Saturday's Sayings - A Grief Shared - Phase II ~by Lynda Boucugnani-Whitehead

Saturday's Sayings

A Grief Shared - Phase II

~by Lynda Boucugnani-Whitehead

I found a follow-up to Lynda Boucugnani-Whitehead's "A Grief Shared" in the TCF, Atlanta newsletter, so I thought I'd share it with you all. Her original writing was a very popular one before with you, my blog readers, so I hope you enjoy her follow up that she says comes 15 years later! Enjoy!

A Grief Shared – Phase II

By Lynda Boucugnani-Whitehead

TCF Atlanta, Georgia, September 2011

Written on the 15th anniversary of her daughter Maria- Victoria Boucugnani’s angel date – September 13, 2011.

Smile, though your heart is aching...

It has been 15 years. No – it is not possible – it couldn‟t be – it was yesterday or at the most a couple of years ago.

A few years after my daughter, Maria-Victoria died, I wrote an article entitled “A Grief Shared” in which I was trying to let professionals and others know what is helpful and what is not for those of us who have lost a child. Now at 15 years, I thought it might be time to revisit “A Grief Shared” from the perspective of someone further down the path.

It is harder to write this than the first one. I don't know why, other than perhaps the accumulation of years of grief and “missingness” have eroded my stamina.

But I still want to write it. Remember, it is just one person‟s perspective; maybe some things will resonate with others, maybe not.

Time – time goes by so quickly.

Everything is in terms of before and after.

The before is the refuge where smiles can come from. Those treasured little glimpses of the way we were. When I feel them, I am truly happy.

But most of life is lived in the after.

Smile, even though it’s breaking...

The first few years in the after were survival boot camp. You don't really know if you can survive – you can't imagine it – you're not sure you want to. You make your decision – you plow through the after. It's not dark – but it's very cloudy – a thick fog – obscuring the future you don't want to see anyway. If you are lucky enough to have friends and support, you are able to travel a little steadier. In the early months of the after, you cannot imagine ever laughing again. You will find that after you are able to do so, you have reached a very important milepost.

When there are clouds in the sky, you’ll get by...

“You‟ll get by” is a good phrase for those of us who have experienced this loss. For a long time that is about all you are hoping to do–“get by.”

I had–and still have–an overwhelming fear of literally being suffocated by my own grief and sad-shock; that it will utterly take everything out of me and leave me with nothingness.

Sad – shock is the combination of the realization that this has really happened, followed by the overwhelming sadness that accompanies that realization.

You learn these little tricks to keep this monster at bay. I will allow myself to sink into the abyss for only a very short period of time and then rapidly climb out – or I take a detour – consciously – if I‟m getting too close to the edge.

What has helped me the most – and is a very personal thing that I seldom share with others – is the way I keep my daughter present with me every day

(although I know she probably has better, more important things to do).

Maria- Victoria's presence permeates my home. There are pictures everywhere.

I can talk to her, tell her I love her and have framed notes from her telling me she loves me too.

We refer to the guest bedroom in our house as Maria-Victoria's room, since when we moved about a year after the accident, we decorated it the way she had wanted in our old home. With every trip we take we are accompanied by Patrick, her stuffed dog, so that she always sees the sights with us. I wear an angel pin every day whenever I leave the house so she is with me. I have done this for 15 years.

Over the years I've had awesome, incredible spiritual experiences that have assured me and my soul that my daughter is still my daughter, that her spirit, her consciousness survives.

It is so hard to try to explain this to people. It is incredibly important to me – such a part of who I am, that I can't bear to listen to the naysayers or, worse, those who outright chastise me for believing in such things as a scientist.

Yes, I am a scientist and I have devoted a lot of time and research to the scientific study of survival of consciousness. Not to mention that I've experienced wondrous things. We who have reluctantly joined the group of bereaved parents, Compassionate Friends, probably know more about this than anyone on the planet.

If you smile through your fear and sorrow...

You do learn to laugh and smile again.

You are a changed person – after all, you live in the after.

With all this elapsed time, how do I describe what it feels like? The one thing that stands out the most is that I have no fear of death. This has continued from the earlier – after years. I‟m not in a hurry – I still want to enjoy life, try to have fun, do meaningful work, make a difference and treasure my family – but I‟m not afraid to die. This is very freeing and has allowed me to chart my own path. As I said in my earlier article, death is the door to where my daughter is. I view it as a great adventure with the ultimate joy of reuniting with Maria- Victoria.

I am a more “take it or leave it” kind of person now.

I guess those of us who have traveled this journey have a clearer vision of what's important and what is not.

I don‟t need to convince anybody of anything. I've become more tolerant and less tolerant. More tolerant of different points of view but less tolerant of narrow-mindedness, silliness or arrogance.

Smile and maybe tomorrow...

I do fall into the chasm of “what might have been.” Usually it's when I'm feeling sorry for myself and missing the love my daughter could be physically giving me at this time and the additional grandchildren who would be a part of my life. I miss the best friend I know she would have been. That hurts – so I don‟t stay there that long.

I miss most her adorable face, her big eyes looking straight into mine, the feel of her skin on my hands, her tenderness, our bond. Thinking of her and visualizing her – that helps.

If I was asked,

“What do you think is the biggest misconception of people who do not live in the "after" have about those who do?”

I would say this,

“They cannot understand how we live with this so present in our lives every day even after 15 years.”

As I said before, 15 years is impossible.

You live every day with both the joy of having had your child with you for a time and the grief of not having your child.

I truly believe that most people think we have “moved on” or something like that. Nope – that doesn't happen.

Every day in the after we feel for our child.

Fifteen years is 5,475 days. I can't put into words what 5,475 days has done to my body and mind. It has definitely caused erosion, a deep canyon.

My soul, however, is enhanced, open and full.

You‟ll find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile.

Our continuing journey is to make life worthwhile, without the physical presence of our child. Defining “worthwhile‟ is up to the individual person.

I feel that if you have something to believe in, if hope is a big part of your life, if you are able to honor your child and find meaning in your contribution to this Earth, you have a worthwhile life.

So smile through your tears and sorrow, dare to laugh, dare to dream, and let your child’s love embrace you.

(Highlights, mine)

Lynda's daughter, Maria- Victoria Boucugnani

Lynda's story, lovingly "lifted" from TCF, Atlanta newsletter

Thursday's Therapy - A Grief Shared - Part I ~by Lynda Boucugnani-Whitehead, Ph.D.

Thursday's Therapy

A Grief Shared - Part I

~by Lynda Boucugnani-Whitehead, Ph.D.

(Psychologist and Grieving Mother)

This will not be the typical article you often see in a professional publication. There will be no references to scholarly works, no discussion of what has been gleaned from years of research, no statistics, no methodology. Rather, this will be a story from the heart, one that I hope may help psychologists first understand, and then do what they do best. I had the inspiration to write this article just a week or so before the tragedy in New York. In my frame of reference, following the horror at the World Trade Center and Pentagon and in Pennsylvania, perhaps this is divine inspiration - this is something I just have to do.

What is it like to live through such a profound grief, to have your whole life changed in an instant, to have much of your future taken away, and to find yourself in a world that you don't recognize?

We have all had at least a taste of this, as Americans, our lives have been changed by these events. There is a loss of a sense of security and for what we thought our future would be.

But what about those people who have sustained a more profound and excruciating loss - the loss of a loved one who was treasured and so much a part of the fabric of your very life.

What is it like to have that person taken away so abruptly, to one minute have that loved one beside you as a part of your dream, and the next to have that love ripped away from you?

What do psychologists and other helping professionals need to know in order to help those who have sustained such a loss?

This story is very personal for me and, therefore, somewhat difficult to tell. As many of you know, my daughter, Maria-Victoria, was killed in an automobile accident just three blocks from my home as her brother was driving her home from school. A speeding driver ran through a red light and smashed into their car killing Maria-Victoria instantly. She was 13 years old. It was a normal day, bright and sunshiny and my life was going along as normal. My daughter was a beautiful, intelligent and accomplished person known for her extraordinary kindness and compassion for others. She was innocence and pure love blossoming into a leader of others and she was building the confidence that could have taken her very, very far in this life. In one second she was here, in one second she was not. The fifth anniversary of her death was just 2 days after the New York tragedy.

Within a few months of her passing, I joined a group called Compassionate Friends, which is a self-help group for parents who have lost children. It was a very good move.

It is said that the most profound loss a person can have is the loss of a child - I can tell you that this is the truth.

However, for those who have not lost children, the most profound loss is the one they have

experienced or are experiencing at the present time. Those of us in this group frequently lament about how ill-equipped others who have not experienced such pain and grief are in dealing with it. Ministers are often the focus of such discussions for example and we have often discussed how we can let others, especially professionals, know how it really is - what helps and sometimes, more importantly, what doesn't help. This is the purpose of this story - this Dialogue - to let my fellow psychologists know some things that in the future will help them be able to help. It is based on my own personal experiences as well as the numerous Compassionate Friends who have come into my life.

You have all heard or read about the stages of grief. The work that was done in this area by pioneers such as Elizabeth Kubler-Ross is very valuable in understanding the emotions of grief. Some professionals may feel that they can help people with grief because they have studied these stages and know the sequence by heart.

Throw it all away.

People who have sustained profound loss do not want to hear about the stages of grief - it's almost an insult. They do want to know that what they are feeling is normal, that they are not "crazy", that others have felt or done the same things.

There is no sequence of grief - it is a constant, evolving journey with many diversions into emotional peaks and valleys along the way.

It is a journey and it is never over.

It is true that at the time of the event you are in a state of shock and numbness. In my case after a telephone call, I made my way to the accident site. It was eerily quiet with cars backed up in four different directions at the intersection, so that I had to drive on the wrong side of the road to get there. When I got to the scene I was no longer within myself, I must have dissociated. I felt like I was observing everything as if I was in a movie. The people in all the cars were watching me. I imagined they were saying "that's the mother". I was aware that I was playing this "role". I imagine that many of the relatives looking for loved ones in New York must have felt this way too. At the hospital I was placed in a special room - meant to be a comfort but cut off from others. It did allow me to get out of the movie.

What helped? Friends coming to be with me. You need to hold and touch people - you need them to hold you and just "be there" for you.

What didn't help? Waiting 1½ hours to be told whether my children were alive or dead. I already knew in my heart and soul that Maria-Victoria was gone from this life but to have a doctor finally come in and say in a cool and dispassionate manner that "your daughter is deceased" made me angry. A simple "I'm so sorry", a touch on the hand and some semblance of compassion would have endeared this doctor to me for life. Why is that so hard to do?

We are blessed with this state of shock that comes almost immediately after suffering a traumatic loss. It allows us to do the things we have to do. For many of us this is very, very important. I needed to make sure that Maria-Victoria had a wonderful, up-lifting funeral

service that told the world about the wonderfulness of my little girl. I needed to write an obituary that would touch the hearts of Atlanta. I needed to comfort her teachers and students at her school, thereby comforting myself. I needed to be there for the hundreds of people who came to show they cared. Some people criticized the news coverage in New York of friends and relatives showing flyers of their missing loved ones saying it was exploitation. I spoke to them through my TV set saying - "you just don't get it - they need to do this -they need to let

others know about the one they love - they need to feel like they are doing something to take care of them."

What helped me so much in the initial weeks after the accident were touches from the hearts of other people. I savored all the cards, the incredible amount of food from individuals and whole schools, letters and phone calls from people I had never met who were touched by my daughter's story and the physical presence of people I was close to.

Such heartfelt gestures give life when life has gone out of your existence.

There is a time when you have to go back to work and start to live this new life. I was fortunate to have such a wonderful, supportive staff that literally carried me through that first year. Others are not so fortunate. Some have to go back to work just days after the funeral and are expected to perform as if nothing has happened. When a traumatic loss has struck you, you are amazed and perhaps a little bit angry that the world has gone on. You say to yourself, "how

can these normal things still go on - how can people laugh - don't they know the world has ended?" You think to yourself that you will never laugh again, that you will never feel joy again - it's incomprehensible to think that you could.

During that first year (time will vary among folks) you are literally "out of your mind". Believe it or not, there is actually a "physical pain", usually in your heart and chest area and all over

your body at times, experienced by many that is excruciating and you think will never go away. Mine lasted about 2 months and then just floated away. It was a relief to say goodbye to that constant companion.

You are "out of your mind" because you think about your loved one constantly - probably a million times a day it certainly seems.

That doesn't leave much room for concentration and memory. Those who have experienced such loss need to know that this is perfectly normal.

It is perfectly normal to put the iron in the refrigerator.

At work if you don't have support, you will certainly not be able to function like you used to. You may be able to do some things on "automatic pilot" but this is not the time to be making major decisions and you - and the business you work for - need to give you leeway for your memory lapses and perhaps loss of drive.

Every day is a struggle just to get up and live. Every day you get up and live is an accomplishment.

So be supportive and tolerant.

Make it a point to know about these cognitive disturbances, help the person you are helping to understand them. And - if you can - help their employers to know what to expect and how to give support.

(to be continued)

{Highlights mine} Thank you to Lynda Boucugnani-Whitehead, Ph.D. for her insights both personally and professionally into our child-loss grief, "the most profound loss a person can have"...

from: Lynda's note is from The Compassionate Friends of Atlanta via Facebook message http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=43057397614