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Mothering › Child Articles › 6 Realizations That Surprise Me A Year After The Death Of My Daughter

6 Realizations that Surprise me a Year after the Death of my Daughter

 

By Suzanne Leigh

 

·        1. That I think the Victorians might have had the right idea. Dressing in black mourning clothes, shunning celebrations and receiving visitors who came to pay homage to the deceased child was what was expected of bereaved mothers in the 19th century. At one time I’d have viewed these antiquated mores as rigid, inappropriate and punitive. After losing my daughter, they sound like a healthy way of being true to one’s grief and sharing it with the community in a somber manner congruent with our sadness. Author Jana Riess describes mourning clothes as a “mourner’s EZ Pass,” a sign that the bereaved need "a wide berth" and “cultural latitude." Rather than stigmatizing death and coaxing the bereaved to move on as we do today, mourning clothes "gave people permission to take time to grieve."

 

·         2. That I’m not ready to dispose of my daughter’s meds. They’ve migrated from the food prep area of the kitchen to the top shelf of the crafts cupboard. Why would I be attached to them? For the last five years of my daughter’s life, meds were part of Natasha’s daily ritual and administering them to her was part of mothering her. I gave them to her first thing in the morning and last thing at night; only on an empty stomach and only after meals; daily, every eight hours, every four hours and as needed. I learned how to inject them subcutaneously (wash hands, swab injection site with alcohol wipe, remove cover of needle, grasp skin, place needle at 45-degree angle, insert needle, follow with: “I’m so sorry, Honey!”); and I learned how to administer antibiotics through her IV (wash hands, close roller clamp and place spike port into outlet port, fill drip chamber, open roller clamp, tape tip of tube to tubing, put on sterile gloves, clean PICC line with alcohol wipe, push saline through tubing, connect tubing to PICC line -- and repeat six hours later). Getting rid of Natasha’s meds implies an outward acknowledgement that I’ve let go of one of my most critical responsibilities in mothering her. Irrational perhaps, but I’m not ready to do that.

 

·         3. That I still can’t read a book. I can skim light nonfiction, but novels and biographies are too cumbersome. They require me to relinquish the reality of my life and invest in someone else’s. That’s too challenging. Maybe this will change in time.

 

·         4. That goodness touches me now more than ever.  Heartfelt attempts from friends and even strangers to reach out, to comfort without judgment, to share memories, to photocopy cards that Natasha made for them, to donate money to pediatric cancer research in honor of her brief life are gestures that have sustained us. If losing a beloved child is a reminder that we live in a brutal world, the outpouring of goodwill is another reminder that kind people live among us.

 

·         5. That loss is now expressed in 'grief bursts.' These are short, excruciating pangs of grief that ambush the bereaved and replace the near-constant searing hemorrhaging experienced during the earlier phase of loss. I struggle with how to deal with them. The experts suggest a brisk change of environment, diverting oneself with an activity or surrendering to grief until the emotional purge has run its course. Option #3 is the one that seems to work best.

 

·         6. That despite the passing of time, our grief is still fresh, unfamiliar and frequently intense.

 

S    Suzanne Leigh is a freelance health reporter, a Huffington Post blogger and the mother of two    gorgeous girls. She blogs about her family at: www.themourningafternatasha.wordpress.com

 

Comments (20)

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I don't want to leave a comment; I want to leave a hug.  I wish I could.  Your little girl is beautiful and I am so sorry she is gone.  It is just not fair.  There is nothing worse I can imagine.  Sending a prayer for you.
All the love from your readers that we can possibly muster to you and your family.
Hello, a hug from someone who lost her brother to leukemia 3 months ago after a 4 years battle, I read you and I read my pain, but mostly my Mom's grief..I hug you from a common place.
I'm going to graciously accept your hug, zooeyinthe tub -- thank you! And thank you Alison for all the love ... So appreciate these kind messages.
Ejmagallanes, Sending sympathy and empathy to you and your mom. And a hug.
(((hugs))) to the Nth!  As a mom of a child with significant disability I can empathize.  Thank you for sharing.  Honoring your needs as a mother in mourning is the most significant gift you can give yourself.  I hope you're finding enough support through the process.  White Light surround you, and all the others who share in your grief.
Thank you creative-juices. Enjoying all the hugs!
There's nothing that I can say. She shouldn't be gone. You shouldn't have lost her. The world would still be bad enough for us all to enjoy the good without the loss of children. May lots of hugs comfort you in your grief. I'm glad to see the picture of your beautiful daughter. Take all the time you need (maybe forever, my grandmother still grieves for my aunt, who died when she was three) because your grief does not expire. Adding my virtual hugs to the lot.
Your second sentence is so painfully true, BellaRose.  Thanks for your kind words.
All the support I can send you with nothing more to say than what was expressed more beautifully above by others.  You're in my thoughts and I wish you and your family all good things in approaching each new day.
I am so sorry for your terrible loss, and I so appreciate what you share with us through your writing. My 2 1/2 year old god-daughter died almost one year ago, and so much of what you write really resonates as I do my best to love and support her family through their grief.  
Lanzilli8- Thank you! Yuba_River, Loving and supporting the family of your late god-daughter is a wonderful gift to them.
Suzanne, I am also a bereaved mom and I want to offer you my condolences for the loss of your beautiful Natasha.  It has been almost 6 years since my daughter's death and items 3 - 6 of the things you list are still as much a part of my life today as they were 6 years ago.  I can't read any more, although in the last few months that seems to be lifting a bit.  I finished my first novel in 6 years a few weeks ago and am slowly working on number 2.  I used to be a voracious reader.  I appreciate goodness more than ever now, too.  I have had so many friends shun me because my pain is too intense for them to deal with that I have an appreciation for kindness that is much deeper than before Kerry's death.  "Grief bursts" - good way of putting it.  I experience them between 6 and 12 times a day, where something touches me so raw-ly that my eyes well up with tears.  I have resigned myself to this being part of my "new normal".  Option 3 is the only one that works for me, too.  And yes, the grief is still fresh, unfamiliar and intense.  From my observations of other bereaved parents, I think this is also part of the new normal.  I am so sorry that you are also on this terrible journey.  Hugs to you and your family.
Thanks for sharing your experience, Clairsearch (and hugs are nice, too!). I think what you say underscores the fact that for many/most bereaved parents we don't get over the loss of our children. And we're sort of OK with that -- our children will always be worth grieving for. What I find interesting is that some people will insist that we WILL get over it, as a way to encourage us, I guess.
I'm sorry about your daughter's death six years ago.
Thanks for sharing!  I can definitely relate, though I hadn't realized that my inability to sit down and enjoy a fiction book might be related to grief.  I especially relate to the way goodness becomes so touching.  I wish you lots and lots of goodness! 
I guess I can only speak for myself regarding the inability to enjoy a book, Stephafriendly. I'm sure other bereaved parents have had different experiences. Thanks for the wishes for lots and lots of goodness.
God bless your heart!  I do Not mean that as a passing phrase.  I'm sorry for your loss.  I lost my mom when I was 7mo pregnant, and I find it strange how strong the grief can still be, at times.  Recently, I found a book called the Neuroscience of Change.  There is nothing that can replace what you mourn, but it's helped me deal with several things that had been lingering.  I worked in a physically impaired room, and with a few kids with cancer.  It's simply not fair, they are so young, for something so big ;(  I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry for your loss. I really don't have anything to add but I wanted to say how beautiful your daughter is. While I've never lost a child, I do still have the medicine bottles of a loved one who passed. It is oddly comforting to me to open the cupboard and see her name and then be flooded with both happy and sad memories. Hugs to you!
Thank you, night nurse. I do so love seeing Natasha's name, too, even if it's on pill containers -- something that never brought us any joy. Hugs back to you!
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