Epictetus on Love and Loss

— The Stoic Strategy for Surviving Heartbreak

Epictetus

“Who is good if he knows not who he is? and who knows what he is, if he forgets that things which have been made are perishable, and that it is not possible for one human being to be with another always?”

By Maria Popova

“Future love does not exist,” Tolstoy wrote in contemplating the paradoxical demands of love. “Love is a present activity only. The man who does not manifest love in the present has not love.” It is a difficult concept to accept — we have been socialized to believe in and grasp after the happily-ever-after future of every meaningful relationship. But what happens when love, whatever its category and classification, dissolves under the interminable forces of time and change, be it by death or by some other, more deliberate demise? In the midst of what feels like an unsurvivable loss, how do we moor ourselves to the fact that even the most beautiful, most singularly gratifying things in life are merely on loan from the universe, granted us for the time being?

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Two millennia ago, the great Stoic philosopher Epictetus (c. 55–135 AD) argued that the antidote to this gutting grief is found not in hedging ourselves against prospective loss through artificial self-protections but, when loss does come, in orienting ourselves to it and to what preceded it differently — in training ourselves not only to accept but to embrace the temporality of all things, even those we most cherish and most wish would stretch into eternity, so that when love does vanish, we are left with the irrevocable gladness that it had entered our lives at all and animated them for the time that it did.

In The Discourses of Epictetus (public library), under the heading That we ought not to be moved by a desire of those things which are not in our power, the Stoic sage writes:

Who is good if he knows not who he is? and who knows what he is, if he forgets that things which have been made are perishable, and that it is not possible for one human being to be with another always?

Epictetus — a proponent of the wonderful practice of self-scrutiny applied with kindness — proceeds to offer a meditation on loosening the grip of grief in parting permanently from someone we have loved:

When you are delighted with anything, be delighted as with a thing which is not one of those which cannot be taken away, but as something of such a kind, as an earthen pot is, or a glass cup, that, when it has been broken, you may remember what it was and may not be troubled… What you love is nothing of your own: it has been given to you for the present, not that it should not be taken from you, nor has it been given to you for all time, but as a fig is given to you or a bunch of grapes at the appointed season of the year. But if you wish for these things in winter, you are a fool. So if you wish for your son or friend when it is not allowed to you, you must know that you are wishing for a fig in winter.

“How Long Is Now”

In a sentiment addressing the corporeal mortality of our loved ones, but equally applicable to the loss of love in a non-physical sense, Epictetus adds:

At the times when you are delighted with a thing, place before yourself the contrary appearances. What harm is it while you are kissing your child to say with a lisping voice, “To-morrow you will die”; and to a friend also, “To-morrow you will go away or I shall, and never shall we see one another again”?

When we are able to regard what we love in such a way, Epictetus argues, its inevitable loss would leave in us not paralyzing devastation but what Abraham Lincoln would later term “a sad sweet feeling in your heart.” To retain the memory of love’s sweetness without letting the pain of parting and loss embitter it is perhaps the greatest challenge for the bereaved heart, and its greatest achievement.

Complement this particular fragment of Epictetus’s abidingly insightful Discourses with computing pioneer Alan Turing on love and loss and other great artists, scientists, and writers on how to live with loss, then revisit more of the Stoics’ timeless succor for the traumas of living: Seneca on resilience in the face of loss, the antidote to anxiety, and what it means to be a generous human being, Marcus Aurelius on living through difficult times and how to motivate yourself to rise each morning and do your work.

Complete Article HERE!

Can Losing a Loved One Make You More Grateful?


Research suggests that loss can remind us of the preciousness of life—a lesson that one researcher learned firsthand.

My sister and I sat in my mother’s bedroom—her sanctuary and prison, where cancer had kept her confined on and off for the past six years—as she looked out the window longingly. The stunningly sunny July day reminded her of everything she loved doing outdoors: tending to her roses, smelling strangers’ babies’ heads, cheering for her children on the cross-country course.

She was getting cranky. Hindered by dry lips but motivated by restless legs, she pleaded in her best Jewish grandmother voice. “You guys have gotta get me out of here,” she said, smiling coyly. “I’m dyin’ in here…”

Morbid, mom.

My sister and I exchanged a skeptical glance as we looked at the tubes and machinery she was connected to, the bag of nutrients that was keeping her alive, and considered the implausibility of any excursion. Though mom clocked in at 5’2” and under 100 pounds, we knew a battle was fruitless; when she set her mind to an idea, we had no chance of stopping her.

A self-identified flower child who read Pema Chodron and Thich Nhat Hanh, my mother fought two forms of cancer over 16 years before her death. The disease took her hair, breasts, ovaries, fallopian tubes, and uterus, along with a third of her intestines. But her humanity grew. Following her first diagnosis when I was three, she and her closest friends championed a non-profit called Healing Odyssey, a women’s retreat for cancer survivors.

As odd as it may seem, I am a more grateful person today as a result of losing my mother. As I watched her fight with her everything to stay on this planet—to spend another day with my father, the love of her life, and to support my sister and me through our trials and triumphs—I began to value my life more.

Of course, I had moments when I raged at the top of my lungs at cancer, and I’ll never forget when the man from the morgue wheeled her body out of our house for the last time. But my appreciation for life also grew undeniably—and it led me to conduct research that would eventually explore how the death of a parent can inspire gratitude.

Grateful after loss

Nine years following my mother’s death, I was studying loss, childhood trauma, and resilience for my doctorate (they call research “me-search,” after all). I began wondering whether the experience of gratitude growing through loss might be universal. Early on, I came across a study that showed that our sense of gratitude can increase when we reflect in a personal way on our own death.

The authors of this study attributed the phenomenon to the “scarcity heuristic,” whereby we value things more when they are rare or scarce. So when we’re faced with death, the value we place on life rises. This was my experience. In witnessing my mom die at 53, suddenly life felt very short, and each moment became incredibly important.

I was excited to see my experience mirrored back to me in research, and inspired to study whether losing a parent in childhood made people more grateful. As a starting point, Katie McGovern and I asked 350 adults who had lost a parent about their gratitude, depression, psychological well-being, and post-traumatic growth (positive change experienced following a major personal crisis or traumatic experience), as well as how their gratitude changed as a result of the loss.

Unsurprisingly, we found that those who rated themselves higher in gratitude reported lower levels of depression, and greater levels of psychological well-being and post-traumatic growth. In other words, the more grateful participants were faring better than those who were less grateful.

Even more interesting, though, was that 79 percent of respondents believed that their experience of gratitude increased as a result of losing their parent, as opposed to roughly 13 percent who reported no change in gratitude and only 8 percent who reported that their sense of gratitude decreased.

Because this study was correlational, questions still remain regarding whether adults actually developed gratitude because of the loss or were already grateful people beforehand. Also, it may have been difficult for people to accurately remember their gratitude levels prior to the loss. As such, we could only speak to their perceptions of changes in gratitude. Stronger evidence would come from a long-term study that observes how gratitude changes in children before and after losing a parent, compared to children who don’t lose a parent.

“Losing my mother reminds me daily how precious life is and that I shouldn’t take a single second for granted”

Still, a large majority of the adults in the study felt as I did—that losing their parent made them a more grateful person. In order to understand this in a more nuanced way, we invited people to write about their experience and analyzed the responses. The most common themes that people reported were related to realizations that life is precious, feelings of gratitude for family and friends, and a recognition of impermanence.

I was particularly moved by a quote from one woman in the study. “Losing my mother reminds me daily how precious life is and that I shouldn’t take a single second for granted,” she said. “From darkness I eventually came into the light.”

When gratitude is hard

My mother was a wonderful, thoughtful person who tried as hard as she could to make hers a “good death.” She joked about mortality and signed notes to us with “I love you eternally,” part of a broad campaign to prepare my family for her death. She wrote letters to my sister and me to be opened on our wedding days, and she recorded herself on a Walkman reading our favorite childhood stories so she could read to her grandbabies. As painful as it was to see my mother suffer over multiple years, we were given the gift of time. We held each other and laughed and cried together as much as we possibly could have in that period between diagnosis and death.

When I entered into my research about loss and gratitude, I wanted to acknowledge that not everyone who had lost a parent had experienced a “good death” as we had. They may not have had a parent who was so conscientious about preparing them for their death, a close relationship with the parent, or the opportunity to say goodbye. I didn’t want the research to paint an unrealistically rosy picture or minimize the incredible pain that comes with loss. And the last thing I wanted was for those who were grieving to feel like they should be feeling grateful.

As a result, we also studied why it was challenging for some of the participants to access gratitude following the loss of a parent. We found, unsurprisingly, that those who experienced additional traumatic events in adulthood were struggling more. When people believed their gratitude decreased following the loss, they tended to attribute it to fear, anxiety, and a feeling that they couldn’t depend on others.

I most certainly do not feel grateful every day. I become angry every Mother’s Day, and embarrassed about the envy I feel toward the beautiful connection my best friend has with her one-year-old son. In every accomplishment or milestone I achieve, there is a tinge of melancholy—it serves as a reminder that the world has continued spinning without my mom in it.

In living with this incredible burden and gift of parental loss, no feelings are simple or singular. In the overwhelming wave of sadness I feel envelop my heart when I smell her perfume on a stranger or wake up from a dream in which she visits me, there is also a deep achy joy in feeling connected to her. This is the gift of grief: an opening to the complexity of moment-to-moment experience, which, for me, inevitably gives way to gratitude.

What truly matters

On that July day, we carefully guided mom into the passenger seat of her yellow Volkswagen Beatle and drove to an overlook in Laguna Beach. Left arm clasped to mine and right arm clasped to my sister’s, my mother shuffled down the pathway leading to the water. With a halt, she pointed out a crop of angel-wing jasmine. “You guys have to smell these,” she coaxed, with that same look she would have in front of a piece of chocolate cake—eyes wide, guilty of an indulgence. I watched her as she closed her eyes, dipping her face into the small, star-shaped flowers and drinking in their scent as if they were a life force.

We continued down the path toward the edge of a cliff—a meeting place between two worlds—and pressed against the railing. The three of us stood, hand in hand, and our eyes softly closed as the sun warmed our skin. For the first time in the six years since she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, our shoulders released. We breathed fully and calm swept over us.

“This is where spirituality lies,” my mother said, with the surety of a new discovery. Staring death in the face and marveling at the supreme beauty of the universe, something in her had shifted. Her mama-bear stubbornness, her moments of confusion, anger, and sadness, were replaced by a calm acceptance. And my sister and I followed her lead.

Mom took us to the edge that day with her, to confront our own deaths as well as hers. In moments like this, what truly matters quickly shifts into focus; it becomes glaringly obvious that our time here is so finite and death can come at any moment. As the sea salt mist caressed our faces, we held each other tightly, in preparation for letting go.

Complete Article HERE!

The Biology of Grief

Scientists know that the intense stress of grieving can affect the body in various ways, but much remains a mystery.

By Ann Finkbeiner

In 1987, when my 18-year-old son was killed in a train accident, a chaplain and two detectives came to my house to notify me. I didn’t cry then, but a wall came down in my mind and I could do nothing except be polite and make the necessary decisions. When friends and relatives showed up, I was still polite, but the wall had now become an infinite darkness and I was obviously in shock, so they took over, helping me to eat and notify people and write death notices.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the more than 565,000 people who have died from Covid-19 in the United States. Each of them has left, on average, nine people grieving. That’s more than five million people going through the long process of grief.

Manisha Patel, a senior business systems analyst in Bensalem, Pa., lost her father, Ramesh Patel, to Covid-19 in June. “I have been through the toughest time of my life,” she said. “I feel heavier, but I weigh no more and I eat less. And there’s a lot of gray hair I didn’t have. My heart aches for him, it longs for him, it looks for him.”

When someone you love dies, experts have a pretty good sense of the path that grief takes through the mind, but have only a general sense of how it progresses through the rest of the body. First is a shock in which you feel numb or intensely sad or angry or guilty or anxious or scatterbrained or not able to sleep or eat or any combination of the above. During those first weeks, people have increased heart rates, higher blood pressure and may be more likely to have heart attacks. Over their lifetimes, according to studies done mostly on bereaved spouses, they may have a higher risk for cardiovascular disease, infections, cancer and chronic diseases like diabetes. Within the first three months, research on bereaved parents and spouses shows that they are nearly two times more likely to die than those not bereaved, and after a year, they are 10 percent more likely to die.

With time, most people stabilize; they begin to learn — gradually and on their own timeline — how to more or less continue with their lives and function in society. But studies suggest that after six to 12 months, about 10 percent of bereaved people have not begun to function better. They get stuck in what’s called “complicated grief”: they stay completely preoccupied with loss and persistent yearning, and remain socially withdrawn.

Scientists know that grief is not only psychological, it’s also physical. They know that it causes the brain to send a cascade of stress hormones and other signals to the cardiovascular and immune systems that can ultimately change how those systems function. But nobody knows how those systems act together to create the risks of diseases and even death.

One reason scientists don’t know more about the biology of grief is that only a handful of researchers study it, and they are usually psychologists with biological interests. Mary-Frances O’Connor, a psychologist who researches grief at the University of Arizona, studies both the psychology of grief and its biological changes in the laboratory and is one of the few researchers who straddles both fields. Hybrid science is seldom funded well; grief is neither a disease nor is it classified as a mental disorder, and the main funding agency, the National Institutes of Health, has no single established channel for funding it.

Nevertheless, researchers have found enough people to take surveys and get blood tests and scans to note some patterns.

Chris Fagundes, a psychologist at Rice University, said that in his own lab, he and his team have found links between grief, depression and changes to the immune and cardiovascular systems. In one study published in 2019, he and his team performed psychological assessments on 99 bereaved people about three months after the deaths of their spouses, and then took blood samples. Those who experienced higher levels of grief and depression also had higher levels of the immune system’s markers for inflammation.

“Chronic inflammation can be dangerous,” Dr. Fagundes said. “It can contribute to cardiovascular disease, Type 2 diabetes, some cancers.” In another study of 65 people, published in 2018, Dr. Fagundes and his colleagues found that bereaved spouses who had higher levels of markers for inflammation also had what experts refer to as lower heart rate variability — a characteristic that can contribute to an elevated risk for cardiovascular disease.

Other studies have found effects on the cardiovascular system, too. In one, published in 2012, researchers measured the heart rates of 78 bereaved people twice — once for 24 hours within the first two weeks of a spouse or child’s death, and again for the same amount of time six months later. They found that their heart rates were initially faster, then returned to normal, suggesting that the bereaved may have been at least temporarily at higher risk for heart disease. Another study published in 2012 found that those with higher scores on grief assessment tests also had increased levels of cardiovascular clotting factors, possibly raising the risk of developing blood clots.

And in one review of 20 studies, published in 2020, people who scored higher on psychological measures of grief also had higher levels of certain stress hormones like cortisol and epinephrine. Over time, chronic stress can increase the risk of cardiovascular conditions as well as diabetes, cancer, autoimmune conditions and depression and anxiety.

Put the studies together and on the whole, Dr. Fagundes said, “everything starts with the brain.” It responds to the death (and to intense stress in general), by releasing certain hormones that fan out into the body, affecting the cardiovascular system and the cells of the immune system. Aside from that generality, however, the biology of grief has no clear chain of cause-and-effect that the biology of, say, diabetes, has. That’s because the goals of these studies are to better understand the griever’s risks for disease, not to understand the path of grief through the body.

The one exception is with the study of the brain. In 2001, Dr. O’Connor first began imaging the grieving brain, and a handful of similar studies have been done since. In these studies, a person lies immobile in a functional magnetic resonance imaging (or fMRI) scanner, looks at certain pictures and listens to certain words, and the machine maps the blood flow to parts of the brain. In one study published in 2003, Dr. O’Connor found three areas of the brain that were triggered by words related to grief (like “funeral” or “loss”) and a fourth triggered by pictures of the person who died. Some of the brain areas were involved in the experience of pain, others in having autobiographical memories. These findings were “not world-stopping,” Dr. O’Connor said, “like, sure, that’s what happens in grief.”

But the responses recorded in another area, called the nucleus accumbens, were more surprising. This region is part of the brain’s network for reward, the part that responds to, say, chocolate, and it was active only in people with complicated grief. Nobody knows why this is so, but Dr. O’Connor theorized that in the continuing yearning of complicated grief, being reminded of a loved one with pictures and words might have the same reward as seeing a living loved one. In regular, uncomplicated grieving, the reminder is no longer connected to a living reward but is understood as a memory of someone no longer here.

All of these studies, however, have limitations. Many of them are small and haven’t been replicated. The researchers also don’t have the resources to follow the participants over time to see whether those with higher risks for a disease eventually develop that disease. Many studies are also a snapshot of one point in time, and will miss the changes that occur in most people over months and years. Studies using fMRI have limits all their own, too: “A lot of things could make the same areas light up,” Dr. O’Connor said, “and the same thing might not make the same areas light up in everyone or in one person over time.”

Grief, biological and psychological, is of course the result of another hard-to-study state, human attachment or love. “Humans are predisposed to form loving bonds,” Dr. O’Connor said, “and as soon as you do, your body is loaded and cocked for what happens when that person is gone. So all systems that functioned well now must accommodate the person’s absence.” For most people, the systems adjust: “Our bodies are amazingly resilient,” she said.

In a recent issue of the research digest UpToDate, medical doctors outlined the most current scientific studies on bereavement. One way to think about grieving, they said, is that the feeling of connection to the person who died “gradually moves from preoccupying the mind to residing comfortably in the heart.” I’m unsure about that word, “comfortably,” but yes, I’m no longer preoccupied. Now, 34 years after my son’s death, I’m back in charge, and if pain never quite goes away, then neither does love.

Complete Article HERE!

A Daughter Grieves Her Mom, And Finds Herself, In ‘Crying In H Mart’

By Kristen Martin

By the time I came to know Michelle Zauner as a writer, when The New Yorker published her personal essay “Crying in H Mart” in August 2018, I had been following her as a musician for five years.

I first saw her perform in Philadelphia as the frontwoman of emo band Little Big League in 2013; when she emerged with her poppy shoegaze solo project Japanese Breakfast in 2016, I recognized Zauner only in her soaring, searching voice.

Psychopomp, the first record Zauner released as Japanese Breakfast, hinted at where she had been in between: escorting her mother from the world of the living to that of the dead. The first track “In Heaven” tells some of the story of the aftermath of her mother’s death of cancer in 2014: “The dog’s confused / She just paces around all day / sniffing at your empty room / I’m trying to believe / When I sleep it’s really you / Visiting my dreams / like they say that angels do.” Those lyrics break me a little each time I hear them, reminding me of my own grief, of my own sweet childhood dog who looked for my mother and father after they both died of cancer when I was a teenager.

But where Psychopomp and her 2017 record Soft Sounds from Another Planet explore death and grief in sparse lyrics over upbeat synths, in “Crying in H Mart” Zauner digs much deeper. The essay meditates on how shopping at the Korean American supermarket H Mart brought her mother back to her but still made her loss sting. At H Mart, Zauner writes, “you’ll likely find me crying by the banchan refrigerators, remembering the taste of my mom’s soy-sauce eggs.”

“Crying in H Mart,” stood out to me as a representation of grief that I could relate to — one that doesn’t reach for silver linings, but illuminates the unending nature of loss: “Every time I remember that my mother is dead, it feels like I’m colliding into a wall that won’t give…a reminder of the immutable reality that I will never see her again.”

That essay became the first chapter of Zauner’s new memoir, also titled Crying in H Mart, which powerfully maps a complicated mother-daughter relationship cut much too short. Stories of Korean food serve as the backbone of the book, as Zauner plumbs the connections between food and identity. That search takes on new urgency after her mother’s death — in losing her mother, she also lost her strongest tether to Korean culture.

Zauner was born in Seoul, the daughter of Chongmi, a native of the city, and Joel, a white American. When she was a year old, the family relocated to Eugene, Oregon, where her mother ruled with an exacting nature. Chongmi was a woman in pursuit of perfection in everything, and of course this prodding extended to her only child. At a young age, Zauner realized that one way she could get her mother’s approval was demonstrating an adventurous appetite. On trips to Seoul, they bonded over midnight snacks on jet-lagged nights, when they “ate ganjang gejang…sucking salty, rich, custardy raw crab from its shell.”

Zauner’s food descriptions transport us to the table alongside her. On a college break, when her mother prepares galbi ssam, the relief of being cared for with a meal attuned to one’s tastes radiates off the page: “Blissfully I laid my palm flat, blanketed it with a piece of lettuce, and dressed it just the way I liked — a piece of glistening short rib, a spoonful of warm rice, a dredge of ssamjang, and a thin slice of raw garlic…I closed my eyes and savored the first few chews, my taste buds and stomach having been deprived of a home-cooked meal.”

It is this kind of care that Zauner attempts to repay for her mother when she is diagnosed with stage IV squamous-cell carcinoma in her stomach at age 56. After her mother’s diagnosis in May 2014, Zauner, then 25, moves home, ready to bolster Chongmi through chemotherapy with Korean cooking.

But chemo wrecks the appetite — I recall my mother being plagued with everything tasting as though it were laced with metal. During the first round of chemo, her mother can’t keep food down; during the second round, she develops mouth sores that make eating painful. When the chemo fails to shrink her tumor, Chongmi decides to forgo further treatment, having learned a lesson from her younger sister Eunmi, who died of colon cancer following 24 chemo treatments. In this, Crying in H Mart is a rare acknowledgement of the ravages of cancer in a culture obsessed with seeing it as an enemy that can be battled with hope and strength.

Zauner carries the same clear-eyed frankness to writing about her mother’s death five months after her diagnosis. One chapter recounts her mother’s last days, unconscious at home, her breathing “a horrible sucking like the last sputtering of a coffeepot.” It is rare to read about a slow death in such detail, an odd gift in that it forces us to sit with mortality rather than turn away from it.

Also notable is that Chongmi’s death does not fall at the end of the book. It comes just past halfway through, allowing Zauner ample space to grapple with the immensity of her loss. One balm that emerges is reconnecting with her Korean identity through finally learning to cook the dishes she longed to make for her mother.

As a teen, Zauner drifted away from her Koreanness, effacing that side of her heritage for fear of being seen as other. In those same years, she shrunk from her mother’s need for control and constant wheedling. Just as they established their adult relationship — just as Zauner begun to embrace her mother’s culture — her mother died: “What would have been the most fruitful years of understanding were cut violently short, and I was left alone to decipher the secrets of inheritance without its key.”

Cooking becomes the key. Her teacher is Maangchi, described by The New York Times as “YouTube’s Korean Julia Child.” In cooking, Zauner conjures ghosts: her aunt Eunmi munching on Korean fried chicken, her mother ordering more kimchi to go with knife-cut noodle soup in Seoul, her grandmother slurping black-bean noodles.

Near the end of the book, Zauner meditates on the process of fermenting kimchi, and how it allows cabbage to “enjoy a new life altogether.” She realizes that she needs to tend to her memories and heritage in the same way: “The culture that we shared was active, effervescent in my gut and in my genes, and I had to seize it, foster it so it did not die in me…If I could not be with my mother, I would be her.”

What Crying in H Mart reveals, though, is that in losing her mother and cooking to bring her back to life, Zauner became herself.

Complete Article HERE!

Losing Both Parents During COVID

— A Physician’s ‘Unwitnessed Grief’

The author with her parents, Betty and Stanley Walton

How a Pandemic Stole the Comforts of Mourning

By Melissa Walton-Shirley, MD

On a recent walk with our labradoodle, a woman standing outside her door caught my attention. Despite the mask and cane, I recognized her as the mother of a high school friend. I stopped for a yard visit, staying at a safe distance. She gingerly came toward me, searching with her cane for places in the soft ground that would not betray her. “I miss your parents so much,” she said, tears welling. I swallowed hard. Her words and the comforting whispers of others forever suspended in the darkness and space that COVID-19 brings to grieving.

The conversations meant for funeral visits, memorials, and wakes must now occur on the occasional lawn, across the grocery aisle, or by text and social media. Despite these attempts to wrap us in kindness, the essence of unwitnessed grief feels like the south pole of a magnet that searches for, but cannot find, its north. Our planet’s deaths from COVID number over 3 million, but not everyone who died in 2020 succumbed to the viral infection. Those of us who lost loved ones to other causes share one thing with those who mourn COVID deaths: the absence of our traditional mourning rituals.

There are no lines at the funeral home or packed memorial services where mourners can feel the love and support of a sea of friends and acquaintances at our backs. There are no tables crowded with food where we can commune in honor of those we loved. We will never get that back; our grief cannot be postponed until the pandemic is over. But that’s not all. This era has also robbed many elderly people of a good death.

A Socially Distanced Death

My husband Tony and I flew back to the United States in March 2020 from a trip to Israel. We connected through JFK when New Rochelle, New York, was on fire with the viral outbreak and the country was starting toward the height of COVID uncertainty. We quarantined for 14 days and then visited my elderly mom and dad on their side porch—a door between us. Their aide and near-constant companion helped my parents get situated near enough to the door to see our faces, and we used our phones on speaker. For weeks the cool Kentucky spring did not gift us enough warmth to visit outside.

In early May, I would get the closest to my father that I would ever be again—6 feet away as he sat on the swing on their front porch. It was there that he told me what I already knew: he was dying. There was no hug to follow.

I offered to take Dad to the hospital, but he declined. He was 88 years old and afraid of contracting the virus. He survived this long because of the many magnificent devices that cardiology has to offer, but the ravages of neuropathy and congestive heart failure had taken his mobility and his will.

A week later, he was febrile and bedfast. His carer raised the bedroom window so that we could speak through the screen. Tony and I spent the day. Seeing how weak Dad was, we went home to pack a bag so I could sleep on the porch underneath his window. I needed him to know I was there just in case. As I threw my things into the back of our car, I received a text. It was a video of my father sent by the night sitter asking me if he was “okay.” He had obvious agonal respiration, an image that no amount of time will erase. He was gone by the time I arrived.

Complete Article HERE!

How to Help a Grieving Neighbor

Grief can be a lonely process, made lonelier by a pandemic that has kept us apart from the people we love.

By Ronda Kaysen

Q: I live in a close-knit Upper East Side rental building, where neighbors trade phone numbers and collect one another’s packages. The woman who lives below me lost her husband in August after an illness. Since then, I’ve heard her wailing, talking and cursing to herself, clearly in despair. The neighbor below her also can hear the noises, but we don’t know how to approach this. I have offered the widow help with errands when I see her, so she knows we’re here for her, but she declines, and I don’t think that would really help anyway. Any advice on how we can handle this?

A: Grief can be a long, lonely process, made lonelier by a pandemic that has denied us opportunities to spend time with the people we love. At another time, your neighbor may have had more sources of comfort than she does now. Or, she may have a strong support network now, and just needs the space to grieve alone at home.

But you don’t know if she’s OK, and as a concerned neighbor you could certainly offer your support. Even if she has support, she may need more.

You were kind to offer help with her errands, but as you suspected, that may not be what she needs. “People don’t need help, they need company,” said Dr. Katherine Shear, founder and director of the Center for Complicated Grief at the Columbia School of Social Work. “Offering to do some errands or get things, that’s a very reasonable thing to do, but it’s not quite the same.”

Stop by her apartment to let her know that she’s been in your thoughts. Ask if she is OK, and if she has friends and family nearby who spend time with her. Remind her that she is not alone in the building. Ask if she might want some company. The flowers are blooming, the days are getting warmer — suggest taking a walk or sitting outside together.

People who are grieving “are not good company themselves, but they just need the presence of someone” who is willing “to share this very human experience,” said Dr. Shear, a psychiatrist.

Your neighbor may rebuff your initial request, but you can keep trying. The other concerned neighbor could follow up with a similar offer. If you run into her in the lobby, remind her that the offer still stands. “Gentle persistence is what I would call it,” Dr. Shear said. “Let your compassion be your guide.”

Complete Article HERE!

Your Guide To Coping With The Loss Of A Loved One

First and foremost: It’s okay not to be okay.

By Perri O. Blumberg

Along with what you’re going through individually, the world is going through collective grief: Amid the coronavirus pandemic, economic insecurity, and racial and political unrest, so many people are struggling to find hope. It’s hard to fathom the 562,000 lives (and counting) that we’ve lost in America alone from the pandemic. Hundreds of thousands of people are dealing with the loss of a loved one due to the virus.

On top of that, family members and loved ones are grappling with added layers of hardship and isolation the pandemic has created in the wake of a loved one’s passing, even if it’s not a COVID-19-related death. “Periods of grief following loss are notoriously isolating and difficult to navigate; grieving during a pandemic where many are socially distanced and unable to participate in traditional rituals of grieving, such as funerals and memorials, can make the process more complex,” says Courtney Bolton, PhD, a psychologist in Nashville, Tennessee.

And for the BIPOC community, it’s a particularly difficult time. “BIPOC communities have been disproportionately impacted by COVID deaths, and this reality is rooted in a long history of racial disparities within the healthcare system in the US,” says Pria Alpern, PhD, a psychologist in New York City who specializes in trauma and loss. Those inequities exist in mental healthcare too, which leaves BIPOC people in distress, less likely to gain access to the mental health services they need to process their grief, Alpern adds.

While navigating the death of a loved one is never easy, there are coping strategies out there that can help you through. Below, explore experts’ advice and steps you can take in dealing with loss.

How does loss affect you mentally and physically?

Can’t lie to you: It’s grueling, life-changing, and awful. “Losing a loved one triggers a grief response, which is a normal psychobiological response to loss. When someone is grieving, they may experience a combination of yearning, intense sadness, along with thoughts, memories, and images of the person who died,” shares Alpern.

Of course, grief is entirely individual, and just like no one reacts the same way emotionally, grief will physically manifest differently for everyone. But Alpern notes that common physiological symptoms of grief may include difficulty sleeping, fatigue, nausea, headaches, and decreased appetite.

What do the “stages of grief” mean and are they true for everyone?

You may have heard of the five stages of grief or the Kübler-Ross model, named after the Swiss American psychiatrist who formulated the theory. These stages consist of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Some psychologists and researchers also go by a seven-stage model, which also considers shock and guilt, and pain as part of the grieving process. If you’ve lost a loved one and don’t feel like you’ve hit all these stages, does that mean there’s something wrong with you? Not at all.

Again, grief looks different on everyone, and many experts actually steer people away from reading into this definition of grief too heavily. “It’s important that we don’t define the grieving process by these stages, but rather acknowledge that grief varies individual to individual,” says Helen Rogers Pridgen, MSW, LMSW, vice president of programs at the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. “Grief can be messy. It can be cyclical and linger around important life events, words not said, and memories of the one we lost. We must allow ourselves to feel whatever we feel.”

These stages of grief are often not linear, Bolton adds. You might experience denial and anger even long after you’ve reached a place of acceptance, or you may skip over certain stages altogether.

What are healthy ways to cope with grief?

Know that it’s okay not to be okay. If you are experiencing grief or loss, Dominique Pritchett, PsyD, LCSW, a therapist in Kenosha, Wisconsin, emphasizes that now is not the time to pretend that everything’s fine. “It’s okay not to have all the answers. And it’s okay to ask for help.”

Feel your feelings. We know, it sounds like your friendly meditation app coach, but it’s true. Sometimes, simply telling yourself “I feel sad,” acknowledging it, sitting with it, and observing your feelings and bodily sensations as they arise can help make you feel better.

In certain marginalized communities, being in touch with your emotions can prove especially difficult. “It’s important to keep in mind that based on the role you’re in, you may feel obligated to suppress these feelings because of stereotypes or un-empathetic environments,” says Pritchett. “For example, Black women are typically criticized for appearing angry and aggressive, whereas their white counterparts may be given more empathy and compassion.” Those feelings of anger and frustration can build up over time if they go unexpressed, she adds.

Focus on having a routine and making plans. “While initially, you may not want to do anything, after a couple of weeks of mourning, getting back into a daily routine helps reset our habits and helps our minds move forward,” says Bolton. Routines and goals can be useful when you’re mourning, to reintegrate back into your community and remind you of the meaning in your life, she says.

Don’t stop pursuing your hobbies. Bolton suggests filling your days with small, fleeting pleasures. That could be a hot bath, dinner with a friend, or something as simple as a good piece of chocolate. And whatever you enjoy doing on a regular basis, keep doing it. “Passions, or our hobbies, give us purpose and more fulfilling enjoyment. Both of these are excellent tools to combat the stressful feelings that may arise from loss,” Bolton says.

Honor your loved one’s life. Right now, this can feel challenging with the pandemic limiting in-person gatherings. But there’s still so much you can do. “It’s critical for many people to have a way to say goodbye or commemorate the passing of a loved one,” says Bolton. And currently, people might have to mourn in different ways, but “recalling positive memories and having the opportunity to share those with others helps us reimagine part of the mourning process that we enact in person at funerals,” adds Bolton.

She recommends creating some kind of keepsake about a loved one. That could mean putting together an album, a slideshow, or sharing pictures on a virtual site.

Trust in the passage of time. “Be patient with yourself and know that the process takes time, but the immediate pains will transform,” offers Bolton. “They may catch you by surprise down the road, and that’s okay. Be gentle and take care of yourself.” Time doesn’t heal all, but it can get you to a place where you may be able to look back on memories more fondly rather than being inundated with a surge of pain.

What can you say to someone who is experiencing the loss of a loved one?

It’s never easy to know how to comfort those who are grieving, whether it’s a relative, friend, or co-worker. Above all, sometimes just knowing you’re there for them can make a difference. “It’s important to validate, listen, and ask questions,” advises Alpern, cautioning people to avoid platitudes at all costs. Instead of saying things like “So sorry for your loss” or “That sucks,” try “I’m upset that this happened to you. What can I do to help?” or “It’s not fair that they’re gone. I don’t have words, but I’m here and listening,” she suggests. Or, a simple “How are you doing today?” a few weeks and months after a loved one’s death can really touch someone, too.

Alpern also recommends asking questions about the life and favorite memories of the person who died to create space for the grieving person to talk about the person they lost. It can feel uncomfortable but it supports the person grieving to create that space. “This is an important part of the grieving process. Be prepared to witness searing emotional pain and to sit with it,” says Alpern.

Even years after someone’s passing, on especially tough days, reaching out goes a long way. “Make note [to let someone know you’re thinking of them on] anniversaries of the passing, birthdays, or holidays, as these are often the most difficult times for individuals who are grieving,” Pritchett says.

Know that grief doesn’t just go away.

The experience of losing a loved one endures for a lifetime. Certain dates and even times of year will be hard annually, and even certain locations can be triggering. “The biggest misconception in our society is that grief goes away. Grief doesn’t go away, but it changes,” comments Alpern. “Over time, acute grief transforms and people integrate their grief in a way that allows them to continue living a fulfilling life.”

If you’re feeling consumed by grief and don’t feel you can continue with the routines of daily life, professional support, and in some cases, medication, can be key. “Seek out the support of a professional if you are struggling with your mental health. It can be comforting to share what you are experiencing with a trained professional,” says Rogers Pridgen.

In serious situations, you can also reach out to The Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741 or National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK, Rodgers Pridgen notes. There are also many grief support groups, so you may want to ask a friend for a local recommendation or consider a virtual bereavement group therapy platform, like Grouport and the Association for Mental Health and Wellness’ COVID-19 Bereavement Support Groups. The bottom line is that you’re not alone, and there are so many people grieving along with you—and resources out there to help you through it.

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