Monthly Archives: February 2024

grieving

Do the Dead Forgive Us?

One commonality among all the grieving people I know is regret. For many of us, the regret is small(ish) but others are plagued by regret. People wish they could take back something they said or did or do or say something that was left undone or unsaid. Often the regret is about something that seemed innocuous in the moment but in the aftermath of the death, takes on outsized significance.

I’ve mentioned before my own regret about how I responded to my late husband’s pain. My insight about how to respond better came too late. I would give anything to be able to apologize to him for not getting it right at the time. I spoke with two widowed friends in the past week who are experiencing similar regrets. The impossibility of ever apologizing or explaining themselves weighed on them heavily. They both wondered, could their dead partner ever forgive them?

I choose to believe that our dead loved ones hold no grudges, that they miss us as feverishly as we miss them, and that just as we wish we could do-over some of our interactions, they have the same wish.

We couldn’t have known then what we know now. Had we known the day or moment they would die, we might have behaved differently, but we didn’t know. Had they known the day or moment they would die, they might have behaved differently, but they didn’t know.  We did the best we could in the moment, and I think our dead loved ones recognize that more readily than we do.

I choose to believe that the dead are more enlightened than we are and that they do not hold us responsible for not having had the knowledge we have now when they were alive.

Sometimes when I am wishing I had done or said something to Tom differently, I try to see myself in that moment through his eyes. He believed me to be smart, strong, compassionate, and capable. He appreciated my caregiving and loved me as much as I loved him. He might wish I had been more patient sometimes or done things differently, but he knew I was thrown into being a caregiver the same way he was thrown into being a care recipient. Neither of us had been prepared for those roles and we gave each other a lot of grace. I try to give myself the same grace Tom gave me.

I also try to keep in mind that my memories aren’t always reliable. My recollection of how I behaved or what I did or didn’t do isn’t nearly as accurate as I think it was. I trust that my dead husband will give me the benefit of the doubt because he loved me and that’s what people who love each other do.

These are choices I make about what to believe. I was raised in a tradition built on guilt and felt tremendous guilt after my mother died. I believed I could have saved her (I found her after school, still alive but unresponsive—and as an example of the unreliability of memory, my sister believes that she’s the one who found our mother, so one of us must be wrong) and that she died because I waited too long to call anyone. I regretted every argument we’d had, and there had been many. I wished I hadn’t physically pushed her way the last time she tried to hug me. I especially was sorry I had told her I was embarrassed by her.

For years, I cried myself to sleep most nights under the weight of this guilt. It was proof that I was a bad person. But gradually, I began to see myself as a not-so-bad person and that version of me was able to see my mother as a troubled but generous person who would certainly forgive me for the things I did as a tween that were actually totally appropriate for a tween. My mother had been a fourth through sixth grade teacher who knew tween behavior. Of course she would forgive me.

I still wish I hadn’t behaved the way I did toward her, but I also understand the behavior of tween me as normal and forgivable. Regret over the behavior is not worth carrying around with me as a weight to hold me down.

I can’t tell other grieving people what to believe, but I hope that whatever you believe, it is something that does not hold you down.

grieving

What To Do When Someone’s Pet Dies

The first of a handful of times I saw my stoic late husband cry was when our dog Clark died. Clark was a black lab mix that Tom had rescued a few years before he and I met. Clark was an avid rafter who loved to swim. He was a cocky swimmer—I remember one time he literally swam in circles around a dog who was new to swimming, as if to say, “Look, dummy, it’s not that hard.”

Clark came along on all our early adventures—rafting, of course, but also camping and too many road trips to list. He was a rascal who let my young daughter dress him up in a pink feather boa and cowboy hat because he realized that he’d get an extra long walk if he did, and he didn’t mind wearing that regalia on the walk.

When Clark was diagnosed with lung cancer, I was devastated and sobbed for days, but Tom was stoic. When the time came to relieve Clark of his pain, we were with him, petting him and telling him we loved him through his final breaths. That’s when Tom finally shed the first tears I’d seen from him in the three years we’d been together at that point.

The death of a pet can be heartbreaking and devastating. Losing a loved one, regardless of their species, can turn your world upside down.

Pets are often faithful and trusted companions, offering unconditional love and acceptance. They provide reliable comfort and affection without ever judging or disagreeing with us. Their guileless trust and vulnerability can bring out the best in us. They show us—and share with us—pure joy. They can give our life purpose.

In my work as a sexual assault victim advocate, the people I worked with were more likely to cite pets as providing reliable comfort than humans.  

Some folks don’t understand why the death of a pet is so upsetting. Maybe you grew up on a ranch or farm, where people didn’t form emotional attachments to animals. Perhaps you’re not a cat person and you can’t wrap your head around why anyone would mourn the death of a cat. Try substituting “companion” or “loved one” for pet: They lost their companion and loved one.

The loss of a pet is the loss of a significant relationship. Someone who’s pet has died may grieve hard, possibly for the rest of their life.

What can you do when a friend’s pet dies? The same things I hope you would do when a friend’s person dies. Here are some ideas:  

  • Write a sympathy card.
  • Ask your grieving friend to tell you a favorite story about their pet.
  • Think carefully before sharing your own story about losing a pet. Sometimes sharing your own grief story can be helpful, but often it is not. The key, in my opinion, is to share your story in order to make the person you are talking to feel seen. If your purpose is anything else, like to make them feel like they shouldn’t be so sad or so sad for so long, then please keep the story to yourself for now.
  • Offer help but don’t just say “Let me know how I can help,” which is actually not very helpful. Ask what they need and then help them get it.
  • Respect their grief and their grieving process. Don’t tell them to just get another pet and if they plan to immediately get another pet, don’t tell them they shouldn’t unless they’ve asked for your advice. You don’t have to understand their grief or their process to be compassionate.
  • Consider making a donation to an animal rescue organization in honor of the pet who died.

And do not, under any circumstances, tell them that losing a pet is “different from losing a ___.” Typically when people say this, what they mean is that losing a pet isn’t as big a deal as losing a ___. This is never ever comforting. Being belittled or having my grief minimized has never made me feel better about anything.

Whether it’s a dog, cat, bird, fish, snake, or other animal that has died, they had a big place in your friend’s heart. Your friend is now trying to figure out how to live the rest of their life without that companionship. Be kind.

grieving

How to Respond to Nosy Questions when You Are Grieving

I recently wrote a piece that appeared in The Boston Globe about how we should talk about grief more. I said in that piece that being inarticulate is fine, being messy is fine, and I stand by it. I think the only way we’ll get better at talking about grief is by daring to be clumsy about it.

I was thinking when I wrote the piece about people aiming to offer comfort or condolences. There’s another category of talking about grief that I want to address today: the nosy question.

I’ve been amazed at how bold people have been about asking me very personal questions in the wake of my husband’s death. I’ve been asked how much I paid for the celebration of life, did my husband have a will, did I expect him to die, was I there when he died, did he have life insurance, am I dating. I know people who have lost loved ones to suicide who have been asked if a note was left, who found their loved one, and if they were surprised.

These questions may be fine from a close friend or a professional who needs the answer to proceed. A financial adviser can ask me about my husband’s will and then support and advise me. A friend can ask and then help me process my emotions about it. When a co-worker I’m not close to asks, I can only imagine it’s out of idle curiosity and either my answer will be forgotten or become fodder for gossip.

Here is what I have done when someone has asked me a question that feels too personal, too tender, too stupid, or that for any reason I don’t want to answer or can’t answer:

  1. Sometimes I set boundaries, such as saying, “I’m not up for this right now” or “that’s a conversation for another time.” No one has pushed me when I have used one of these phrases. I often use these phrases when people ask me questions about the medical care my husband received before he died. Sometimes I don’t mind answering those questions, so I use phrases that don’t shut down the conversation forever but imply that at some point in the future, I may want to talk about it.
  2. Whenever someone asks me about life insurance, how much something cost, or inheritance, I respond in a shocked and incredulous tone, “Did you just ask me about my personal finances?!” No one has had the nerve yet to pursue that line of questioning. The people I’ve said this to have been appropriately embarrassed and backtracked immediately.
  3. When people ask me nosy questions about my relationships with my husband’s family, I usually give a somewhat cryptic response. Most of the questions I get about his family imply that I must be relieved to no longer have to interact with them anymore; I assume these people are projecting their own issues with their in-laws onto me. The fact is I am actually much closer to my late husband’s extended family than to my own. They are my family. Now, the average random person asking about my in-laws doesn’t merit enough time and energy from me to get this information, so I often give a half-laugh and move on without answering their nosy question.
  4. I don’t worry about explaining why I don’t like their question or why I don’t want to answer it. I don’t worry about making them feel ok about having asked the question. I remind myself that if I want to, I can take the opportunity to make this a learning moment for them, but that I don’t have to.

I basically do a cost-benefit analysis that looks like this: considering (1) my current energy level, (2) relationship with this person, (3) the likelihood of me crossing paths with them again, and (4) the anticipated outcome of the interaction, how much of my limited time and energy do I want to put into either answering their question, explaining why I’m not going to answer their question, or feeling bad about this situation after it’s over?

I think sometimes grieving people who are normally very polite and kind feel pressure to be polite and kind when these kinds of nosy questions are asked, and I suspect they sometimes want to be granted permission to not be polite and kind in the face of these questions.

Grieving people: I give you permission to respond to nosy questions without being polite and kind. I give you permission to be rude, be curt, not offer an explanation. I give you permission to put yourself first, to handle nosy questions less than perfectly.

anxiety, grieving

Dealing with Overwhelm after a Death

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Along with grief can come overwhelm. There is so much to do and it all feels simultaneously urgent and pointless. I remember staring at the forms I needed to file to take my husband’s estate through the probate process and being unable to comprehend how to complete them. Every blank space on the form seemed impossible to fill. Name? Whose name? Mine or his? Personal representative? Was that me? Date of appointment? What?!  The date I was appointed his personal representative? Would that be when we got married? Or when he died? Or was I supposed to go through another process to get appointed? It was mind boggling.

The form came with instructions, but they were written for someone who understands forms and legal procedures, not for someone with Widow Brain who even under the best of circumstances struggles with bureaucracy.

At the same time that the probate forms needed to be completed, I also needed to make decisions about memorials, my husband’s belongings, the wheelchair ramp his friends had built, how to take care of the dogs, and what to have for dinner. And I had to cancel his insurance but still argue with the company about outstanding bills, find the keys to his vehicles so the people who inherited them could take them, and deal with the angry messages I was getting from the sleep apnea clinic because he didn’t show up for an appointment.

All while coming to terms with the fact that the man I loved to the moon and back was dead.

It all felt equally urgent and impossible. And at the same time, I felt like none of it mattered because even if I did all the things, he would still be dead and I would still be alone.

This overwhelm is why all the people who meant well when they said, “Let me know how I can help” were not nearly as helpful as they thought. (To learn what you should say instead, read this.)

When I am overwhelmed, I feel like I need to move fast, but what I’ve learned is that I need to move slow. Moving fast just encourages my brain to think I’m in danger and it responds by pumping out adrenaline and setting off an anxiety attack. What I need to do instead is to force myself to slow down by

  • Breathing deeply, filling my lungs completely, and slowly letting the breath out,
  • Taking a short nap and then resetting when I wake up, kind of giving myself a do-over, or
  • Sipping a glass of water, ideally while sitting down and taking my time, noticing each swallow.

All of these things slow my brain down and signal my body that there is no need to panic.

And there isn’t. Most things that feel urgent aren’t really. I felt a lot of urgency around every aspect of the probate process, but in fact, there was absolutely no urgency. Yes, there was a deadline, but the penalty for missing it was that I’d have to fill out another form, which was a headache, but not ultimately a big deal.

(I reminded myself regularly that my husband’s estate was small enough that no one would notice late paperwork and I was right. Someone dealing with an estate large enough for missed deadlines to be noticed can probably afford to hire a lawyer to handle it all.)

After slowing my brain down, I could either tackle one of the things that needed to be done or realize none of it truly needed to be done in the moment and free myself to do something else, like cry or go for a walk or look through photos of us together for the six hundredth time, without the nagging feeling that I should be doing something else.

The probate paperwork got done, the insurance argument got resolved, and his belongings got dealt with (mostly—I still have a lot of his things and I feel no rush about getting rid of them).

If you’re feeling overwhelmed in grief, take a deep breath. Slow down. Try a nap. Remember that what seems urgent probably is not.