Guest Post by Tanja Gardner
Nothing prepares you to hear that someone you love has died
No matter how well you think you’ve braced for it, you’re never truly ready to hear the words, “Your father passed away last night.”
Don’t get me wrong. Those words didn’t hit me out of the blue. They marked the end of a painful, year-long battle with lung cancer that Dad had fought for far longer than anyone would have believed possible back when he was diagnosed. Originally given just 3-6 months, he was still living in his own house nearly a year later.
Then, a few weeks ago, everything changed.
We’d known the day would come – but that didn’t make it easier to acknowledge that he just wasn’t coping any more. I thought my heart would break the day we moved him into full-time residential care – I remember standing in the door of the facility, tears streaming down my face, my throat so tight I could barely breathe.
And that was where, four short weeks later, he died.
When someone you love is terminally ill, the grieving starts long before they actually pass
I remember, back when Dad discovered his tumour, nearly choking on the shock, fear, worry and grief. I tried to remind myself that almost everyone loses a parent, sooner or later. I tried try to remember that I’d already survived the death of my mother in my teens: I could get through this again as an adult.
I knew both these things intellectually, but that knowledge didn’t begin to touch the seething maelstrom inside me.
Then you realise: you have a choice about how you respond
Eventually, the emotion-storm passed and I realised I could choose where I went from that point forward. I knew that I wanted to spend as much time with Dad as humanly possible while I still could. At the same time, I wanted to maintain as much of my normal life as possible. It helped that Dad wanted that for me too.
I think I did a pretty good job of it, all things considered. I drove the 3 hours to visit him and back every 2-3 weekends while maintaining my day job during the week, plus starting up my own fledgling copywriting business. I even managed to complete a few 10ks, a full marathon, and a couple of halfs while I was at it.
More than one person asked me how I managed to keep it all together over that last year. I think my answer boils down to four conscious choices.
1. From the beginning, I chose the story I wanted to tell myself about everything
Our human experiences are always half what actually happens, and half what we tell ourselves about them. We’re all of us natural born storytellers. And sometimes, we can make that work for us.
I remember deciding who I wanted to be in the story I told myself about Dad’s illness. I didn’t want “my character” to be someone who ended up bitter, broken or resentful. Instead, I promised I’d tell myself the tale of someone who was deeply compassionate with herself and the people around her. Someone who used her experiences – however painful – to deepen, grow and learn. Someone who grieved when she needed to and loved in the moments in between.
That story then created the context and foundation for all my other choices.
2. I chose to allow myself to experience whatever was there for me each moment – good and bad
As much as I possibly could, I tried to mindfully be with whatever came up for me. There were moments the grief-waves threatened to crash over me like tsunamis. And to the best of my ability, I simply let them. I cried in my car. I cried as I ran. I cried to my friends. I made way too many dashes from my desk to the ladies’ room when the emotion surges inconveniently overpowered me at work.
But there were many, many moments where I wasn’t actively grieving. And in those moments, joy and gratitude were almost always available if I only let myself touch them. So I laughed with friends, relaxed into my husband’s love, delighted in the challenge of pushing myself physically, and breathed in the beauty of the world around me.
And I tried to remind myself that neither state – grief nor gratitude – invalidated the other one.
3. I chose to overtly, honestly ask for what I needed
I can’t begin to describe how big this choice was for me. I’ve never been good at asking people for things – too scared of being seen as “needy”, “selfish” or “high-maintenance”. But I was pretty damn sure I wouldn’t get to tell myself the story I wanted if I burnt out. Certainly I wouldn’t get to make the most of whatever time I was granted with Dad.
So I asked my workplace if I could go to a four-day week, to give me more time with him. I asked my friends to be patient when I didn’t have the energy to spend time with them. I asked my husband to be there for me when I needed to melt down and fall apart for a while. I asked my clients for their understanding when I couldn’t meet a previously agreed deadline.
I didn’t ask with any sense of entitlement or expectation. I simply asked. And wonder of wonders: almost every time, the person I asked said “yes”.
4. I chose to give myself permission to get it wrong – over and over again
Another part of my story to myself was about someone who was an imperfect human being – someone who tried, but frequently screwed up. After all, that’s what I was going to be, permission or no, right? So yes…
- … sometimes I hid from what I was feeling and escaped into superhero movies and trashy TV.
- … sometimes I didn’t ask for what I needed and ended up spectacularly melting down because of it.
- … sometimes I resented Dad for being sick and hated myself for my callousness.
- … sometimes I pouted and melodramatised and screamed at the universe until my throat near bled about how fucking unfair it all was.
But because I’d given myself permission to mess up, I could have compassion for myself in those moments. I was human. I didn’t have to get it right all the time. And I didn’t have to stay stuck in the guilt and self-judgment that would come from demanding a perfection I could never achieve.
In the end, there’s really no one right way to cope
So was that the “right” way to cope with Dad’s illness and death? I’m going to say “no” – but only because I don’t believe there is a right way. That said, what I did got me through the past year, and allowed me to actually enjoy my precious, precious time with Dad. So it was *a* way, and it was, apparently, a good one for me.
And hey, if one (or more) of the choices I’ve talked about inspires or resonates with you, why not try it for yourself? Why not see if it helps you with whatever you’re going through right now?
After all, what’s the worst that can happen?
Tanja Gardner is a professional copywriter, word weaver and story spinner at Crystal Clarity Copywriting Ltd. She helps difference-makers like you write with concise, creative clarity that your readers intuitively “get”. That means they understand EXACTLY what you offer – so you can make more of a difference in their lives.
To connect with Tanja, say hello on Twitter, Facebook or Google+, or follow her blog.
Plus, discover how to bust through writer’s block with her “Create Your Own Writing Ritual” e-course” – FREE when you sign up for her weekly writing tips.
Thanks so much for sharing this, Tanja. Both of my parents are elderly and in frail health, and I’m trying to prepare myself for what’s ahead although I feel like I can’t really be prepared… Reading this has been helpful for me, thank you.
Thanks for you comment Gin. It’s *hard* to prepare ourselves for something this big, but I think the more that you think about it and allow yourself to be with the reality ahead of time, the less work there is to do afterwards. I know you have a strong spiritual practice, and that will help immensely – even if it’s just helping you to work with what is, instead of fighting against it.
Regardless, I’m really glad that reading this was helpful for you.
Blessings
TANJA
What an important, beautiful sharing. Death and dying is something we try so hard in Western culture to deny, yet it happens. Thank you for teaching me through your experience. I needed it.
Hi Crystal – thank you so much for your kind comments
Absolutely, our culture *does* try to pretend death doesn’t happen. I’m also Jewish by birth, and I sometimes feel that my birth-religion, in its quest to be life-affirming, can be somewhat death-denying as a side effect (for example, the traditional Jewish response to a mourner is “I wish you long life”)
I think if I’d been trying to rail against the reality of death, my journey over the past year would have been far more difficult. I’m really glad that my post was useful for you – thank you so much for letting me know!
Blessings
TANJA
What a beautiful post, Tanja. I loved the great advise about allowing yourself to feel the way you are and asking for help. I am trying those in my every day life and having lost my father when I was I child I try to prepare myself for one day losing my mom. But I don’t think that is possible and the idea is too scary to even think.
Thank you for sharing on such a difficult topic and I am so impressed by how open and brave you have been during this time. WOW!
All my Love, Karina
Thanks so much for the reply, Karina – one of the things I’ve found fascinating (when I take a step back into “observer” role) is the difference between the way I dealt with my mother’s death, and the way I dealt with Dad’s.
I was 17 when Mum passed, and – to a certain extent – I was shielded from a lot of the day-to-day logistical issues because the adults around me protected me from them. But emotionally, it was like my world exploded around me, and it felt like the grief would last forever. This time around I’ve been far more grounded emotionally – far more aware of my own strengths and resources – and more aware that like everything else, “This too shall pass”. But the logistical and financial stuff has freaked me out like nobody’s business (I’m really lucky to have my brother over here from the UK dealing with most of it for me).
If you’re willing to hear a suggestion – it might help let go of the expection that you’ll be able to deal with your mother’s death perfectly by preparing for it, and try to just allow yourself to deal with it however you end up dealing with it. No one right way, right
? But within that, ask yourself what *specifically* is too scary to even think about. Let the part of you that’s scared know that you have the resources to get through it when it happens – both internal resources (other parts of you) and external (the awesome Goddessy and spiritual community you’ve built around you).
Yes, it’s still scary – but when you investigate the fear with curiousity, it becomes less overwhelming and more simply another source of information for you
.
Thanks again for commenting.
Blessings
TANJA
Wow, what a brave and honest post about such a personal and heart-breaking time in your life. So few people talk about their responses to death and dying …how brave you have been. It seems like you coped with it amazingly well, and I am especially in awe of your choice regarding how you might tell your story …I think this is perhaps one of the most challenging things any of us can do at any point in our life …it really requires us to consciously step-up, and it’s amazing you were able to do this at such a challenging and daunting time. Thank you for sharing this tender experience.
Hi Sam – thank you so much for reading and commenting – I really appreciate your feedback!
I’m taking a moment to acknowledge and breathe in your comments about the post being brave and honest, because that’s a *BIG* part of the story I wanted to tell myself. So it feels really good to have that reflected back at me – to know that I’d been successful
I think another part of the equation (there are so damn many of them!) for me was that back when I made my choice about who I wanted to be, I also chose to see the experience that was coming over the next however-many-months-Dad-had as an opportunity to put all the spiritual principles of accepting and allowing without judgement into practice. It wasn’t an opportunity that I expected to come without tears or pain… but simply by reframing it, my experience became less something that was happening to me, and more something I was creating for myself.
(I felt very nervous about saying that to the people around me though: firstly, I was worried that it might seem to minimise *their* pain; and secondly, I was worried I’d come off as cold-hearted and not “grieving-enough”, if that makes sense. Which doesn’t mean I didn’t tell anyone… but I tried to be as sensitive as I could be with who I told when)
Blessings and thanks again for the comment
TANJA
Dear Tanja,
I am really touched by the strength you broung out from this experience. And thanks for sharing your wisdom with others.
All my love
Yiye
Thank you so much for commenting, Yiye. The interesting thing was that it didn’t (often) feel like I was being strong in the moment. Occasionally, it did, granted – but often, it just meant falling apart and feeling as though I wasn’t coping (or just like I was the weepiest weepy person in the history of weepy people)
So your comment really makes me happy – thank you!
Blessings
TANJA
Oh Tanja, I am so inspired by you and absolutely amazed – how do you manage to be so incredibly raw and open while still so strongly rooted in your stance of love and positivity? Thank you so much for writing a piece that is going to help all of us dealing with loss and death for a long, long time. May your father rest in peace – I am certain that he is so proud of you. Big big hugs.
*soft smile* – thank you so much for the comment, Marla – your words mean a lot to me! As for how I manage the raw-but-still-positive bit? *points upwards* – those four choices I talk about help a lot, I promise.
I’m so glad the piece feels useful for you – that’s exactly what I was hoping for from it when I wrote it!
Blessings
TANJA
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