy was yet another loss.  I was never to find out for myself if a rainbow baby would help or hinder the healing process.  But that's okay because pregnancy and fragile babies became causes of fear rather than joy for me.  

With my expectation that healing can become more complete with the advent of a rainbow baby, I was surprised when people we knew had their rainbow, and it wasn't all happiness and joy.  I know they've had a lot of happiness and joy with their new pink bundle, but everything their new baby does makes them yearn to have their older little girl to be there to enjoy the experience.  They keep wishing that their departed angel could see this or be part of that.  Instead of having

perfect bliss with their rainbow, they've had new kinds of heartache.  I had no idea this would happen.  

I guess the real moral here is expectations for someone else's grieving experience don't help.  Our expectations in the face of someone else's raw pain really mean nothing.  Phrases like, "Shouldn't you move on?" or anything that follows "at least" are attempts to force our own expectations on someone else.  Even trying to manipulate our own grieving experience according to how things should be doesn't help.  Grieving is what it is. All we can do is accept what is and seek solace and peace and seek to offer solace and peace to others.  We can't tell people they're doing it wrong or feel like we're doing it wrong because there is no right or wrong about mourning, grief, or loss.  We can plead with the Lord to carry our burdens, but that doesn't mean all pain will be gone.  He can heal our hearts, but it does take time and may never be complete in this lifetime.  We certainly can't expect everyone else to do the same.  What we can do is love and support each other and allow ourselves to be loved and supported when we need it.  Accept and respect others in how they need to mourn, and healing will come a lot faster.  

Scar Tissue

I imagine most of us--those who live with life-altering loss--have a way to survive from day to day.  There are people who, even after years, still stare into the face of that bloody, angry hole in their heart with no way to look away.  But most of us have coping strategies.  Some work to avoid thinking about it.  Some self-medicate with either legal or illegal drugs.  Some seek out counseling, professional or unprofessional.  Most of us find a way to build scar tissue to block out the pain.  This doesn't mean the wound isn't real, isn't there, isn't painful.  It just means we can live with it without thinking about it every waking hour of every day.  

The nature of scar tissue is it's not as flexible, as supple, as real as the original tissue.  It's not like our loss didn't happen.  Nor does it mean we're necessarily healed of that wound.  Many of us will live our lives still feeling we're one small step from staring into the void and falling apart.  

It's hard to define what healing even is.  Professionals would say being healed from loss means being able to move forward and live life.  That those who have children or remarry, those who engage in life in what seems like a normal fashion, are supposed to be healed.  Some people say that those who are able to look back at their time with their loved ones and the photographs with more joy than sorrow are healed.  They're both good definitions.  I'm never going to be able to have a rainbow baby, though I tried (only to rack up several more losses).  It still hurts more than I can say to look at those pictures in the book I don't see on my wall every day.  To those pictures on the wall, I've build up scar tissue, tissue that lets me look without puddling on the floor in a teary ball.  But when I look at those other pictures, the ones I only trot out on her birthdays and angelversaries, there is no defense.  I am a helpless, mewling ball of agony.  There is more pain than joy.  

Does it mean that I'm healed or not healed that I've built up enough scar tissue that I can move forward in what appears to be a healthy, well-adjusted fashion?  I can function.  I can engage in life.  I can smile.  I can mention my loss in that distant, storytellers' fashion that allows me to say it without feeling it.   But the lava of emotions is there, lurking, waiting for a song or a photo or some other trigger to rip off that scar tissue to expose me to the pain.  Someone expresses real sympathy, and that emotion threatens to bubble up.  The hot tears force their way to the surface.  

I am a dormant caldera like Yellowstone.  I can function in predictable ways like everyone else around me.  But under the surface is a bubbling mass of pain just waiting to show off its heat and agony.  A thin crust of scar tissue keeps up the appearance of peace.  But I don't want to step off those well-beaten paths.  I don't want to step into those tender places that may break through.  I imagine I'm not alone in living with such a fragile peace.  I long for the day I can truly say I'm healed.  But it won't likely be until I hold her in my arms again.