My mother collects angels. My husband collects banks. My brother collects unusual percussion instruments from all over the world.  I have friends that collect items as varied as Disney memorabilia, teapots, shoes, Superman collectibles, and rare coins.

I used to collect pigs. The fascination with pigs started sometime in elementary school. I can’t remember whether I was in fourth or fifth grade. I do remember that it all started with a “pig week” at school, sponsored by our media center. There were events throughout the week around pigs in literature. Somewhere along the line, I decided that I liked pigs because they were adorable, unique, intelligent, and incredibly misunderstood.

Anyway, as the years went on, I acquired all kinds of pig-related items. Most of them came as gifts from friends and family. I had posters, calendars, figurines, books, a game, notepads, tote bags…you name it. The collection seemed to peak during college. After I got married and moved out of my parents’ house, I brought most of the collection with me. Over time, distracted by new endeavors and realizing the limits of space in our home, the obsession waned a bit. I still have a few people close to me who look for unique pig items and send them my way. There is a corner of our guest room dedicated to the pig collection along with a few assorted kitchen magnets that grace the refrigerator.

Two years after Charlotte’s death, I think it’s safe to say that the pig collection is being replaced by butterflies. Ever since that day at Disney when Roger had his epiphany and shared the butterfly analogy with Charlotte, the concept of metamorphosis has been a part of our lives. I see butterflies everywhere. Others see them too. They share butterfly stories with us. We have received some beautiful butterfly gifts over the last two years ranging from stained glass creations and garden statues to necklaces and decorative plaques.  I rarely leave my house without wearing a butterfly of some kind each day.

Butterflies are not only beautiful, they spread beauty throughout the world as they transfer pollen from flower to flower.  Their lives are short but they make the most of their time, sometimes traveling thousands of miles in their migration from place to place. When you encounter a butterfly, you cannot help but smile.  That was Charlotte.

I think of her every day and I miss her. I am grateful that her legacy lives on in the work we do with our foundation. While grief is not easy, helping others eases the burden a little bit. I have been given the opportunity to give to others while sharing her spirit.  In doing so, I remember the most unique butterfly to ever touch my heart. I will remember her…until pigs fly.

Special thanks to guest author Rachel Reynolds for sharing her story with us. Rachel founded CJ’s Thumbs Up to honor the memory of her daughter, Charlotte. You can read more of Rachel’s work on her blog.

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A Camper’s Experience

When my phone rang one evening in November 2010 I knew exactly who it was. It was Bekah, my Big Buddy for the upcoming weekend at Comfort Zone Camp. I had never been to CZC and I was still raw from the death of my father, only seven months prior. When we talked Bekah assured me that camp was going to be a blast and we were going to have so much fun. I was anticipating this call, but I was still nervous to see who I was paired with and what the weekend would be like.

I was told about CZC through a friend Ed Whitacre, who had volunteer with Comfort Zone as a grief professional called a Healing Circle Leader. He approached me at our yearly Easter picnic; only a week after my father had suddenly passed and spent some time with me talking about this camp and the benefits it has for kids in my situation. He knew it was soon and when I first heard about it I wasn’t so sure. I was new in my grief and still in shock, but he told me to take my time and think about it. After a lot of thought and looking through the website I made the decision to attend camp. I knew that what I was feeling wasn’t going to last forever, and that maybe a weekend with 65 other kids who knew exactly what I was feeling would help me. I did not know what I was getting myself into, but I am glad that I took that step towards healing.

At school the Monday after camp I went to one of my teachers and told her that I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I felt lighter, happier and restored – all things that I had not been feeling for the seven months since my dad died. I left knowing that I would return as a Big Buddy someday. I knew that I would be working with Comfort Zone for many years to come giving back the priceless gift of healing that they gave me.

Becoming a Big Buddy

I had just gotten back to college from winter break when I had to make my phone call to my future Little Buddy. I was nervous and anxious because it was only two years prior that I was a Little Buddy myself. I tried to picture what I would say and ask Natalia, the seven year old who I would be spending a weekend with at Comfort Zone Camp. My hands were shaking as I dialed Natalia’s number. Her mother answered the phone and I introduced myself, after hearing how excited she was that I called, I was put at ease. My nervousness disappeared and a compassionate instinct took over. I could hear Natalia in the background asking to talk to me. Once we began talking it felt like we were made for each other. Comfort Zone matches Big Buddies and campers based on similar interests and personal strengths, and they matched us perfectly! We talked a little bit about the loss of her father, but then branched out to so many different subjects from what she liked to do in school to her pet frog’s name. When I was finishing up our conversation I reminded her of what to bring and told her I would see her Friday.

We had some meaning moments that first evening when I resolved her fears about coming into Healing Circle and the night time routine. It was really those first few moments that we met that bonded us as a Big and Little. It was the same for my big buddy and me when I went. Bekah was bubbly and kind and immediately we bonded. That is really where I give credit to the people who match the Big Buddies and campers, they do such an amazing job. They matched me with my Big Buddy perfectly when I was a camper, and when the time came to match me with a camper they were perfect again.

Healing Circle

My Healing Circle when I was a camper was with other teenagers my age. We were quiet and apprehensive at first, it took time and trust for us to open up to each other. Our Healing Circle Leader assured us that we didn’t have to say anything we didn’t want to say, and that it was okay to cry. Being a Big Buddy, I now know how proud Bekah felt when I shared my store, because of how proud I was when Natalia shared hers.

Healing Circle for the youngest age group was truly a special experience to be a part of. In the youngest group I got a chance see that these little kids were mini adults in what they had experienced and how they told their stories. I watched them comfort each other and lean on each other when they needed it. I was brought to tears several times watching these young people be older than they had to be. One of the campers could barely make it thought his story so another camper came up to him, put his arm around him and held the tissues. They held on to each other until he stopped crying. Being able to watch the compassion and love that these kids have for each other is a privilege that I am honored to have. That was pure and raw emotion that we all saw, and it broke my heart but made it stronger too.

Defining Moments

It amazes me how close you can become with one person over a series of three days. In one weekend I along with everyone else at camp helped heal someone. We by no means “fixed” them or made them better, but we helped ease some of their pain. Natalia went from being a stranger to my “little sister.” She was my first little and a little that I will never forget. I told her when her parents picked her up that she will always be my first little. She asked if I could be her big when she comes back to camp next year and I told her I would try. Having such a connection with someone eleven years younger than me is so eye opening. Our defining moment was at the bonfire after we had put our cards into the flames, when we sat down she grabbed me and finally let go. I put my head on top of her and the tears came out of my eyes too. We were so different yet right then and there we were the same. We both lost our fathers and we knew exactly what each other was feeling. That emotion was unparalleled to anything I had ever felt before about myself and about my father. It is because of those moments, and the experiences that we all share that I became a Big Buddy, and for those reasons I will do it again in a heartbeat.

Related posts:

1. Amazing Feeling by Comfort Zone Camper Mom
2. Moments of Grace
3. A Comfort Zone Camp Review

In the instant I hit the pavement, the pain was intense. I will admit that quite a few four letter words were uttered under my breath. I inhaled deeply, gathered my bag (some of its contents spilling out onto the road), and hobbled the 20 more yards to my car.

I pulled up my pant legs to assess the damage. Both knees were skinned. I had errands to run so I started the car, thinking I’d stop at a drugstore for band aids if needed. Interestingly, the incident took the first 10 layers of skin off my knees but the bleeding was slight. By the time I reached my next destination, I could slide my trouser legs over my knees without fear of destroying the material with blood stains.

I avoided the emergency room. The event didn’t even warrant a trip to the Minute Clinic. Probably the biggest damage was done to my pride. I moved on, slowly, but that sting in my knees has been a constant reminder this week.

Over the last few years, I have found many metaphors for that process by which we deal with tragedy, suffering, and loss. I guess I’ve found another one to add to the collection.

Like grief, the initial impact of those skinned knees were a shock to the system. The pain was intense. A flood of different emotions (pain, embarrassment, anger, pity) engulfed my system all at the same time. I took some immediate action to staunch the bleeding (thank goodness for those extra napkins in my glove compartment) and trudged forward. For the next few days, every time I moved, I felt the sting of the raw skin. Even though I could feel it, the pain was invisible to everyone else. I cloaked the evidence in pants and tights. Unless I called their attention to my injury, nobody really knew it was there.

After a few days, the pain has subsided. The skin is scabbing over and the healing process has begun. I still have to be careful, though. I won’t be shaving the hair on my knees for a little while. (Thank goodness it’s not bathing suit season!) If I bump my knees against a chair, a wall, or the bed, the pain rears its head again. I’m reminded that I’m still healing.

Even well-meaning friends and family can trigger the pain. The other night, we were sitting on the couch and my husband absentmindedly placed his hand on my knee. What was intended as an act of comfort or endearment caused me to flinch and back away. He immediately apologized, saying that he had forgotten about my “war injury”. It’s true. Sometimes even those close to us forget how painful grief can be. Without visible wounds, the pain only rears its head when triggered. And those triggers can come out of left field. We are left defenseless, even for a short time.

Time heals all wounds, whether skinned knees or mended hearts. What remains is a scar: an eternal reminder that while we were broken, we can find peace. The memories, good and bad, remain in that place, protected by a new layer of skin. Often, that scarred skin is darker, tougher. It’s not impermeable but it arms us as we face the days ahead.

Special thanks to guest author Rachel Reynolds for sharing her story with us. Rachel founded CJ’s Thumbs Up to honor the memory of her daughter, Charlotte. You can read more of Rachel’s work on her blog www.rachel-writes.com

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This was especially true of issues she felt strongly about.

A few summers ago, while my mother and I were driving to my aunt’s vacation home on Long Beach Island, Mom paused from narrating billboards long enough to mention a book she recently read about end–of-life issues.

Even though I was driving, and Mom was in good health, she pulled the book from her beach bag and asked me to read it when I had time. She said it echoed her philosophy of keeping gravely ill patients well informed of their condition, so they could make meaningful treatment decisions. My mom believed that doctors and families were often biased towards extending life, even at the expense of a person’s quality of life, and she was not interested in such compromises.

Since this wasn’t the breezy summer conversation I was expecting, I nodded politely and reached for the radio. But before I touched the power button, Mom grabbed my hand, turned to face me directly, and said, “Cheryl, if I am ever in that situation I want you to promise me two things: first, that you will be honest with me no matter what.”

“And,” still holding my hand, “That you will pluck the hairs on my chin if I can’t do it myself.”

Never more eager for her to resume narrating billboards, I quickly assured her that I would follow her wishes, never imagining that a little more than two years later I would be called to honor them.

My mother was a healthy, vibrant, non-smoking, 67 years old when she was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer.  Only six-and-a-half months later she was dead.

It is still impossible to know whether it was the cancer, its treatment, or the side effects, that contributed to her swift, merciless decline. Because she fought so hard from the get-go, striving with all her might to make it two more years to celebrate her 50^th wedding anniversary and her grandson’s Bar Mitzvah, Mom didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on death.

The moment I learned about her cancer, I vowed to myself to accompany her on this rocky march into mountainous territory in a way that allowed her to feel emotionally supported, physically cared for, and loved. And of course, to keep the promises I made just a few years earlier.

About two months into her treatment, I noticed that one of the steroids Mom was taking increased the growth of her facial hair. I agonized about mentioning something as seemingly insignificant as propagating chin hairs; after all, by this time she was too weak to walk to the bathroom, so I doubted she had looked in the mirror in weeks, and the thought of giving her even a moment’s worth of additional discomfort made me cringe. Yet I also knew Mom’s only two vanities were maintaining her Candy Apple Red fingernails, and fuzz-free chin.

So because I had those promises to keep, I went to the nursing home the following Sunday afternoon when I knew no one else would be visiting. I fed her a Wendy’s Chocolate Frosty – her favorite icy indulgence. Afterwards, I massaged her hands and feet with the Crabtree and Evelyn rose-scented lotion a friend had brought, and listened to her sensical and nonsensical musings with equal levels of interest.

Then I took a deep breath and asked,

“Mom, do you remember asking me to pluck your chin hairs if there was ever a time you couldn’t do it for yourself?”

Yes, she replied. And before I could utter another word, she pleaded with me to pull them out.

So I reached in my purse for the tweezers I packed that morning, just as she offered up her chin – reminding me of my 15-year-old cat when she presents her whiskered face hoping for a scratch.

My hand trembled as I grabbed hold of the first hair, then counted “one…two…three” out loud, closed my eyes, and pulled. I felt as nervous as a novice heart surgeon. But compared with the battering and bruising Mom had already endured, this was as benign as brushing her teeth.

In fact, she quickly began cheering me on, insisting that I wasn’t hurting her, and imploring me to get every last unwelcome hair.

My hesitancy turned to determination. And with Mom’s confidence, and my mighty Tweezerman, we worked as a team to remove every last hair. Just as importantly, we achieved a momentary yet satisfying victory over the indignity of cancer.

The next promise was more difficult to keep.

Three months later, my dad and I met with the oncologist to discuss my mother’s condition. She had not responded well to her recent treatment, and we were concerned both about her steep decline and whether she was strong enough to endure a second round of chemotherapy.

The doctor, who at our first appointment, proclaimed, “I’m-in-it-to-win-it,” looked at mom’s recent test results, and conceded that further treatment would not be possible. He estimated she had between two and four weeks to live.

Silently, my dad and I retreated to his car to absorb the un-absorbable. Dad began crying, and I began biting the inside of my cheek so as not to cry; one of the unilateral rules I had made for myself was that I wouldn’t cry if he was crying.

A few minutes later, I said we should go tell Mom this news. Until now, my parents and I had consistently agreed on next steps, so I was unprepared when my father said, “No. We can’t tell Mom. It’s better if she doesn’t know.”

And I, thinking of what Mom asked of me just two summers before, inhaled deeply and said, “We have to tell her – it’s what she wants.”

After a long, staggering silence, my dad put his head in his hands and said, “Cheryl, I couldn’t live with myself if I told her.”

But because of the promises I made, I whispered, “Dad, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”

My mom was a first-rate planner. It was as predictable as it was comical that on our way home from visiting my brother in Georgia for Thanksgiving, she would start discussing where we would gather next year, and who would begin scouting hotels and air fares. Still, nothing could have prepared me for what happened when my dad and I visited that afternoon, both still rattled from our earlier conversation.

We arrived to find my mom’s older sister Sandy sitting at the end of the bed. Mom quickly greeted us, and announced, “Good, we’re all together. There are some things I want to discuss.” And without the slightest hesitation, began talking as if she had been in the doctor’s office with us that very morning.

I prayed that my Dad would not change the subject to something – anything – more tolerable. And to his credit, he listened intently and began gently stroking Mom’s arm.

She began raising previously taboo questions: How will I know I’m dying? What do I do when it’s time to die? Will you be here with me at the moment of my death?

Next, she dictated a list of the lists she wanted made: Who will make meals for Dad when I am gone? Which caregivers should I write thank-you notes to? Who can I ask to speak at my memorial service? Who should receive specific pieces of my jewelry? And what phone numbers will Dad need to help him take care of the house?

Mom was the most lucid she had been in weeks, and the most lucid she would be again.

Dumbfounded and horrified that we were actually having this conversation, I forced myself to stay composed and address each of her questions and concerns with all the honesty and clarity that I could muster. Just as I promised.

At one point, when I realized I was holding my breath, I reached for my Aunt’s hand, and wiped away some of my long-denied tears. It was impossible to believe this was actually happening. My mom was fervently yet gently telling us she was ready to turn her fierce fight for life into a conscious surrender to death.

This was my mother’s last conscious gift of care-giving. Mom knew, perhaps before we did – perhaps even before the doctor did – that she was dying. The signs were as clear to her as the billboards she read on our road trips.

She also knew Dad and I would need each other in unprecedented ways after she died. So she stepped in and resolved the conflict that just hours before had threatened our trouble-free alliance.

Clearly, Mom too, had promises to keep.

Cheryl Rice is a leadership and life coach from Erdenheim, PA.  You can contact Cheryl at www.CherylRiceLeadership.com.

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1. The Experience of Grief

Special thanks to Jason Alderman, Visa’s Senior Director of Global Financial Education, for sharing this information with us.

Losing your spouse is one of life’s most stressful events. Ironically, it’s during that time of grief, when you’re probably not thinking clearly or focusing on such matters, that you’re expected to make many important financial decisions that will impact the rest of your life.

Although there are certain actions you must take right away to ensure your current financial security, several major decisions with long-term consequences should probably be postponed until you’ve had a chance to reflect on how – and where – you want to spend the rest of your life.

If your spouse primarily handled the finances or you’re not up to the task alone, ask a trusted relative or friend to help you sort out the following information:

• Gather legal and financial documents that will give a better sense of where you stand financially, including: wills, trusts and powers of attorney; mortgage and car title; tax returns; bank, loan and credit card statements; safe deposit box contents; insurance plans; and income sources.
• Compile outstanding bills and monitor due dates to avoid late charges or penalties for: utilities; mortgage/rent; health, auto and homeowners insurance premiums; car, student and personal loans; and credit cards.
• If your spouse was still working, contact his or her employer regarding unpaid salary, benefits, life insurance and retirement accounts. This is particularly important if they provide your health insurance.

Other critical actions to take within the first month or two include:

• Contact companies where you have joint accounts and convert them to your name only. Also close any accounts that were in his or her name only that you don’t wish to maintain.
• If your spouse was eligible for Social Security, you and your children may qualify for Survivor Benefits. Call (800) 772-1213 or visit www.ssa.gov.
• Similarly, if your spouse was a veteran, contact the VA regarding possible survivor benefits (www.vba.va.gov/survivors).
• Pay attention to income tax filing dates, particularly if you file quarterly estimated taxes. While the IRS may waive penalty fees on a late filing or underpayment related to your spouse’s death, you’re still responsible for any taxes or interest owed. Call 800-829-1040 or read “Filing Late and/or Paying Late” at www.irs.gov.

Don’t make irreversible financial decisions until you’ve had a chance adjust to your new status. For example, some people rush to pay off their mortgage, only to discover later that the house is too large or they can’t afford the taxes and upkeep. Others feel pressured to move closer to family members, only to discover that they miss their former life.

Other long-range planning suggestions:

• Rewrite your will and other documents that outline how you’d like your financial and health matters handled if you die, become disabled or become seriously ill.
• Until you have a better handle on your new living expenses, live frugally – especially if you’re used to having two incomes.

Follow Jason Alderman on Twitter

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Crying, lamenting, sobbing and wailing — all of these allow us to discharge our pain so we can heal. The sadness and despair, when repressed, don’t just disappear. Instead, they go underground in your psyche where the pain, unfortunately, intensifies. The feelings are not gone, they are merely buried alive. They then re-emerge at a later time and can cause chronic stress, depression, stomach ulcers, and even a nervous breakdown.

One of the unexpectedly wonderful aspects of crying is that expressing our grief allows us to experience the strength of our aliveness. Our tears let us know we were truly connected to another and that the love we felt was real. Crying releases us from our grief and reaffirms our ability to love and be loved.

You may find some people in your life trying to discourage you from crying. We have all grown up with warnings about not being a “crybaby” or that “real men don’t cry.” However, crying is the most natural thing in the world for humans to do. Studies show that real healing takes place when we give ourselves permission to cry. I’m sure you’ve often heard people say they needed a good cry and how much better they felt afterward.

If the people in your life are making you feel uncomfortable about crying, here are a few tips I have tried in order to feel safe shedding tears.

• Get in the car. Alone. Take a drive. Find a nice safe place to park and cry. You can cry all you like in private. You can play music on the radio or your favorite CDs.
• Get in the shower. Turn on the hot water. You can cry and no one will hear you under the sound of the water running.
• Get outside. Take a walk by yourself. Wear sunglasses. You can cry while you walk and no one will be the wiser.
• Get in the pool. Start swimming. You can cry underwater and no one will figure it out.

If you want to cry, but the tears just won’t come, you can try these tearjerker movies to get the waterworks running:

• Steel Magnolias
• Terms of Endearment
• Brian’s Song
• The Bridges of Madison County
• Always
• Sophie’s Choice
• Charlotte’s Web
• Babe
• Casablanca
• An Officer and a Gentleman

Catherine Greenleaf is a suicide loss survivor, and author of the highly acclaimed book, Healing The Hurt Spirit: Daily Affirmations For People Who Have Lost a Loved One to Suicide. She is a spiritual counselor and a member of the Association for Death Education and Counseling. She travels nationwide to speak to suicide loss survivors about how to persevere after suicide loss. You can read more of her work on her blog, or follow her on twitter.

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1. Losing Someone to Suicide

It’s a Sunday evening in my dorm room, and my roommate just left to go out. She kissed me on the head and asked if I was okay before she left. All I could do to not burst out in tears was nod my head in response and stare at my computer screen. She could see the look in my eyes that things weren’t alright. Once that door shut the tears poured out.

I have these moments, as I am sure many people who have experienced death do. Sometimes they are triggered by a date or an event and sometimes they pop up out of nowhere. This moment was the result of a passing thought of thirteen days until two years. I said that to myself after looking at my calendar and seeing how close I was to the two-year anniversary of my father’s death. In the beginning I always thought that this was supposed to be the magical countdown where everything will suddenly be better after that date had passed. At least that’s what the books always told me. When my father died I spent days in Barnes and Noble reading book after book about grief and how I was supposed to feel. I had experienced death before but not something like the death of a parent and I wanted to know what to expect and how to deal with it. I spent more time reading about grief then actually grieving.

It took some time for me to put down my books and allow my own grief to do its work. But getting there was difficult. Months following my father’s death I acted as if nothing was wrong because I felt like the world moved on without me and I had to keep up. I was afraid of what would happen if I let my guard down and stopped blocking everything out. I felt like I couldn’t afford to cry in the middle of the day at school. With those feelings came the analyzing of my grief, I questioned when the anger stage would show up, or the depression and how to hide it. I spent so much time focused on how I thought I was supposed to feel instead of really letting myself feel. I now know, twenty-three and a half months later that it was the unknown that I was afraid of.  The death of a loved one, such as a parent comes with state of mind that can never be explained on paper, let alone explained at all. And here I was, so afraid of what I didn’t know that I attached my feelings to chapters and referenced my thoughts in the index.

Months ago, if someone had asked me how I felt about how I dealt with my father’s death I would say: terrible, I did it in all the wrong ways. But now, when I look back, I realize that, that was how I grieved.  There is no right or wrong way to grieve; one does what makes them most comfortable at the moment. And I was doing what I knew best, avoiding and staying busy. Grief is such an undefined thing and when one tries to label the “stages of grief” or tell someone that they should be over it by now, they are wrong. Grief if individualized to each person that experiences it. Just like how I experienced it in the beginning, I am experiencing it now with my “moments.”  I am still avoiding it by waiting until I’m in a private place, but I have now begun to let myself feel what I need to feel.  There is a quote from the book The Wild Palms by William Faulkner that I keep close to my heart. It reads, “Between grief and nothing, I will take grief.” Yes, I bought the books because I thought I felt nothing and wanted something else to tell me what to do. But now I know that I was grieving all along, and I still am. March 31^st will come and go and I will still grieve my father’s passing in my own way. There is no magic date where it all becomes better, and there are no books that will tell you exactly what to expect. There is a reason things like this don’t come with a handbook. We are meant to learn from and embrace our grief, not look for an easy way out because it’s too hard. We experience it in a way that is necessary and adapted to ourselves; our emotions may throw us a curve ball once and awhile but nothing that we aren’t meant to handle at some point in our lives.

Special thanks to guest author, HelloGrief  community member, and Comfort Zone Camper Samantha Worman for sharing her story with us.

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1. Defining Moments at Comfort Zone Camp

On June 25, 2011 Comfort Zone Camp, in partnership with the Samaritans and the Massachusetts Department of Public Health, provided a specialized one-day program for kids and teens who had suffered the loss of a parent, sibling, or primary caregiver to suicide. Twenty-five brave campers showed up bright and early at the Shore Country Day School in Beverly not knowing exactly what to expect. Many did not want to be there, and most were apprehensive.

Grief after a suicide is very complicated and messy. After any loss, adults and children need to be in a safe and gentle environment to feel and to express the tough emotions. Healing requires the permission to tell your story and for the ability to integrate the loss into your life. Suicide makes it almost impossible to find a kind, supportive place. The story often seems too horrific to tell and it is difficult to make any sense of what happened. I often think it would seem just as logical to a family if you told them that their loved one moved to Mars; suicide goes against how we are wired. It is not something we can comprehend.

When a person dies by suicide, there is no chance to anticipate or prepare. Many times people had no clue that their loved one was even struggling. It often blindsides them, leaving them completely off balance. After someone dies by suicide, I see a huge rock fall from the sky destroying the home and community of all the people touched by this death, and not only do these people need to rebuild but first they need to chip away the rock before they can even start to recover.

Suicide deaths are traumatic and are many times violent making it hard to tell others. Survivors do not want others to judge their loved ones or question their relationship with the person. They can become very protective. Also often not everyone knows that the person died by suicide, so it can all be very secretive and confusing.

After a suicide, the survivors are left with many unanswered questions, important pieces of the puzzle missing. They desperately to create a narrative that will explain why the person took her life. They become private investigators leaving no stone unturned, studying phone bills and their loved one’s behaviors, and interviewing anyone who had contact with their loved one to no avail. There is never a satisfying answer that solves the unknowing.  Survivors relive events leading up to the death. The “what if’s” haunt them. They live with the “would haves, should haves, and could haves” causing much anxiety and guilt.

Survivors begin to doubt themselves. If this person could take his life without me knowing, who else do I know who is suicidal? Why didn’t she think she could come and talk to me and let me know what was going on, wasn’t I a good friend? Parent? Daughter? Brother? This can bring on feelings of anger. Didn’t this person know how loved she was?

There is also can be a great deal of shame when someone you love dies by suicide. People in the community hear rumors, make assumptions and judge not only the person who died but the people who loved that person. Suicide deaths are often very public and most people do not understand most people who take their own lives suffer from diagnosable mental illness. People do not take their lives because they had one bad day or because they had a weak moment. It does not happen because someone breaks up with them or they lost a job. People who die by suicide don’t want to die they just need the pain to stop.

For both adults and children who have lost a loved one to suicide, it is important they find a space where they feel safe and supported. They need room to investigate and ask the hard questions, slowly at their own pace, realizing that the answers they stumble upon will never be enough. Survivors of suicide need to learn more about mental illness and unlearn the myths that surround suicide. It can help tremendously if they know that this grief holds some different responses and feelings than other losses. To hear, that they are not the only ones reliving the events that lead up to their loved ones death, questioning what they did and what they did not do, and slowly come to a place of acceptance. An acceptance that allows them to trust they did the very best they could and that love is not part of the equation. The person they lost was loved and loved them, the disease just won.

Adults and children who lost someone to suicide need to find ways to remember the whole person. The way someone dies should not define his or her life. It is a part of their story but it is far from the whole story. And the thing that most survivors say is the most helpful in their healing is to be around other survivors. This community of support allows them to remember their loved one, talk about the complex emotions, be in a safe environment where they can ask the tough questions, and see that they are not alone.

Days like Saturday, June 25, 2011 are so vital and so incredibly powerful. For children and teens to be at a one day camp, in the same room with other children who also lost someone to suicide, was an amazing gift. The ripple effects will continue allowing each camper new opportunities to trust and to heal. No one was judging them, caring adults and peers were not afraid to ask them about their feelings and experiences, and they were allow to celebrate the life of the loved one, not get stuck in how that person died.  It normalized the death and it gave them a voice, and sense of community and hope. One camper’s evaluation says it best, “This is the best I’ve felt since my father’s death – Thank You.”

The one day camp was so powerful and so effective that a second camp has been scheduled for March 2012.  As long as children and teens face suicide losses, they will need this kind of safe place to share, heal, and grow.

If you ever feel that you are in danger of harming yourself, please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 800-273-TALK (8255). The hotline is staffed with caring individuals 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Special thanks to Kim Kates, Director of Grief Support Services for Samaritans. Samaritans’ goal is to reduce the risk of  suicide and increase awareness about suicide prevention throughout the Greater Boston and MetroWest areas.  For more information, please visit www.samaritanshope.org or call one of their 24 hour helplines at (617) 247-0220 or (508) 875-4500.

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1. It’s Okay to Cry
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3. When a Teen or Child Loses a Loved One to Suicide

I had conversations with family, friends, and online “friends” all week. My posts dredged up feelings for many that had been long repressed. Some people took the opportunity to fondly remember a friend. Others reacted as if a scab had been scratched, and indeed it had. Those were the people who had been denied the chance to feel that anger when their friend died, and now, years later, it bubbled up again.

You can only hold your breath so long, and eventually you have to breathe again. So it is with repressing emotions. Eventually they decide they’ve been constrained long enough.

Those who are overwhelmed by the sudden, intense feelings of anger share another feeling: powerlessness. They are unable to reconcile what happened to their friend, to what they believe is the natural order of the universe. I know that sounds a little goofy, but how else to explain comments such as:

“They shouldn’t have died.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“They weren’t even supposed to be there.”

They want to believe things are supposed to happen a certain way; in fact, they’re desperate to believe it. If there is an order to the universe, then their friend shouldn’t have died. They can only accept that their friend died if there’s a reasonable, logical explanation. If they had to die, there has to be a reason. And it has to be an extraordinarily good reason.

But as we all know, often there is no explanation, reasonable or otherwise. That’s where anger pops up.

I don’t know if God is flippant enough to insist, “Because I said so,” when asked why someone had to die. And I don’t know if there’s a more irritating phrase than “it was just their time.”

In my lifetime I’ve had friends who died from enemy gunfire and cancer, car accidents and suicide, AIDS and terrorist attacks. Not one of those deaths made sense to me. Not one of them deserved to suffer – sometimes for years, sometimes for seconds. Not one of those deaths could be justified in my mind as being necessary.  But all forced me to admit that I could not change what had happened, and for a control freak, that’s a tough lesson.

We’re all control freaks when it comes to death. There are two things, ultimately, that we have no control over: the circumstances of our birth and the circumstances of our death. And since we tend to be adults when the second one happens, we believe we should have a say: not only on our own deaths, but those of the people we love.

If possible, all of us would do whatever was in our power to spare our friend’s suffering and death. Love does that: it makes you want to protect the ones you love.  But instead of throwing a much-deserved tantrum because we have no power, we have to sit back and say, “I hate that this happened to my friend. I hate it with every breath I take. But I can’t change it, and that kills me, a little, too.”

That’s when we have to decide how we want to remember that friend: by how they died, or how they lived? What part of them will we hold in our hearts for the rest of our lives? What part of them will inspire us and motivate us?

Have your rant. Scream, yell, cry; let it out in a way that won’t hurt you or anyone nearby. Have it out, once and for all. Then decide how your friend’s memory will guide you. That’s something you do have power over.

Guest author Victoria Noe created FriendGrief to discuss the idea that there are profound differences in grieving the death of a friend, as opposed to a family member.  While she writes on the loss of friends, her ideas can often apply to any individual who has suffered any type of loss.

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First, from a personal standpoint, a human service professional who is also a mother or father will find themselves confronted with a parent’s worse nightmare. If this is not acknowledged by the professional (through supervision), he/she will not be able to be objective when working with parents and families affected by this loss.

Second, from a professional standpoint, conventional interventions (such as stage theory and solution-focused therapy) designed to deal with grief and loss are often not effective because the death of a child defies what we see as the natural order of the universe.

I have been employed as an addictions counselor for over 26 years and have been involved in the human services field for well over 30 years. I am a Licensed Master Social Worker and a Credentialed Alcoholism and Substance Abuse Counselor.  I am also a parent who has experienced the death of a child. My daughter Jeannine died on March 1, 2003 at the age of 18 due to cancer.

After Jeannine’s death, I soon discovered that my previous education and experience in the human service field were not going to help me address my current situation.  Jeannine’s death forced me to re-examine my personal and professional values and modify them to fit my new reality. As a result of my struggle, I believe that I have become a more well rounded and service oriented individual, and a better therapist as well.

I want to share some suggestions with other professionals who may be reading this article.  You may find that some of these ideas will help you to become more successful in working with parents who have experienced the death of a child:

• Focus on being a companion on the journey: It is important for human service professionals to bear witness to parents’ pain. In this context, stories of relationships with their children need to be listened to and honored. Storytelling is therapeutic because it helps parents eventually make sense out of their new worlds.  Also, as therapists we get to know their children through their (parents’) eyes.  When we focus on being a companion, we are also creating a safe environment for the bereaved parent to do their grief work.
• Be prepared to listen to parents’ experiences with non-ordinary phenomena:  Parents will routinely question if their children are capable of communicating with them after their death, and will long to share those experiences. Regardless of your beliefs in this area, reserve judgment and listen.  I feel that Jeannine has communicated her presence to me in a variety of ways (i.e. butterflies, music), and other parents have shared similar stories with me.  As a therapist, it is helpful to ask bereaved parents what thoughts they were experiencing prior to receiving the sign. The signs that bereaved parents receive from their loved ones are usually a result of what is happening in the present.  Listening non-judgmentally to a parent’s experience with non-ordinary phenomena communicates that they are capable of being spiritual beings.
• Recognize each bereaved parent’s right to grieve as he/she sees fit: Each parent’s expression of pain is unique, and determined in part by the relationships they had with their children when they were alive.  Some of the best memories that Jeannine and I shared were through music.  So it made sense that after her death, music and lyrics were how I uniquely confronted the pain of her death.  If professionals can help parents identify the activities that they shared with their children when they were alive, they can also help them find meaningful ways to mourn their deaths and celebrate their memories.
• Emphasize the importance of ongoing support: One of the major concerns for individuals mourning the loss of their loved ones is having access to adequate support. Usually support groups composed of individuals who have experienced a similar type of loss (i.e. child, spouse) are the most effective.
• Avoid using solution-focused approaches to dealing with a bereaved parent’s grief:  When a bereaved parent experiences the death of a child, his/her world is forever changed because of their physical absence.  Statements like “Things will get better.” “You will be ok”, though well meaning undermines the pain that the parent is experiencing and implies that there is a solution to that pain. There is no quick fix to the pain of losing a child.
• Avoid the use of terms such as closure:  From my experience, there is no true closure when a child dies. Though I am at peace today with the circumstances of Jeannine’s death, I will always miss her physical presence in my life, to some degree. As therapists, we can serve bereaved parents well by helping them discover the tools that with help them as they adapt to a permanently changed world, as opposed to looking for “closure.”
• It is important to remember that the grief journey for bereaved parents is circular and not linear: The raw pain of grief can surface at anytime during the lifelong grief journey of a bereaved parent. In this context, avoid using the stages of grief to inform parents “this is where you should be in your grief.” Sadly, a parent told me several years ago that she got this type of advice from a “bereavement” counselor. She did not go back for further counseling.
  • Remember that the sadness of loss is not the same as clinical depression: When we experience death of any kind, sadness is an expected part of the experience. With grief work and ongoing support, sadness will lessen and become more manageable over time. In addition, medicating grief may delay the work that is needed to effectively negotiate it. If you are working with mentally ill and/or chemically dependent parents who have experienced the death of a child (or any loved one), emphasize that they need to continue to manage their mental health symptoms and/or focus on abstinence from drugs & alcohol for their grief work to be effective.
  • Help bereaved parents understand that forgetting is not a requirement of a bereaved parent’s grief journey, but remembering and staying connected is.  From my experience and from listening to other parents experiences, embodying the positive characteristics of our children, redefining who they are, and finding meaning in the process are key to ongoing adjustment. More importantly, it allows bereaved parents to stay connected to their children while developing a spiritual relationship based totally on unconditional love.
  • Educate yourself on bereaved parent issues. Books that I would recommend for human service professionals are: 1) A Clinician’s Guide: Helping Bereaved Parents, by Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun; 2) The Spiritual Lives of Bereaved Parents by Dennis Klass; 3) Visions of the Bereaved by Kay Witmer Woods; 4) Hello from Heaven by Bill and Judy Guggenheim. The first two books address the experience of bereaved parents, while the last two books discuss after death communication and ways that it manifests.

It is also extremely important that we develop our own unique self-care program. Though I have found that facilitating grief work with bereaved parents and other bereaved individuals has been extremely fulfilling, it can also be emotionally draining as well.  I know that it becomes draining for me when I am attending to many powerful stories at once and/or my own issues with Jeannine’s death are impacting my ability to be a grief companion. When either or both of those conditions exist, that is my cue to back off and do something that will recharge my batteries. As my good friend and fellow bereaved parent, Mitch Carmody (www.heartlightstudios.net) has often said: “If our cups are not filled, we can not fill anybody else’s cup.”

David J. Roberts became a bereaved parent after his daughter Jeannine died of cancer at the age of 18.  You can read more of his work here:  www.bootsyandangel.com

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