Resiliency

I have been told by some in the mental health profession that I am "resilient." That comment normally accompanies some discussion about my progress in dealing with Casey's death. Only those that know me well , I think, dare to say that, as it is in essence a judgment. Making judgments about others seeming progress can be risky , even if the judgment is intended as a compliment. Appreciating that I was making progress, i.e. returning to some semblance of normal activities,did cause me some distress. It always made me question how could I go on with my life when Casey's was over. Did that reflect how much I loved her, the "ease" with which I could return to normal activities? It almost seemed to be an inverse measure of my love for Casey. For me i believe I did not really have a choice but to try to get back to my life and I have been able to do so. I have been changed by Casey's death . There have been a number of positive changes but there also some changes that are not so positive and I need to be quite conscious of those. At times, I think that others expressed problems are insignificant compared to the loss of Casey. Most are but that should not diminish the respect and attention that I can and should offer. Over time my initial reactions are not so comparative and judgmental as they had been. I still feel that way but don't show it-that is not at all being resilient.

"Be strong" and "life heals all wounds"

After Casey's death and even past the funeral I was told to "be strong" more times than I could count. I did not know then what it meant to be strong under the circumstances and now still don't know what was inteneded.

Remembering that they lived

One of my partners sent me this quote from Elizabeth Edwards:

"If you know someone who has lost a child, or lost anybody that's important to them, and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died, they didn't forget they died. You're not reminding them. What you're reminding them of is that you remember that they lived. And that's a great great gift."

It is a gift for me when someone remembers Casey.

Is the loss of a child the worse loss imaginable?

Some have said that the worst loss possible is the loss of a child. I would not disagree but I can't and won't make that conclusion. I do know that when I go to comfort those who have lost parents or spouses invariably the family will say "but this is nothing compared to what you have been through." This has become a frequent occurrence for me. I almost feel like my presence carries with it the cloak of horrific tragedy and that, to some extent, others gain perspective on their losses by comparing them to my loss. I think it actually helps them deal with loss better.

It does not cause me to suffer more or make me realize the depth of my loss. I have thought about that every day for the last sixteen months. I attended a Compassionate Friends meeting and a mother who lost two of her children and a grandchild spoke. I did not feel better that my loss was "less" than hers.

A Common Language of Loss

I met with a family our firm is representing in an obstetrical medical malpractice case whose baby was profoundly injured during delivery. Their child is delightful but his limitations are obvious. We hope that he will progress as time goes on but he will have permanent limitations. I told the parents of my loss and we talked for quite a while. We shared the dreams that we had for our children and how those dreams have been dashed. We shared our anger at those responsible and our sense of isolation from others who had not suffered any tragedies to their children. As other parents complain about their children, or rather mundane events, we are bitter and angry and envious. I was ,for a moment, envious of these parents since they still had their child.

I am learning that with all types of loss-death of a child or permanent injury to a child, paralysis, amputations, career-ending injuries , illnesses, disability and so on- there are so many common threads, irrespective of the specifics of the actual loss. There is a common language of loss and a connection between all those who have suffered loss.

Grief and the holidays

I have been asked, or others have commented this week, about how difficult it must be without Casey for the holidays. I actually don't think now that the holidays are as difficult for me as some might imagine . I miss Casey every day and on holidays her absence may be more palpable, but, at those times I am surrounded by family and friends and I think, perhaps, that by collectively shouldering the loss it is lessened somewhat for me.

A dialogue of loss

I was asked to write about loss for a local charity that supports those who have received burn injuries. I agreed and then had second thoughts. My experience of loss is unique. It is even different from the experience of other fathers who have lost daughters. Could I really address the concerns of those who had received terrible burn injuries and survived in a respectful and helpful manner? So I thought about whether there were some aspects of loss, whether it is a death or life-altering injury, that were universal irrespective of the specific type of loss. Then it occurred that the focus could be on how all of us survivors receive support from others and what we can do to help the process. Here is an excerpt:

One of the variables that has been identified in studies of loss as predictive of the path personal suffering may take is our perception of the support we receive from others. If we believe that those around us are interested and care about us we are likely to do better. Mental health professionals speak of “being present” or empathic listening. This is the ability to listen to someone intently and convey through the process that you understand not only their words, but how they feel and what is like to be them and that you deeply care. Unfortunately many are not able to listen in a caring fashion when we need to speak about our loss. So what we need from others to help us is often difficult or impossible for them to provide. One of my clients, a twenty-one year old man who is paralyzed from the waist down, told me that he would welcome someone asking him what it was like to be sitting in a wheelchair. He could see their faces, their eyes looking down at him as he sat in the wheelchair and knew they were thinking about how awful his injury was, but they would not talk about it. What was now part of his life, his new story, was being ignored. Ignoring what had happened was the same as ignoring him. He desperately wanted people to listen to him, and to know that they cared and accepted him as he was. After my loss I have experienced the awkwardness and discomfort of others when confronted with a parent’s grief. I have learned over the past year that if I wanted to tell my story and have someone listen I would often have to lead the way , almost giving “permission” to the other to have a dialogue about what had happened. This is supported by preliminary results from an ongoing study concerning loss which indicates that nearly all of those surveyed desperately wanted feedback from the survivor about how to be supportive.

In this way I have made it easier for others to be supportive and give me what I often need-a caring person who will listen. It is also a way to take some control over my situation and responsibility for what I need as a survivor. This does not always work, but when it does, and my story has been heard I feel connected and less isolated.