I embraced this concept. And wish to God someone - anyone - could have companioned me when I was a child.
It was emphasized to us in class that the approach to counseling grief is not a one size fits all scenario. Basically a minimum of four factors impact the grief process:
- The age of the person experiencing the loss;
- The age of the person who has died;
- The relationship between the deceased and the person experiencing the loss; and
- The nature of the death, specifically sudden or long illness.
So regarding #1, a six year old is going to experience - is going to process - a death differently than say a teen. Whereas, a first grader may not even comprehend the permanence of death, a teen understands the finality, understands that their life is forever changed.
In my own experience, and I honestly cannot say that I remember my father's death, I am told that when my mother finally got around to sitting me down and putting into words that my father was dead, that he was in heaven just like her father, my immediate question was 'can I get another one?' A response such as this demonstrates that I was old enough to sense that my life was changed. That I was now 'different' and my immediate reaction was I wanted to 'get another one' to reset my life to that norm.
Insofar as factor #2, the untimely death of a parent is going to be inherently more profound than say the death of an aged grandparent. While the death of a grandparent is nonetheless sad and mournful, there is relative comfort in the fact that the death came after the person lived their full life. The untimely death of a parent warrants sadness in a life unrealized; in the robbing of futures - both the deceased and the child(ren) of - and of the change in the survivors' lifestyle.
Factor #3, I believe, is the most profound of the four determining factors: the relationship between the deceased and the mourner.
For me, it wasn't only that I lost my father. I lost any potential relationship/involvement with him. Sadly, my father was not around much when he was alive. He wasn't a very reliable person; not a very responsible parent. Because of his ill health and his alcoholism, he rarely held onto a job for long. My mother, in a time when mothers really did not work outside the home, was the sole breadwinner in our family. My father was pretty footloose and fancy free. If he felt like hitting the road and traveling from DC to Alabama to visit his family, he just up and did so. No thought as to how it impacted my mother...or me.
I really don't remember my father. I'm not sure if this was because I was so young when he died or the unfortunate fact that he really didn't parent me. I don't ever remember sitting on his lap. Or having fun with him. Or him hugging or kissing me. I don't remember him playing with me. There are only four instances that I remember about my father: 1) that I, as a little girl, was amazed that I could push his grown up self down onto the bed. This, of course, was owing to the fact that he was totally plowed. I do recall that I thought it great fun; 2) that I hated him rubbing his stubbly face against my soft little cheek; 3) I recall the time that I sat between he and my mother on our couch and he was telling me that he was going to punch my mother and give her a black eye. I was horrified. He was messing around with me; my mother was neither amused nor scared and I remember her sitting there and assuring me that he 'was just kidding'. And, finally, I remember him threatening to beat me with his belt if I didn't eat my dinner. My parents had real eating problems with me. For whatever reason, I just didn't want to eat. I remember my doctor prescribed a big bottle of red tonic for me because I didn't eat enough. I remember this particular evening in our apartment where my mother and father were long done and I was just sitting there, slouched down, my little face staring into my plate. I just couldn't eat it. I remember my father putting his folded up belt on the table, as an incentive, I guess, to goad me into eating. Well I didn't get beat but I really don't remember chowing down either. My mother must have rescued me.
But I don't remember anything about being his child; about being or feeling loved. And this pretty much destroys me.
But I don't remember anything about being his child; about being or feeling loved. And this pretty much destroys me.
We learned in our class that not all survivors have 'good' memories nor healthy relationships prior to the death. So we need to be mindful of how we refer to the deceased. My moderator related to our group how she once slipped and referred to the deceased of one child as 'your loved one'. She said this child very pointedly told her that his last remembrance of his father was him picking him up by his ears and throwing him against a wall. And that he did not regard his dead father as his loved one.
Factor #4...the nature of the death. This is a tough one. Is there a better death? A long illness where at least you know it's coming and perhaps have time to prepare, to say your goodbyes. Or sudden where one day you have life as you always have known it and then the next...well, you get the picture.
Christmas Day 1964 my life slammed into a brick wall. Full force. My own personal big bang. My life, my path immediately reset, course changed.
My father was dead. Killed in a head on car wreck in which he was driving on the wrong side of the road. He and the occupants of the other vehicle - all killed. I don't remember specifics. Just an overwhelming feeling that came that day and basically has never left me. The feeling of being alone. Abandoned. Adrift. Insecure. Sad. Different.
In my class we learned of the importance of talking to the child, of involving the child, in encouraging the child to talk and ask questions about the loss. Really?? I was basically in a vacuum with my father's death. Essentially I lost my mother that day too. I don't think Mom has ever been socially at ease. I mean her entire life she has not been friendly, never comfortable with social interaction. She has always considered herself 'shy'. Now that I'm an adult I recognize a lot of her personality traits could be characterized as borderline agoraphobic. In her entire life she has never cultivated nor enjoyed the company of friends. She has one friend from high school with whom she talks on the phone about once a month but she basically has lived her life in isolation. And she never has liked anything that would possibly call attention to her. Unfortunately, life with my father apparently was frequently played out very publicly. And the scenario that Christmas day just about did her in...
To say my mother was bereft is an understatement. She was the walking wounded. Life after my father's death was stressful. Sad. I remember needing my mother but trying my best not to bother her. On weekends she slept SO long into the day. Her hugs were so vacant, so wooden and they have remained such. And she smelled. I really hate to write this but she smelled like bed. I now recognize that as her probably being very depressed.
I learned very early on that I was not to talk about my father. Don't ask questions. Don't bring him up. It will upset Mommy. So I didn't. For years.
The shitstorm my father left in his wake was daunting. Decades later I have pieced together details. Because of his numerous drunk driving busts, my father had lost his driver's license and therefore had been dropped off the car insurance held by my mother. So when he died, the insurance company PAID NOTHING. Which meant my mother was sued by Ford Motor Company for the money she owed on the brand new Falcon that my father had totaled. And she was sued by the family that was killed in the other vehicle.
How she managed to keep her sanity during those horrible, immediate months that dragged into years is beyond me. But she carried on. She had my grandmother to lean on. And her sister, my Aunt Catherine. Now my mother and her sister were textbook sibling rivalry. But still and all, Catherine and my grandmother kept my mother from total despair. We all were sleepwalking through life those days. My mother never missed a day of work, came through the lawsuits without losing our little house and carried on. Barely. We all kept the cone of silence regarding my father. Through the years, comments crept out from my mother about my dad...negative comments. Bad things about how irresponsible he was; how he would pawn her possessions for money to drink and how she and my grandmother would go around town to buy back her own stuff. Or about how he gave one of my dolls to one of his drinking buddies' daughter. Or how he just wouldn't behave in general.
So I have a feeling that this is not the recollecting that my instructors had in mind...
Besides drinking, smoking was another of my father's vices. Smoking in his fragile health (he had had tuberculosis) was just insane. A couple of months ago my now 84 year old mother and I were having a very benign conversation about cigarettes. We both agree on cigs - they're gross and nasty. And highly addictive.
'Yes, your father and his damn cigarettes' she said.
Me - 'Hmm??' How's that?
'Your father and his damn cigarettes' she went on.
'He would probably still be alive if it weren't for those damn cigarettes'
Huh? Come again? I pressed her for clarification.
'That night after we went to bed. Your father went out to try and find cigarettes because he was out. He left me a note.'
I felt as though someone had thrown ice cold water in my face. Shock. I looked at her incredulously.
'I thought he went out to a bar on Christmas Eve and that he was drunk...'
And my mother did something she had NEVER done before...she defended my father.
'He wasn't drunk! The fog was thick that night. He couldn't see the road...
I went on to explain that it was my understanding that the accident was because of drunk driving, his drunk driving.
'I never said he was drunk!'
I sat in silence for a moment. She was correct. Thinking back, I had never, ever heard those words from her...that he was drunk that night. Honestly, I had never heard any specifics about that night from her. No talking about it. Just bury it...with him. I just assumed because of his history and the scenario that he had gone out on a tear. And because that every rare word out of her mouth about my father for the past decades had been ones of frustration and negativity. For nearly fifty years I had carried the guilt and shame of my father. My father who willfully drove drunk on Christmas Eve and wiped out my family and another person's family.
With her words, those feelings of guilt and shame fell away. The heavy burden that my little six year old shoulders had been saddled with so long ago - GONE.
It was truly like being born again.
The first thing I did when I got home? I told my children. I could see my 19 year old son's relief that his grandfather's legacy was altered. That is was all just a tragic accident...just a tragic accident.
Over the phone, my daughter was skeptical.
'Do you think Grandma's going a little looney tunes? Do you think she's rewriting history a bit?'
I honestly did think that. Maybe she was rewriting our history to make it more palatable in her mind. So I set out to do a little research on my own.
I subscribed to a newspaper archive website and found an article from our local paper on several fatal wrecks on that Christmas Day in 1964, my father's being one of them.
'[name], apparently unable to see because of heavy fog, was driving south in the southbound lane...'
Unbelievable! So then, not to leave it even at that, I contacted my father's younger brother in Alabama and asked him. I was told yes, the state trooper had told the family that alcohol was NOT a factor.
Can you even imagine?? Communication is crucial no matter how painful. Though DECADES late, I am so thankful to FINALLY have clarity and some sort of closure to all my questions left unanswered for so long.
And now I can go about living the rest of my life with my head held a little higher...
Factor #4...the nature of the death. This is a tough one. Is there a better death? A long illness where at least you know it's coming and perhaps have time to prepare, to say your goodbyes. Or sudden where one day you have life as you always have known it and then the next...well, you get the picture.
Christmas Day 1964 my life slammed into a brick wall. Full force. My own personal big bang. My life, my path immediately reset, course changed.
My father was dead. Killed in a head on car wreck in which he was driving on the wrong side of the road. He and the occupants of the other vehicle - all killed. I don't remember specifics. Just an overwhelming feeling that came that day and basically has never left me. The feeling of being alone. Abandoned. Adrift. Insecure. Sad. Different.
In my class we learned of the importance of talking to the child, of involving the child, in encouraging the child to talk and ask questions about the loss. Really?? I was basically in a vacuum with my father's death. Essentially I lost my mother that day too. I don't think Mom has ever been socially at ease. I mean her entire life she has not been friendly, never comfortable with social interaction. She has always considered herself 'shy'. Now that I'm an adult I recognize a lot of her personality traits could be characterized as borderline agoraphobic. In her entire life she has never cultivated nor enjoyed the company of friends. She has one friend from high school with whom she talks on the phone about once a month but she basically has lived her life in isolation. And she never has liked anything that would possibly call attention to her. Unfortunately, life with my father apparently was frequently played out very publicly. And the scenario that Christmas day just about did her in...
To say my mother was bereft is an understatement. She was the walking wounded. Life after my father's death was stressful. Sad. I remember needing my mother but trying my best not to bother her. On weekends she slept SO long into the day. Her hugs were so vacant, so wooden and they have remained such. And she smelled. I really hate to write this but she smelled like bed. I now recognize that as her probably being very depressed.
I learned very early on that I was not to talk about my father. Don't ask questions. Don't bring him up. It will upset Mommy. So I didn't. For years.
The shitstorm my father left in his wake was daunting. Decades later I have pieced together details. Because of his numerous drunk driving busts, my father had lost his driver's license and therefore had been dropped off the car insurance held by my mother. So when he died, the insurance company PAID NOTHING. Which meant my mother was sued by Ford Motor Company for the money she owed on the brand new Falcon that my father had totaled. And she was sued by the family that was killed in the other vehicle.
How she managed to keep her sanity during those horrible, immediate months that dragged into years is beyond me. But she carried on. She had my grandmother to lean on. And her sister, my Aunt Catherine. Now my mother and her sister were textbook sibling rivalry. But still and all, Catherine and my grandmother kept my mother from total despair. We all were sleepwalking through life those days. My mother never missed a day of work, came through the lawsuits without losing our little house and carried on. Barely. We all kept the cone of silence regarding my father. Through the years, comments crept out from my mother about my dad...negative comments. Bad things about how irresponsible he was; how he would pawn her possessions for money to drink and how she and my grandmother would go around town to buy back her own stuff. Or about how he gave one of my dolls to one of his drinking buddies' daughter. Or how he just wouldn't behave in general.
So I have a feeling that this is not the recollecting that my instructors had in mind...
'Yes, your father and his damn cigarettes' she said.
Me - 'Hmm??' How's that?
'Your father and his damn cigarettes' she went on.
'He would probably still be alive if it weren't for those damn cigarettes'
Huh? Come again? I pressed her for clarification.
'That night after we went to bed. Your father went out to try and find cigarettes because he was out. He left me a note.'
I felt as though someone had thrown ice cold water in my face. Shock. I looked at her incredulously.
'I thought he went out to a bar on Christmas Eve and that he was drunk...'
And my mother did something she had NEVER done before...she defended my father.
'He wasn't drunk! The fog was thick that night. He couldn't see the road...
I went on to explain that it was my understanding that the accident was because of drunk driving, his drunk driving.
'I never said he was drunk!'
I sat in silence for a moment. She was correct. Thinking back, I had never, ever heard those words from her...that he was drunk that night. Honestly, I had never heard any specifics about that night from her. No talking about it. Just bury it...with him. I just assumed because of his history and the scenario that he had gone out on a tear. And because that every rare word out of her mouth about my father for the past decades had been ones of frustration and negativity. For nearly fifty years I had carried the guilt and shame of my father. My father who willfully drove drunk on Christmas Eve and wiped out my family and another person's family.
With her words, those feelings of guilt and shame fell away. The heavy burden that my little six year old shoulders had been saddled with so long ago - GONE.
It was truly like being born again.
The first thing I did when I got home? I told my children. I could see my 19 year old son's relief that his grandfather's legacy was altered. That is was all just a tragic accident...just a tragic accident.
Over the phone, my daughter was skeptical.
'Do you think Grandma's going a little looney tunes? Do you think she's rewriting history a bit?'
I honestly did think that. Maybe she was rewriting our history to make it more palatable in her mind. So I set out to do a little research on my own.
I subscribed to a newspaper archive website and found an article from our local paper on several fatal wrecks on that Christmas Day in 1964, my father's being one of them.
'[name], apparently unable to see because of heavy fog, was driving south in the southbound lane...'
Unbelievable! So then, not to leave it even at that, I contacted my father's younger brother in Alabama and asked him. I was told yes, the state trooper had told the family that alcohol was NOT a factor.
Can you even imagine?? Communication is crucial no matter how painful. Though DECADES late, I am so thankful to FINALLY have clarity and some sort of closure to all my questions left unanswered for so long.
And now I can go about living the rest of my life with my head held a little higher...
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