Guest Blog by Rose Chérie
I Died That Day Too by Rose Chérie
When we love someone, they become integrated into our lives. Their life and existence become intertwined with ours even if we don't see or talk to them every day. Our day-to-day lives are influenced by their existence as we plan a future around their presence and future interactions. From major milestones such as graduations and marriages to small details such as driving past a new restaurant and thinking, “They'd enjoy this place, maybe let's go soon.”
When we experience the death of a loved one, the real ghosts are the survivors who are left behind. The loss extends far beyond the absence of their lived experience. All of the intertwined existence you once shared is gone. Our future will never be what we once planned, and our day-to-day life is in ruins.
One thing no one really prepares you for is this strange transitional duality you're left with after death. You're not the person you were before, but you're almost expected to be. You still have to work a job to pay your bills by doing mundane tasks like giving presentations to stakeholders and color-coding spreadsheets. Tasks which no longer hold the same, if any, value as before. You have to clean your home, cook meals, take care of yourself; meanwhile, you can barely recognize the person in the mirror or have the energy to get out of bed.
Grief doesn't have time limits or benchmarks. But to function as part of society, it's almost like we're expected to hit them. “Your spouse, who you adored and who helped you function, is gone forever? Come back to work in three days.” “You were the sole caretaker of your dying parent who passed? See you on Monday." “Oh, your kid died? As long as you have vacation time, take all the time you need.” There’s a callousness towards death. Expecting us to bounce right back to who we were before, not realizing that isn't possible. The person who could function in their everyday life - the person we were before they died - died that day too.
Our society acknowledges death in the same way we recognize having something in our nose or stuck in our teeth. Someone might bring it up to be considerate but then quickly diverts the topic to something else. Anyway…….business as usual. The recognition, or lack thereof really, of grief is even more obtuse. Our society isn't structured to recognize or acknowledge the pain, traumas, and anxieties that come in the days, months, and years after the funeral. The systems we live under are designed for productivity, not prolonged mourning. Although grief is a deeply personal experience, it is also a universal experience we all share. All that is born will one day die. Not just humans, but animals, plants, even the stars will all die. Because of this truth, eventually there will come a day when we will all be on the receiving end of being a survivor of death. And yet, there are still so many who grieve in silence.
For some, it is purely a personal preference. For others, they don’t grieve openly in fear of how they may be perceived.
The callousness and shame surrounding death for not hitting those imaginary benchmarks: “Why aren't you over it yet?”
The embarrassment of people getting extremely uncomfortable and acting like you have the black plague and will catch it just by talking to you. Or not wanting to deal with the frustrations from well-meaning bystanders who say the most insensitive, mind-blowingly asinine statements you've ever heard in your life.
Personally, I refuse to grieve in silence. To ignore or hide my grief is to ignore or hide a new part of myself. I wear my heart on my shoulder, and that includes my grief. My grief is a testament to my love. I will not feel shame or embarrassment about it. I will not shy away from it to avoid difficult conversations. I will not shrink myself and my experiences to make myself more digestible. In the end, I am the one who has to live with this reality, not any outsider. If I am to function as close to normal as I did before, I first have to accept that this is my new normal. And since this is my new normal, I'm going to talk about it. I'm sorry, not sorry, if that makes anyone feel uncomfortable.
There is no “moving on” or “letting go” of our loved ones. There is only adapting, accepting, and making peace with our new life without their physical presence. That is not something that can happen overnight. Not unless you're in complete denial, or you never actually cared about them to begin with. I always tell the newly bereaved, “I'd be more concerned if you weren't in pain.” It's normal, despite what anyone says. In order for us to be able to sit beside our grief in peace, we must learn to acknowledge it. You can't accept your new reality if you're constantly trying to bury it. Like in Edgar Allan Poe's “The Tell-Tale Heart”, what we bury has a way of making itself known.
But how can you accept something so unbearably painful? This is where Stoic philosophy became pivotal in my journey of grief. Can you change the situation? No.
Then you must accept it!
In my first year of grief, I thought, “If I can just hit a certain plateau, I’ll be able to function.”
But there is no plateau. Grief is like a steep 80° mountain you’re now forced to climb. At first, it feels unbearable. But eventually, every day, it becomes slightly easier. Not because the incline lessens or you find a plateau, but because you get stronger. And you get stronger because you keep going. Not because you want to, but because you must.
I once listened to a mindfulness podcast that spoke about how most of our mental anguish comes from the idea of “how much longer am I going to feel this?” And rather than being trapped in that mindset, we should focus on the present moment - “I've made it this far, and I'm still going!”
Something that has also helped me make peace with my grief is giving myself permission to feel however, whenever, wherever I need. We won't always be able to control what triggers our grief or when. We shouldn’t try to either. Our emotions, all of them, not just grief, are meant to ebb and flow like the ocean. And like the ocean, when you see a wave coming towards you, if you fight it, you will drain yourself and possibly cause serious damage. But if you flow with the energy, the wave will wash over you more quickly and easily.
Personally, I’ve done myself no favors by pretending I’m ok when I’m not. If I need to cry at Target, in the office, or in the middle of a concert, I will. Which I’ve done all of these things, by the way. Because showing vulnerability in public places like this removes stigma. It gives people reassurance and recognition that it's okay to feel that way, too. To feel is to be human, and we need more humanity. Outwardly expressing our emotions is also a reminder that we are all going through unseen battles, and we should extend more empathy toward one another more often.
Adjusting to this new life is a process. Life is not black and white. It's a multitude of colors. The glass is not half full or half empty; it's both. As you navigate your new normal, you will find yourself lost in all the different colors of the glass. At first, things will be bleak overall. Food won't taste as good. Holidays lose their meaning. The sun will shine, but you will still feel cold and in the dark. And that's ok. Your grief will never shrink, but as time passes, the space around it will slowly begin to grow if you allow it. So too will your acceptance of your new life. With that, even enjoyment will find its way back in.
My stepdaughter Allison was six years old when I met her. Although she was my stepdaughter by title, she was my daughter in every way that mattered. I got to enjoy exactly 5 years, 7 months, and 8 days with her before she unexpectedly passed away at 11 years old in the home of her biological mother.
The last day we saw her alive, Sunday, April 23rd, she was strong, healthy, and full of life, playing outside in the bubbles with her little brother. On that same day, her dad and I told her two big pieces of news: that I was pregnant again and that we were officially engaged. Her face lit up as she cried tears of joy. Her dad and I getting married was something she always wanted. She adored her little brother and was so excited to grow our family again. Although she lived with us part-time, she was a full-time member of this family and was treated as such. We looked forward to nothing more than experiencing these new chapters in our lives together as a family. We didn’t just love Allison; we planned our future around her.
Four days later, she was gone forever. Her cause of death was labeled as "probable community-acquired infection." Which loosely translates to, "she probably got severely ill and died." Although I’d love to explain more, there are far too many details surrounding the circumstances of her death and the autopsies to get into right now.
No matter how old you are when you die, there will always be life to be missed. So rather than focusing on what has been lost, focus on what was experienced. Allison was my daughter, a granddaughter, a friend, and a sister. Most importantly, she was Allison. She was an artist and athlete. She was a vibrant, hilarious, joyous, beautiful, and intelligent young human. I am a better person for having known her.
Grief and gratitude are not mutually exclusive. We shouldn’t feel guilty for feeling one over the other, or both simultaneously. This is where that duality comes back into play. I will never be the person I was before Allison passed away, but I’ve had to make peace with it in order to be a functioning person in society again. To be able to provide, not just the bare minimum, but a life filled with experience for her younger brothers, her dad, and myself.
There will always be hard days, but by allowing the grief to become integrated into my daily life, I am able to enjoy and appreciate the life I have. It may not be the life we planned with her physically, but she remains with us; her spirit continues on in everyone who ever loved her and even in those who have only come to know her through her story. Her presence is still felt in the bubbles and butterflies. She would have wanted us to live full lives. In the end, today is all we have because tomorrow is never promised.
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