How Senator Joe Biden Dealt with Grief

On November 7, 1972 a relatively unknown lawyer named Joe Biden pulled off a big political upset. By just over 3,000 votes he defeated two-term incumbent U.S. Senator J. Caleb Boggs and became the fifth youngest Senator in U.S. history.

Despite the amazing victory, he almost never took the oath of office. On December 18, 1972 while Biden was in Washington D.C. looking at his new office space, his wife, Neilia, took their three children shopping for a Christmas tree and was involved in a fatal automobile accident. Neilia and his infant daughter, Naomi, were killed. His two sons, Hunter and Beau, were critically injured.

His life suddenly and unexpectedly changed, Biden suddenly found himself as a 30-year-old widower and single father. He also found himself filled with anger and doubt. In his memoir Promises to Keep Biden wrote, “I began to understand how despair led people to just cash it in; how suicide wasn’t just an option but a rational option … I felt God had played a horrible trick on me, and I was angry.”

A career in the U.S. Senate suddenly didn’t seem that important as being there for his two sons. He considered resigning before even taking the oath of office.  Beau recalled his father saying, “Delaware can get another senator, but my boys can’t get another father.”

Eventually other U.S. Senators like Senate Majority Leader Mike Mansfield and Massachusetts Senator Ted Kennedy convinced Biden to take the job the people of Delaware elected him to do. In January of 1973 he took the oath of office at his sons’ hospital bedside. However, because he still wanted to be there for his sons, he gave up his the home he and his late wife were planning to buy in Washington D.C. and commuted by train to and from his home - a practice he still continues.

Still, life wasn’t easy for the young Senator. At first he did the least amount of work required for his job. “My future was telescoped into putting one foot in front of the other … Washington, politics, the Senate had no hold on me,” Biden wrote. Senate staffers began placing bets on how long Biden would last.

No one would have blamed Biden for quitting. After all, he has lost half his family. But Biden didn’t quite. Despite his grief, Biden he hung on and slowly began rebuilding his shattered life.

It wasn’t until 1975, however, when Biden met Jill Jacobs. Falling in love again renewed Biden’s interest in life and politics. “It had given me the permission to be me again,” Biden wrote in his memoir. Two years later they married.

With his renewed passion, Biden continued what was to become a successful political career. He was re-elected five times to the Senate. He served as Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee from 1987-1995 and currently serves as Chairman of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations.  In 2008, after a second failed attempt to become the Democrat’s presidential nominee, he was asked to be Sen. Barack Obama’s Vice Presidential running mate.

“Failure at some point in your life is inevitable but giving up is unforgivable,” Biden said during his Vice Presidential acceptance speech at the 2008 Democratic National Convention.

It’s impossible to say what would have happened to Biden if he had decided to give up.

But he didn’t.

For those who have lost a spouse, Joe Biden’s story is one of hope. If you continue to put one foot in front of the other, no matter how difficult it may be, there are better days ahead. Despite the challenges and obstacles he faced as a 30-year-old widower, Biden rebuilt his life and his family.

Each day we make the decision to push forward or give up. Each day that decision will bring us closer to rebuilding our lives or falling back into darkness. Though difficult, Biden chose to live and reaped the rewards of his efforts.

You have the same choice to make.

Don’t blow it.

“He Loved those Slippers” – Dealing with the Belongings of Your Departed Spouse

The closet full of his shirts, ties, jackets and slacks.  His well worn slippers next to his side of the bed.  His wallet and eyeglasses.  His razor and toothbrush.  The tool chest in the garage.  His tennis racket.  His harmonica collection and guitars.  His treasured complete set of vintage Beatles imports on vinyl.  All those science fiction books that fill more than half of our bookcases.

What do we do with all the “stuff” that belonged to our spouse who has died?

So many people stand ready to quickly offer glib advice on this topic:  “Donate it all to charity.”  “Find a good home for each thing.”  “Just clear it away as soon as you can and move on.”  “Don’t do anything with it for one year.”

 Just as the grief for each loss has its own pathway and timeline, so too does the answer to the question “What am I going to do with his or her belongs?”

Dealing with Steve’s belongings was really hard for me.

Immediately after his death, perhaps the most pressing for me was dealing with all of his “durable medical goods,” including the hospital bed, the oxygen apparatus, the walker, the feeding tube pacer, and all the related items.  These were dismal reminders that he was gone and was not coming back, that all the treatments he so bravely underwent didn’t work.  Hospice had so kindly arranged to have all the stuff delivered, and it truly was a lifesaver during Steve’s final days.  However, after he died, it was left to me to figure out how to get it back.  We’d set up the hospital bed down in the den, so Steve could be comfortable watching TV, with easy access to a bathroom.  For days after he died, the now-empty bed lurked in the middle of the den, awaiting pick-up by the supplier, despite my many phone calls.  After several days fruitlessly awaiting their missed appointments, it was so depressing to see it that my daughters and I hoisted it out through the patio door and put it on our garden lawn.  I then called the supplier and said, “I think it’s supposed to rain tonight… ummm… if you want the bed, you might want to arrange to get it picked up this afternoon.”  One hour later they were there.

Steve had been on heavy-duty medications, and we’d just received a full month’s delivery shortly before he died.  These were really expensive items, some of them close to $600 per dose.  I called the pharmacy to see if they wanted the unopened packages back, and they said they couldn’t accept them, that I should just toss them.  I was reluctant to throw away medications that might possibly be of use to someone else, and called several free medical clinics.  Nobody was interested, and in the end, I tossed them.

The rest of Steve’s things remained where they had been left for several months.  I was unable to do anything.  The slippers sat next to the bed.  His toothbrush nestled next to mine.  I loved seeing his ties, so precisely arranged, in his closet.  I think it all gave me hope:  Maybe this was a bad dream, from which I’d soon awake and find all right with the world again!  On a more pragmatic level, I honestly didn’t have a clue what to do with all his stuff.

And I felt guilty that I had let so much time lapse without even touching it.  I just couldn’t.  One of my bereavement facilitators from the Grief Workshop advised me not to worry, that I’d know when to deal with it.  “How?” I asked.  Her answer was simple:  “When you are ready, you’ll be able to deal with it!”

She was right.  About six months after Steve died, I realized I was beginning to be ready.  I still could not do it all at once… every item seemed to be emotionally charged, like a ticking time bomb, just waiting to make me shatter into a long crying jag.  One of my friends told me to try drinking a glass of wine prior to dealing with it, to relax.  This wasn’t my style.  Instead my daughters blended me a frosty and potent strawberry daiquiri.  Liquid courage?  You bet!  I needed all the help I could get!

I started with just his socks.  He seemed to have thousands of pairs… I never realized one guy could own so many!  He literally had three big drawers, crammed with socks, all organized according to color and type.  I filled up a large Hefty bag with them, and took them to the local thrift shop.

This was a big step for me.  One of the things that had been holding me back was the idea that I had to find the “perfect home” for each of Steve’s belongings.  I’d think, “Oh, my brother Ernest would love that jacket.”  “Bud would fit these pants.”  “Ben might enjoy those boots.”  But I just couldn’t seem to part with anything given that train of thought. 

Fortunately, at one point, an inspiration flashed into my mind:  I didn’t have to find the perfect owners; the new owners could find his stuff themselves, at the local thrift shop.  This may seem pretty basic, however, for those who are dealing with the broken heart of spouse loss, even basic decisions like these can be challenging!

After the socks, it became a little easier with each category I dealt with.  I next did the underwear.  Then his t-shirts.  (I kept all his vintage rock & roll t-shirts from the concerts he’d attended through the years - our daughters wanted them as keepsakes.)  (And I’ll add here, that prior to giving anything away, I let our daughters know that if they wanted to keep anything at all, they could.)  One of my friends actually had her husband’s t-shirts made into a patchwork quilt.  Another found a person who transforms golf shirts into teddy bears, and had one made for each of their children.

Steve had a mighty tie collection - he had received many of the ties as gifts from me or our daughters, and they held special memories of events he’d attended while wearing them.  I actually saved most of them, but gave several away to family and friends who I knew would appreciate them.

Of his personal items, I decided to keep his top left drawer intact, where he’d always stored his wallet and pocket stuff.  It’s still nice to occasionally poke through the contents, savoring the feeling of his well worn leather wallet, listening to the ticking of his wristwatch, trying on his eyeglasses.  I also couldn’t let go of his shaving kit.  I loved the smell of his aftershave and the way he’d so precisely arranged its contents.

For some reason, I got highly emotional dealing with Steve’s shoes - remembering his characteristic gait, how he’d dance, him running all over the tennis court, hiking in Yosemite, his wingtips running up the escalator to the BART platform, the cowboy boots he’d found on his cross-country odyssey with his best friend at age 18…. I tried to sort through all the shoes several times, but each brought a downpour of tears, so I decided to save these until the last.

Now, five years later, there are still many of Steve’s belongings throughout the house.  His vinyl record collection stands tall, intact, in the corner of the den.  His tennis racket hangs on its peg in the garage, ready for friends who are making up a foursome.  The tools have migrated from where he carefully stored them to their new homes, scattered around the house, as we’ve used them and neglected to follow his strict rules of rapidly returning them to their rightful place.  (We chuckle, knowing he’d be flipping out now about this, were he here!)  We’ve adopted his guitars, and actually even took lessons so we could learn to play them!  And Steve’s hundreds of books still fill the bookcases, even though I doubt that I or our daughters will ever read most of them.  Maybe someday I’ll be able to deal with them.

How will I know when?  When I can!

How are you dealing with all the belongings of your spouse? What feelings come up for you as you sift through what remains of this person you so loved?  I’d love to hear about your experiences …

 

Beverly Chantalle McManus lives in Northern California with her two daughters, who have each now graduated from college. She is a bereavement facilitator and core team member of the Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey Workshops, and a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief. In addition to grief support, she is also a marketing executive for professional services firms.

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus

“When Things Go to Hell in a Handbasket” — Coping with the Financial Aspects of Spouse Loss

For most of our 20 years of marriage, Steve very capably handled all the finances and paperwork for our household.  He brought his skills as an accountant and legal librarian to managing all of our accounts, organizing all of our paperwork and files, handling all the taxes and associated documentation, and making sure all the bills were paid on time each month. 

Like almost everything else he did, he made it seem effortless.  I remember breezily watching him zip his way around Quicken, and always pretended to be interested when he’d show me the latest budget he’d created, complete with pie charts and schedules.  But it was always his thing.  All I needed to know was that there was money in the account and that my checks and ATM withdrawals wouldn’t bounce. 

Even up until the week before he died, he was handling all the bills and accounts, in his ever- meticulous style.  By that point, he was so sick, yet he wanted to contribute to the household in any way he could.  Even though we didn’t want to admit that our time together was short, we both subconsciously knew it.  A week before his death, we were in San Francisco, visiting his mom.  We decided to stop by our bank branch to make sure all our accounts could be easily accessed by me, and as well, to change the safe deposit box signatories, because Steve had heard somewhere that sometimes there are hassles.  Little did we realize that less than a week later, he’d be gone.  

Some surviving spouses are faced with an immediate financial crisis upon the death of the spouse.  Suddenly, they are confronted with a massive mortgage or rent payment that used to be covered by two incomes.  If children are in the picture, often additional child care costs are added to the budget.  Just dealing with the costs associated with the funeral and burial can be staggering. 

Adding to the burden, for me, was the sense that my mind had fractured into thousands of pieces and my brain wasn’t making the connections it normally could be counted upon to make.  My memory was a joke, my internal clock somehow had vaporized, and even the calendar challenged me by switching months and dates seemingly at random.  I’d just barely get used to writing “April” on my checks, and it was already September! 

In this state of mind, dealing with the mountains of paperwork and financial decisions associated with Steve’s death nearly sent me over the edge of sanity.  I was tempted to ignore the mounting pile of mail that seemed to grow by six inches each day.  Just opening up the file cabinet and seeing Steve’s carefully maintained filing system, with his handwriting describing the contents of each file, would send me into an emotional meltdown.  Because I’d just started a new job, I felt compelled to immediately return to work, to make up for all the time I’d taken off to care for Steve during his illness.  Long hours, a fractured mind, and a volatile emotional system combined to make me want to run away every time I thought of the finances.  And worst of all, I knew Steve would absolutely have a fit if he saw the condition of our home office! 

No matter how prepared I thought we were, there were a lot of things I wish I’d known at the time, and a lot of things I’d wished I’d discussed with Steve before he died, and a lot of things I’ve learned since, as I’ve dealt with the financial aspects of my husband’s death. 

Things I’ve learned:   

• Be sure to request at least 20 official copies of the death certificate. It seems morbid, but you’ll need them, for all sorts of things, including dealing with the Social Security office, making insurance claims, changing the name on your mortgage, and closing or changing the names of credit card accounts. (I think I have three of the 20 copies left.)
• Make sure you have all of your spouse’s PIN (Personal Identification Numbers), for everything from ATM cards to cell phone messages. Of course, store these in a secure place.
• Try to stay on top of the bills. Some credit cards will now automatically increase the interest rate they charge if you’re even one day late. You don’t want to ruin your good credit rating just because you’re existing in a grief fog. (If for some reason, you accidentally do get a late fee, call the organization and explain the situation. Usually, they’ll waive it under the circumstances, and your credit will be safe.)
• Some things, like bills and the mortgage, must be dealt with immediately. But other things can wait, like changing the credit card account names, and updating the county property files. Even though the funeral and burial or cremation need to take place immediately, you can take your time arranging for the memorial grave marker.
• Especially if children are involved, make sure your own estate planning paperwork is up-to-date and everything is in order since the death of your spouse. My uncle has a “When Things Go to Hell in a Handbasket” binder in which he stores all important documentation, a copy of the will and trusts, applicable insurance, banking and investment account numbers, and more. He keeps it in a safe place, but has made it a point to show his child and a few close family members where it is, just in case.
• One of the best pieces of advice came to me from our wonderful funeral director, Dell Crane, who said, “It is not a bad thing to walk slowly at this time.” For some reason, widows and widowers seem to be the target of every con artist in town, and a good rule of thumb is that unless a change is absolutely necessary, don’t make any big decisions for at least a year following the death, including selling your house, moving, changing financial advisors, or making big investments. If you receive a big chunk of insurance money, put it into a conservative money market account at least temporarily, but don’t fall prey to potential swindlers who always seem to pop up with the “opportunity of a lifetime.”
• Don’t panic! Help is just a phone call away. There are professional organizers who will go to your home and help you make sense of all the paperwork and “stuff.” Financial planners and accountants are more than ready to jump in and assist, when called upon. Yes, you’ll pay a fee for these services, but in the long run, will assuredly agree it was money well spent.

How did your spouse’s death impact you financially?  What feelings arise as you deal with the financial repercussions of your loss?  How are you dealing with those feelings?  Please feel to share your experiences…

 

Beverly Chantalle McManus lives in Northern California with her two daughters, who have each now graduated from college. She is a bereavement facilitator and core team member of the Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey Workshops, and a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief. In addition to grief support, she is also a marketing executive for professional services firms.

 

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus

“Doesn’t God Listen?” — Coming To Grips With The Spiritual Aspects Of Spouse Loss

My prayers started the moment Steve was diagnosed with esophageal cancer:  “Please God, please, send a miracle.  Let him be in the 15% of those who statistically beat this cancer.  God, I beg you to restore Steve to health, please heal him completely, as you have so many times in the past.”   This and similar fervently issued prayers were to continue even up to the day Steve died, exactly six months later.

Those of us who have lost our spouses despite prayers such as these have experienced first-hand one part of how grief and loss affects us spiritually.  We can be left wondering, “Why him or her?”  “Why not me?”  “Doesn’t God listen?”  “Does this mean God doesn’t care?” 

Grief and loss affects us profoundly on a spiritual level, whether we are affiliated with any one religious organization, or if we are those who walk our own spiritual paths.  The loss of our spouse can leave us feeling isolated and disconnected from the larger universe, from the web in which humankind exists. 

I know that after Steve died, I doubted that there could even be a God who would permit such a thing to happen.  I’d grown up being taught that we have a Heavenly Father who loves us.  But if he loves us so much, why would he let Steve die?  And how could he let me experience so much pain?  

During the time of loss, some people feel immense satisfaction and comfort from the words of their scriptures or from their pastors, rabbis or ministers.  I didn’t.  I felt like I’d scream if even one more person told me, “Take comfort — he’s now in a better place.”  Or, worse, “Well at least you know you have an eternal family… it must feel good to know your family will always be together forever.” 

Put my head in a blender.  Press “Whirl.” 

I couldn’t even come up with a response when I was offered such bromides.  I’d just paste a benign smile on my face and nod.  And inside, seethe. 

But I couldn’t seethe too much, because I was also extremely thankful to be encircled by such a loving community of kind souls who surrounded us with love and support throughout Steve’s illness and after his death.  I realized they were simply trying to offer comfort in the only way they knew how. 

At that point, I didn’t really care about anything that might or might not happen after we were all gone from this earth… I missed Steve NOW.  I wanted him to still be ALIVE.  My daughters needed their Daddy to support them as they transitioned from their teens into adulthood.  I missed the presence of my best friend.  That person I could lean against.  My sounding board.  The other half of my memory bank! 

I felt abandoned by my God, and felt angry that my trust had been betrayed, and that I was forced to discover this at the lowest point in my life!  And because I was still in shock and so numb at that point, I couldn’t even recognize what I was feeling.  I just knew that I had never felt so alone in my life. 

What I’ve learned:  For many months, I carried enormous guilt that my faith had so totally disappeared, and when I learned while attending the grief workshops that this spiritual disconnection I felt is a very normal aspect of grief, I felt immense relief.  

I also have come to realize that the numbness that envelopes us upon the death of a spouse is actually a gift.  I think of it as a protective buffer that allows us to gradually come to terms with the loss, because if we fragile humans were forced to endure the full measure and enormity of the pain all at once, it would kill us.  Instead, I think God has provided us with a period where we feel the pain incrementally as we gradually awaken to the reality of the death.  For this, I am thankful. 

One thing that I heard in the workshop gives me a lot of comfort (and makes me smile):  “It’s okay to be mad at God.  He’s a big God.  He can take it!” 

As I continue walking my grief pathway, I can see how much I have grown spiritually since Steve’s death.  I began my journey as a person who had the unshaken faith of a child and had put 100% of my hope into God sending a miracle to heal Steve.  I transitioned through a period of seeming lack of faith to one where I can now see the miracles that surround me every day.  I have been slowly rebuilding my relationship with God, and now, five years since Steve’s death, feel confident that I can once again put my trust there.  I guess that I now understand that our prayers are always listened to, but that we just don’t always receive the answers we desire. 

And, in addition to feeling a reconnection with God, I also have experienced a sense of spiritual connection with Steve.  Just as I pray silently to God, I often find myself speaking silently (and sometimes even aloud) to Steve, asking questions, seeking affirmation for hard decisions, wanting him to know how much I miss him and how much I’ll always love him. 

I have felt his presence at my side, I have benefited from his support when feeling lost, and have been comforted knowing that even though his heart stopped beating physically, we are still connected on a heart level and I know he still loves me. 

How has the death of your spouse affected your spiritual life?  For some people, grief strengthens their faith.  For others, questions arise.  I’d love to hear how you’ve been doing in this area. 

 

Beverly Chantalle McManus lives in Northern California with her two daughters, who have each now graduated from college.  She is a bereavement facilitator and core team member of the Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey Workshops, and a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief. In addition to grief support, she is also a marketing executive for professional services firms.

 

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus

Dealing With the Suicide of a Spouse

Larry from Virginia asks: I am angry at my wife and angry at God.  My wife shot herself after receiving the news that she had been fired for a drinking problem. How do I deal with the fact that my pastor says, “God does not give more than we can endure?” Some days I feel like jumping off a bridge but I have two boys to raise.  Any advice?

Abel Keogh, author of the memoir, Room for Two (Cedar Fort, 2007), responds: I’m so sorry to hear about your wife’s suicide. My heart and prayers go out to you and your two boys.

There’s nothing wrong with being angry at your wife for her actions. It’s a normal part of the grieving process. Her actions have left behind a wake of sadness and unanswered questions. You have every right to be angry.

What you’re going through isn’t easy to endure, but it is possible. You deal with the grief, anger, and frustration hour by hour, one day at a time. The hurt isn’t going to magically go away overnight. But it will subside so long as you keep living your life and raising your sons. That means getting out of bed every morning, going about your life, and be the best dad you can be. And when the anger reaches a breaking point, you find a healthy way to let it out.

What I learned from my late wife’s suicide is that despite the tragedies and setbacks we experience, if we play our hand right, we can arise from the ashes a better and stronger person. You have a wonderful opportunity to be an example of strength and optimism to your two boys, family, and loved ones. Don’t let the anger and bitterness consume your life. Take things one day at a time and cherish every moment with the sons that are looking to you for guidance during this tragic time.

See more about Abel Keogh at www.AbelKeogh.com.

“The Pain Was So Intense” — Dealing with the Emotions of Spouse Loss

My entry into widowhood began in 2002 when our family was enjoying a long-awaited summer vacation in Hawaii and my husband Steve noticed he was having trouble swallowing.  It wasn’t just that it was hard to swallow, but it actually hurt.  He promised to get it checked out when we returned home.  But neither of us expected the first two words that came out of the doctor’s mouth when he returned for his lab results:  “It’s cancer.” 

What?  How could this be?  Just a few weeks earlier Steve had been surfing, snorkeling, hiking all over Kauai.  Now the doctor was telling us that Steve had a relatively rare form of cancer, but that there were treatments they’d start immediately and we’d hope for the best. 

Unfortunately, despite intense chemo and the most advanced radiation treatment available, three months after the diagnosis, when they went in for surgery to just clean up any remaining cancer cells, the surgeon discovered that it had spread throughout his entire abdominal cavity, wrapped itself around his heart, and was inoperable.  Instead of trying to remove the cancer, the surgeon then spent the next nine hours crafting an alternative esophagus, so that during Steve’s remaining time on earth he’d at least be able to swallow, something he hadn’t been able to do for the last few months. 

By the time the surgeon finally walked into the waiting room, I was the only person remaining.  He slowly shook his head… and answered my unasked question:  “Three to six months.” 

Up until that point, I’d remained steadfastly optimistic, knowing deep in my bones that Steve was strong, that he was going to beat this.  Yes, he was very sick but he was going to bounce back, just as he had done when he’d had a detached retina, a collapsed lung, a shattered elbow, or any number of other acute crises that took him to the emergency room at least once a year. 

I never could have imagined the staggering pain I’d feel when I heard that doctor announce the results of the surgery:  I felt as if someone had plunged a dagger deep into my heart. 

From that point, the pain only got worse.  As Steve began his slow recovery from surgery, I tried to remain upbeat for him, but my heart was weeping.  I’d drive back and forth to the hospital, and my route took me past a long series of cemeteries, which would further remind me of Steve’s impending fate.  After being with him all day at the hospital, I would drive home, trying to figure out how to go on, how to stay focused on the present, while my beautiful husband was still here, rather than jumping into all the uncertainties of the future. 

I felt so alone during that time, and the pain — of knowing that I’d soon be losing my best friend, my companion for more than half my life, my sweetheart — was tearing me up inside.  I couldn’t allow myself to believe it, even though my heart knew otherwise.  One night, the tears wouldn’t stop, and I found myself 20 miles north of my freeway exit before I even realized where I was…

Through it all, I tried to hold it together for our daughters, who were 16 and 18 at the time, so that even though their Daddy was sick, they’d have someone strong they could still lean against. 

Exactly three months after the surgery, on February 19, 2003, Steve died, at home, with me and our two daughters at his side. 

I thought I’d experienced pain before.  Wrong.  It was just a light precursor to what I felt after he died.  The pain was so intense, I thought I would die too. 

But I had a problem:  I had no idea how to deal with all the feelings I was having…  I’d grown up in a wonderful, tight-knit family.  Like many Americans, the only permissible feelings were “Don’t make a scene” and “Do you want something to cry about?”  If we had a sour face, we were to turn that frown upside down, into a smile.  And if we really did have something to cry about, we were to do it in private, so as not to disturb anyone.

But I felt like crying all the time.  And even though, yes, there was an initial period of numbness, as that rapidly wore off, the pain threatened to overwhelm me: 

I felt lonely. 

I felt bereft. 

I felt abandoned. 

I felt angry (at Steve, for leaving me; at the doctors, for not curing him; at God, for letting this all happen… the list goes on!). 

I felt sad. 

I felt guilty (why hadn’t I insisted on alternative therapies?  why hadn’t I let Steve know how much I appreciated him? ).

I felt exhausted.

I felt isolated. 

Oh, the list of feelings I experienced so intensely could go on and on.  (And I’m sure yours could too!)  The reality is that even five years later, I continue to experience these feelings at times, sometimes with the same ferocious intensity as if Steve had just died moments earlier, and sometimes through a layer of healing that takes the sting out. 

What I’ve learned:  All these (and many more) feelings are normal when we have suffered a profound loss.  The key to healing is to not deny what we’re feeling, nor try to hide it in privacy.  I’ve found that I needed (and still need) to embrace those feelings as they arise, to really acknowledge them, give them the respect they are due.  I was feeling that way because I loved so deeply.  And to honor that love, I needed to really feel what was coming up, even if those feelings were incredibly uncomfortable. 

What feelings did you experience when your spouse died?  How are you dealing with those feelings?  And, how have those feelings changed in the time since the death?  I’d like to hear about your experiences…

 

Beverly Chantalle McManus lives in Northern California with her two daughters, who have each now graduated from college. She is a bereavement facilitator and core team member of the Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey Workshops, and a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief. In addition to grief support, she is also a marketing executive for professional services firms.

 

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus