The Beautification of Grief

Grief makes people uncomfortable. 

Despite the fact that its inevitable. If you are a living human being, you will experience grief at some point in your lifetime. 

Grief that involves the loss of a child makes people especially uncomfortable. 

Thankfully, not every person will experience the loss of a child though. 

Because of our desire to not be uncomfortable, we try to make grief into something that it isn't. 

What do I mean by that? 

We beautify grief. 

We do this in the way that we speak with and treat the grieving. We do this with the cards we send and the ways we choose to show up. 

While I do think most people are well meaning, its hurtful and harmful even. 

"She's in a better place"

"God must have needed her" 

"You are SO strong"

"You are handling this SO well"

"I am so proud of how well you are doing"

"You are just amazing"

"You are going to bring so much good out of this"

" Let this be what brings you closer together instead of apart"

"You will see her again someday, focus on how beautiful that will be" 

"Your strength is inspiring"

and so many more. 

Maybe you're thinking "these are compliments and truths, what is wrong with any of this?" 

The problem is this. 

When we fail to acknowledge to the grieving parents how seriously awful what happened to their child was, we fail to create safety and space for grieving. 

We do this because we do not want to face the discomfort of the situation.

It is so much easier to try to change the perspective of the situation, or try to band aid it than to recognize the absolute awful thing that happened. 

Grief is not beautiful. 

It's just not. 

Sure, sometimes there are great things that a grieving person does, in ways like giving back and "making a difference" but the actual grief, is still ugly. 

When we always try to put a positive spin on the reality of someone who is grieving we rob them the ability to be authentic and we even make it harder on them. Because when the realities of grief show up, they feel that they must be wrong, or they feel like they have failed at grieving properly, or they try SO hard to be the strong that everyone sees that they end up holding all of that grief in, which then maifests in all kinds of unhealthy are harmful ways, and only delays actual grief work.

Grief is ugly. 

It demands to be felt. 

It can look like rage, it can look like throwing dishes into a sink to break them, throwing dishes across the room. 

It can look like walls broken in, kicked in, punched in,

It can look like being unable to rise from the floor, unable to catch your breath, being worried you might actually be suffocating from this pain. 

It can look like anger, being short or rude to people in your interactions. 

It can look like laziness, the inability to keep your home clean, your job done well or correctly. 

It can look like forgetfullness, childrens projects left undone, forms not signed and sent into school. 

Grief can make a home a battlefield.

Instead of trying to make grief beautiful to keep ourselves comfortable, lets show up for the grievers with the truth. 

"This is absolutely terrible"

"You did not have enough time with your baby"

"My heart is absolutely broken for you, I just cannot believe this" 

How does a person survive this"

"This makes absolutely no sense"

"I am so angry with you"

"babies should not die"

Grieving mothers need so much more than words that put pressure on them to be a good griever, they do not need another expectation placed on them. They need tangible help and people showing up in a safe way. They need to know that when their grief is demanding to be felt, when it can not be folded up and wrapped up in a pretty package with a bow, that is OK! Not only is it ok, it is NORMAL. 

Grieving is ugly, it is hard, it is work. 

Let us honor those in grief by recognizing that. 

Paradox

Trauma. It is a very complex thing. The love I have for my daughter is not traumatic, it is deep and real, and beautiful. And yet, so incredibly wrapped up in trauma. 

I have always been pretty good at remembering dates, seasons, etc. I can recall exact days from 20 years ago easily, so it has never been a surprise to me that I can remember exact dates of events with Grace but what did surprise me from early on was the way that I was affected by things. 

For instance, I began to realize that I struggle a LOT just before her birthday in March. and I also begin to struggle again mid July and into August. I also struggle around Christmas time. This isn't something that just stopped after a few years but has persisted into today, 11 years later. A few years ago during a session with my therapist, I was frustrated with myself for the ways I still struggle, I felt like I was failing everyone because I simply drop so many balls and my emotions become so difficult for me to manage at certain times, and she kindly reminded me that I have complex trauma. She said it makes complete sense to her. Our bodies recognize small things that maybe our brain can't even process as a trigger but it is, my body knows that its coming up to August, and that is when my sweet girl died, I do not even need to tell it that, my body has already remembered with the temperatures and the cicadas, and the ice cream and the pools... 

With her help, I have been able to be much less activated all of the time but of course my brain will always remember the dates and the significances and the events. I have a lot more work to do, but I do not stay in the deeply hard places nearly as long as I used to. I was stuck for so long, and while I am no longer stuck, I will always remember and that is ok. 

Eleven years ago around this very time I walked out of Mott for the very last time, the person I used to be. I did not yet hold the label of "grieving mother" a name that I will hold for the rest of my life. I will never not grieve, every second of my life. I had absolutely no idea that the trajectory of my life was so very close to changing forever. 

The hospital was being redone, while it was months away from completion, a new path to the parking garage had just been opened. It was shorter than the route had been for the last 4 months. I walked it around midnight, thinking how incredibly tired I was, how I couldn't wait to have my girl home. But I also was grateful, I knew how lucky I was that she was alive because there had been a lot of losses in the NICU over the last few weeks. And yet, at the same time I just felt down. I wanted to stay longer but I knew that Adam was home with the boys and needed to work the next day, so I needed to go home. 

I passed one of her Drs on the way out, we stopped to chat about how great she looked, how he couldnt believe she was still here and asked if she would be going home soon. I said I hoped so. I never in a million years imagined I would never see her alive again after that day. 

Looking back I simply cannot believe that I missed out on my daughters last two days alive because of money. Driving an hour each way to the hospital was expensive and Adam drove an hour each way the opposite direction to work each day. Our bank account was quickly dwindling and we knew that when she came home, we would have a lot of expenses and appointments etc. We had made the decision that we would stagger being with her, so on the 8th he left work and spent the evening with her and then on the 9th it was "my day". I was waiting for him to get off of work so that I could go see her but she passed before that happened. 

The next time I walked out of that hospital, it was with a cart full of my daughters things, and a shattered heart. 

It has taken a great many years, but I can see the goodness of God throughout this, and I am so grateful for His provision and healing. I am grateful that I can sit here tonight and remember this and honor this but I am not undone. I am grateful that both Adam and I had one last day with her. But there is also much regret for those who did not get the time with her. For the pictures that were never taken and the arms that never held her warm body. We never thought this turn would be taken, we didn't see this coming. 

Tonight, as I sit here, I am ok but I can remember so clearly, the weight of her on my chest, the way her mouth opened as she slept, the way she always slept with her face turned up towards mine, and her hand that would grip my hoodie strings and I wish I'd known just how fleeting those moments were, I grieve tonight, knowing I would have never gently laid her in her crib and walked away, had I known it was going to be the last time. 

My mind, and my body can not forget, but my heart swells with one beat at how sweet those memories are, and it shatters with the next, at how much they still hurt.