It made front page news in March 2022, and for those of us who have lost loved ones in the past few years (whether due to COVID, other illnesses or tragedies) it's a relevant, albeit painful, subject.  
It's the subject of grief. The newly revised Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5-TR), also known as Psychiatry's Bible, has added a new diagnosis — prolonged grief disorder (PGD) — which has been the topic of heated discussion among psychiatrists, therapists, researchers and others who deal with those left behind when a death occurs. 
Is it helpful to call chronic grieving a disorder, or is labeling the process of working through a loss, even if it takes longer than people think it "should" take, something that can be hurtful or even harmful?
In her new book, "The Grieving Brain," psychologist and neuroscientist Mary-Frances O'Connor writes, "A mental disorder shares a fuzzy boundary with normative human difficulties. Researchers and psychologists are working hard to understand and explain the murky boundary between disordered grieving and the universal human pain of loss."
It can be comforting to know that other people have struggled in the same way and that you are not the only one suffering so terribly. 
Prolonged grief disorder impacts approximately 7 - 10% of all bereaved persons. It can be comforting to know that other people have struggled in the same way and that you are not the only one suffering so terribly. It is validating for family and friends to know that it is a disorder and that you just can't "snap out of it."
Some experts, insisting that everyone has their own time frame for healing, worry that pathologizing prolonged grief by calling it a disorder could potentially make some people feel worse about themselves. However, news of the diagnosis has spread the word that there are treatments aimed at lessening symptoms, and that reaching out for help can speed the process of recovery, which is a positive thing.
Understanding the Grief Process
"We now know that time alone does not heal all wounds," says Mariann Arcari Rubin, a psychotherapist and certified grief recovery specialist in Nassau County, New York. "It is important to notice when you are triggered (for instance, when you unexpectedly discover a photo in the corner of a drawer) to feel the feelings of loss, to articulate them, and to process the whole array of complex emotions with a trusted listener so you can move forward and past these debilitating feelings."
In the "normal" grieving process, the first stage is acute grief, marked by strong feelings of longing and sorrow, insistent thoughts and memories of the person who died. Other painful emotions such as anger, guilt, remorse or anxiety may be present.
The "adapting to loss" stage is marked by acceptance of the reality and permanence of the death and working toward rebuilding one's capacity to experience a sense of well-being.
Loss of a loved one through death is a risk factor for development of depression, which is why getting early treatment for prolonged grief disorder is so important. 
There can be a mixture of negative and positive feelings, as the loved one is remembered with warmth, love or pride, possibly mixed with relief that the deceased is no longer suffering. The goal of this stage is to begin to envision a future that can be filled with purpose, meaning and satisfaction.
"Integrated grief" is a lasting, bittersweet form of grief which has a place in the person's life but does not dominate it or have great influence over feelings, thoughts or behaviors. Integrated grief generally stays in the background, but the intensity of the pain may be reactivated on an anniversary, birthday or holiday for years to come.
When the process stalls, people can suffer from Prolonged Grief Disorder. While there are some similarities to depression, in prolonged grief the thoughts and feelings circle more around the deceased, while in depression the emotions are more free-floating. 
Depression is marked by a lack of enjoyment in any activity and a sense of hopelessness, often with feelings of worthlessness or self-hatred.
Loss of a loved one through death is a risk factor for development of depression, which is why getting early treatment for prolonged grief disorder is so important. 
As listed in the DSM-5-TR, PGD has very specific criteria, which includes the core symptoms of persistent intense yearning and longing and preoccupation with thoughts and memories of the person who died. The death must have been at least 12 months ago (six months for children and adolescents.) At least three of the below symptoms must also be present on most days:
·      A marked sense of disbelief
·      Avoidance of reminders of the loss
·      Intense emotional pain related to the loss
·      Difficulty engaging and reintegrating in ongoing life
·      Emotional numbness
·      Life feels meaningless, and the future seems bleak and empty 
·      Feelings of identity confusion or disruption
·      Intense loneliness as a result of the death
These symptoms must cause significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning. 
Risk factors for the development of prolonged grief include a history of mood or anxiety disorders; when the death is sudden, unexpected or violent; when a young person dies; when there is more than one loss within a short period of time and when the normal mechanisms for grieving are unable to take place.
Pandemic deaths, when families were unable to be with dying loved ones and when memorial services were only able to be viewed on computer screens, contain many of the ingredients that could lead to a painful and difficult-to-resolve extended period of grief.
Treating Prolonged Grief Disorder
Over the years, there have been a number of treatments designed specifically for people who are struggling with grief.
One of the most effective, Prolonged Grief Disorder Therapy (PGDT), formerly called Complicated Grief Therapy, is a short-term therapy which fosters adaptation to the loss by addressing stuck points and promoting what are referred to as healing milestones. These include accepting grief and letting it find a place in your life, learning to live with reminders of the loss, and finding ways to ease emotional pain.
"One of the most powerful activities we encourage is to write a letter to the deceased with apologies, forgiveness or 'significant emotional statements.'" 
Developed by psychiatrist Dr. Katherine Shear, founding director of the Center for Complicated Grief at Columbia University School of Social Work in New York, its effectiveness has been shown in multiple studies including randomized clinical trials funded by the National Institutes of Mental Health, and it is now being used by clinicians across the country.
The Grief Recovery Method is an evidence-based program aimed at helping people identify how their loss is affecting them and what factors may be hindering their healing.
"Individuals go through a structured process which includes sessions with a specialist, readings about grief, loss and coping, and suggestions for stress-relieving behaviors. One of the most powerful activities we encourage is to write a letter to the deceased with apologies, forgiveness or 'significant emotional statements,'" explains Rubin.
Another form of treatment proven to be effective is exposure therapy, paired with cognitive behavioral therapy, where the bereaved are encouraged to repeatedly revisit intense and overwhelming memories and emotions about the death while the therapist provides support.
Antidepressant medications, surprisingly, do not appear to be useful in reducing symptoms of prolonged grief disorder, more proof that it differs from clinical depression. 
Because there are some similarities between the strong feelings of craving, yearning and attachment seen in bereavement and those during the withdrawal process in addiction, there are several clinical trials using oral Naltrexone (which is currently used for alcohol and opioid dependence) as pharmacological treatment for prolonged grief disorder.
"We bereaved are not alone," wrote Helen Keller. "We belong to the largest company in all the world — the company of those who have known suffering."
Grief aches and throbs and breaks our hearts, but it does not have to ruin our lives forever. There is help, there is hope and there is healing. 


When Grief Doesn't Go Away

Barbra Williams Cosentino

The uprising in Minneapolis following the killing of George Floyd by police brought local church leaders out into the streets, where they marched for justice alongside thousands of protesters.
"I couldn't stop the people at New City Church from protesting if I tried," said the Rev. Tyler Sit, pastor at New City Church in South Minneapolis. "The very thing that attracts people to New City Church is the thing that is bringing people out to the streets."
The church community — especially the Black church — has always had a foot in civil rights and racial justice work. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a preacher after all.
Some church leaders in Minneapolis say it's up to the faith community to actively dismantle white supremacy in an intersectional way.
"A lot of times you'll hear activists say, 'We don't need your thoughts and prayers. We need you to do something about it.'"
"I'm a pastor for First Covenant Church in Minneapolis. I'm also an African American woman and a mother. And I am lesbian," the Rev. Jia Starr Brown said. "And I share those pieces of elements of my life because there are needs in all of those sectors. They all intersect in the conversation surrounding racial justice."
This is work these church leaders have been doing for years, only intensified by the recent uprising.
Rewire spoke with Minneapolis church leaders about where they see the church within the Black Lives Matter movement and about racial justice as a whole:
Reverend Tyler Sit, Pastor, New City Church
On prayers and action:
New City Church really cares about intersectionality. That means there are people who are queer people of color at New City, and they want to see both queerness and racism addressed at the same time, because it lives in our bodies at the same time. I don't get to wake up and decide if I'm Asian today or if I'm gay today; I am both Asian and gay.
Rev. Tyler SitWe know if we do one topic at a time, it'll never address a multi-identity person.
Nowadays, the trope of 'prayers and thoughts' is kind of a soft way of saying inaction. Like, a lot of times you'll hear activists say, 'We don't need your thoughts and prayers. We need you to do something about it.'
And I think that as a faith leader, I see that as my responsibility to show that thoughts, prayers and actions are all actually part of the same movement toward justice.
On grief as justice work:
From experience, I know that the injustices our society causes are complicated and formidable, and they won't go away without people dedicating their whole selves — their body, mind and spirit — to the work.
And the reason why grief is so important is because it allows us to bring our heart into the work. Otherwise, we'll just be responding based on fear, which eventually subsides, or adrenaline, which eventually subsides, or guilt, which eventually subsides. But it's grief that truly moves us into committed and whole-body activism.
I think that a lot of the role that I'm finding for myself, especially as these vigils continue to evolve, is telling the story of what people are experiencing, and giving a platform for that so that they're able to share their experience in ways that aren't being reflected in journalism otherwise.
Reverend Dana Neuhauser, Minister of Public Witness, New City Church
On starting a conversation:
Clergy and laypeople need to find ways to build on-ramps for people who are new to the conversation. You can't go from addition to calculus in one leap. So, what are the pathways for people to develop and grow?
Rev. Dana NeuhauserIt's just not enough that the church be involved in equipping people, but that there's some turning around and changing behaviors.
The church has been an agent of perpetuating white supremacy culture and racist attitudes going back to the people who formed the Doctrine of Discovery that gave Europeans the right to take land or enslave people who wouldn't become Christian. The church really has to face that.
Reverend Jia Starr Brown, Pastor, First Covenant Church
On healing:
I find myself, every day, quite a bit on the corner of 38th and Chicago, where George Floyd was killed. It's so interesting because the media tends to present primarily images of unrest and violence, not just in this past week but, just traditionally, Minneapolis has largely been painted as a place where there's a lot of unrest and violence.
And what I found on that corner was a really beautiful melody of people helping people.
"I think that the church is called to listen to the voices of people of color and indigenous people in this moment and be led by them."
And of people healing people, of people passing out free food and just setting up tables, and kids drawing images with chalk, and music playing and dancing happening and relationships being built, as people who have worked to repair the broken windows, but also the broken dreams of business owners who were already struggling due to limited access to the small business loans to minority business owners.
On action moving forward:
Three months from now, when the signs stop waving, and the tourist attraction on 38th and Chicago goes away, there still will be a need in the Black community for support and for advocacy and for resources.
And so a lot of us are paying attention not just to what's happening right now, but we're also looking at the chronic source of the problem and continuing to strategize what that might look like so that we can create some invitations for community members to step in and address that.
Rev. Jia Starr BrownI think that in the Black community, living in the Twin Cities, every African-American clergy member I know is speaking out, and I don't know one who's not.
I think in the wider community of faith, I have seen an increase in advocacy work.
The challenge comes when we continue to address one aspect, one dimension of this and not the other.
If I fully focused on what was happening through a scriptural perspective and didn't provide opportunities for people to take that and actually put on shoes, you know, and buckle up and get out in the community and put that to work and actually implement that, I would be doing a disservice to the community.
Reverend Ingrid Rasmussen, Pastor, Holy Trinity Lutheran Church
On her initial response:
We served as a medic station for a couple of nights, primarily serving those who had been affected by tear gas that police had fired into the crowd and also as a place of rest and hospitality for those who had experienced some pretty serious trauma out on the streets.
When the Third Precinct burned down, we needed to move the medic station to a nearby church for safety reasons. And we moved into the ministry of feeding people in the neighborhood who no longer had access to grocery stores and basic necessities that they might have bought at stores that had been burned to the ground.
We had a huge response from both church members and the wider community, both in terms of donations and in terms of volunteer power. It's quite a testament to the interconnectedness of this neighborhood.
On dismantling white supremacy:
I think that the church is called to listen to the voices of people of color and indigenous people in this moment and be led by them.
Rev. Ingrid RasmussenI think the church is called to call out state-sponsored execution when it happens on our streets in the middle of the day. And the church is called to imagine with the whole community a new future that is more equitable or just, particularly for those who have been pushed to the margins.
It's easy to focus on the physical destruction that comes in the midst of an uprising. And yet I think we, as a church, as a nation, need to acknowledge that destruction is simply a symptom of generations of inequality.
Langston Hughes wrote, 'What happens to dreams that are deferred?' They explode. And that's what happened all around us these past few days.
(This article originally appeared on Rewire.org.)


Minneapolis Church Leaders on Their Role in Racial Justice

Gretchen Brown

A Sudden Temporary Upsurge of Grief is an intense, unexpected wave of emotionality that can come on sometimes long after the death of a loved one.On an ordinary afternoon walking through Wal-Mart in search of those affordable staples everyone finds at big-box stores, I passed a family having typical squabbles with each other — teens arguing with their parents, a young child begging for a sugary snack — all tense and irritated. I nodded, agreeing with myself that I was glad to be past that age and stage of life, acknowledging that this is what families normally do when they get in each other's hair.
Then it hit: A wall of abject pain slammed into me, full of loss, longing, loneliness, and heartache.
The sense of agony was stunningly electric. I felt attacked. I could neither think nor talk. In terror and horror, I abandoned my shopping cart, staggered to the parking lot and managed to fall into my car, all while struggling to catch my breath. After about 20 minutes (which seemed like 20 years), the sensation receded, leaving me agitated by the vestiges and residuals of a hyper-aroused mind, body, and spirit. I had been hit with a blindside wipeout of grief, known as a STUG.
A STUG is an unwelcome, unexpected tsunami to the natural tidal rhythms of grief.
Researchers call what I experienced a Sudden Temporary Upsurge of Grief, a term defined by grief expert Dr. Therese Rando in the early '90s. It is an intense, unexpected wave of emotionality that comes on occasion to someone who has experienced the loss of a loved intimate, sometimes long after the person's death.
As a psychologist with many years of clinical practice, I have held others through similar experiences. Because of my professional life, I smugly didn't expect to have this awful reality in my orbit.  Silly me, thinking that I was sufficiently removed from my wife Karen's death in 2016 to be immune from this kind of event.
Quite Alarming and Frightening
For each of us, an ordinary day is characterized by a mental scaffolding called the assumptive world, defined as the personal organization held of the way the world works. The assumptive world is a psychological structure, containing everything a person assumes to be true about the world, the self and others.  It is our automatic, unconscious and generalized body of knowledge, learned through cumulative experience and history.
A STUG is outside of this scaffolding and comes as a threatening invasion. It happens unexpectedly and without warning when someone is fine and in the rhythm of a typical, ordinary day. There may be a trigger to the attack — or not. Innocuous memories or sensory experiences, such as a smell or a sound, can evoke this wave of juicy, raw emotions. After a substantive time has passed following the death, and the acute pain of grief subsides, the dramatic and unwelcome experience of a STUG can be quite alarming and frightening.
The Roadmap of Grief
The process of grief involves the survivor's new search and acquisition of experiences to live a healthy and full life in the new world without the loved one's physical presence. Grief helps a person to resolve — i.e., re-solve — the way the world works, requiring adoption of new ways of being in that world and reinvesting in it to compensate and adapt for the loved one's absence.
Grief guides a person toward revising the assumptive world and the way markers of self-identification are discerned and employed. A STUG is an unwelcome, unexpected tsunami to the natural tidal rhythms of grief.
'Sometimes When We Touch'
A fellow came to therapy, asking for help with a deeply personal narrative:
"I like listening to oldies music stations.  Nearly ten years after my wife died, as I was driving down the interstate, I heard the Dan Hill song from 1994 'Sometimes When We Touch.'  She and I used to sing it to each other in funny, pseudo-romantic ecstasy.  Well, it came on the radio and I started singing it automatically, just like we had always done. I got through the first verse before my throat closed and I started crying tears as big as light bulbs. I thought I would die. I pulled over to the side of the road and thought, 'Now what?' I shook like a wet dog and nearly vomited.
"I got through the first verse before my throat closed and I started crying tears as big as light bulbs. I thought I would die."
Eventually it passed, but I don't know what in the world happened to me. There weren't any thoughts that went with the feeling. I believed I had managed to make sense out of her death; it was so long ago. What do you think is the matter with me?  Was it a panic attack? Do I have to live with the possibility of this happening again? I was driving and could have been hurt."
This gentleman was slammed by a STUG that profoundly and dramatically untied a psychological connection to his deceased wife, one that he did not even realize he continued to hold. The STUG, traumatic as the experience felt, ultimately brought deeper and more personal meaning to his marital relationship — in life and death.
After the discharge of such intense emotionality, he was quickly able to gain context by attributing meaning to the trigger of the song. With a bit of perspective, he revisited one of the more pleasurable memories found in the history of his marriage.
Surviving a STUG
What can you do after a STUG? Here are a few suggestions:
Identifying the experience for what it is and calling it by name can help you stay in charge, even when feeling out of control.Remember that a STUG is a temporary, transitional experience. No one ever dies from a STUG, though many feel like the experience is deadly. The painful feelings will pass. The most effective strategy in the presence of a STUG is to ride it out. Find a safe place, as private as possible, breathe deeply and lean into it. Allow the pain until it passes. During a STUG, a person’s body goes on hyper-alert, releasing endorphins because of the fight-flight response manifest in the perception of danger. After the STUG passes, a body needs several hours to absorb the hormones and brain chemicals and return to baseline.Sleep on it. The day following a STUG, cognitive capacities return to normal, allowing more thoughtful consideration of the meaning of what triggered the memory. Take it as a matter of truth that the STUG signaled a reconsideration of a loving experience in the history of the relationship.Finally, remember that the word "closure" is never relevant in the loss of a loved one. If we have loved another intimately, grief does not lead us to forget.  Rather, the process facilitates resolution, clarity and meaning, even in the presence of a blindside wipeout.


The Blindside Wipeout of Grief

Jackson Rainer

After my husband died in 2009, I expected to be consumed by sorrow. The American cultural script, after all, is very clear on this point.
You know the kind of scenes I mean. Widow mournfully fingers the shirts in her husband’s closet. Widow burrows her nose in her husband’s pillow and tries desperately to inhale his scent. Widow climbs into bed and refuses to get up for days, weeks, even months.
In my case, what happened is better illustrated by the hours that immediately followed Joe’s death. We’d been enjoying a weekend in rural Pennsylvania with our teenage daughter. Now, as EMTs carried away my beloved husband of 24 years, I stood dazed, surveying the post-Joe world — everything familiar; everything changed. That’s one minute without Joe, I thought.That’s two minutes without Joe. 
I don’t remember how long I stood there, but gradually a new mantra took hold: Get home. Get home. Proceeding with painstaking concentration, I washed the dishes. Emptied the trash baskets. Straightened the bedrooms. Got Becky and me packed into the car and on the road home to New Jersey.
A Lesson About Death
Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I was receiving an important lesson about death. A master class, really.
During the more than two years that Joe had battled leukemia and then the side effects of a stem cell transplant, I had spent every possible hour by his side. When we were apart, I encountered dark fantasies of life without him. I imagined boundless loneliness. Unrelenting sorrow. Deepening depression. In my musings, death was solely about the stoppage of Joe’s life and the end of mine as I knew it. Now, reality was quietly showing me that death is never only about death. It’s also about the minute that follows death. And the one after that. And the one after that.
To see that life goes on was, in its own way, very shocking.
In coming days, as loving friends and relatives offered me sympathy and support, their tight hugs, furrowed brows and knowing looks communicated an insistent message: Jill must be a wreck. Yet, though Joe was never more than moments from my thoughts, I was actually functioning much as I normally do, albeit within a range of emotions more intense than usual.
Whenever a positive emotion broke through — comfort, affection, gratitude — I latched onto it. Around day four, a widowed colleague arrived radiating joy. “Wow, you look fantastic,” I said. Cocking her head shyly, she said, “I have a new boyfriend.” For a moment, I felt happiness and hope — two emotions I was surprised I could access, however briefly, so soon after losing Joe.
What I didn’t experience then, and still haven’t six years on, were any of the five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance) that my boomer generation was raised on. Those stages, I would eventually discover, were based on psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s observations of dying patients — not the loved ones left behind. Modern bereavement research paints a very different picture.
The 3 Ways We Grieve
Clinical psychologist George Bonanno, one of the country’s preeminent grief experts, divides the bereft into three groups: chronic grief (those who are overwhelmed by grief for 18 months or longer); acute grief (those who recover within 18 months); and resilience (those who return to normal functioning within six months).
This last group, the majority group, experience grief as a constant oscillation between sadness and lighter moments that enables them to experience pleasure even in the earliest days of loss. “Humans are wired to survive,” Bonanno explains in The Other Side of Sadness. “We adapt, we change gears, we smile and laugh and do what we need to do.”
So, what do resilient people do?
Mourners’ coping mechanisms are as personal as grief itself.
When Helen Kilbane, 47, turned the calendar page on her late husband’s birthday, she took herself off to a pub, her husband’s ashes in tow in an oak box. As she carried a pint of beer from the bar to her table, she says, “I smiled as I remembered times when I bought him a pint and then walked toward him at a snail’s pace as I tried not to leave most of it on the floor.”
After Sharon Kenney, 66, lost her husband, she says, “It became urgent that I get outside every day, put my feet on soil, and just notice that there’s still a world outside my grieving mind.” After ramping up her walks, bike rides and road trips, she says, “It occurred to me that maybe this is what it means to be ‘grounded.’”
For me, hauling boxes of Joe’s clutter from the attic proved therapeutic. (I know, it's not for everyone.) A life-long packrat, Joe had told me shortly before he died what he wanted me to save for our daughter. “Everything else, throw it out,” he said. So, I did. As the mounds of boxes shrank, I found that the weight of his absence had lightened a bit.
I also wrote thank-you notes. Lots of them. I wanted people to know that I valued their support. Each time I uncorked my gratitude and let it flow, it helped me recognize and appreciate the reasons I had to go on without Joe. By the time I discovered Spider Solitaire on my computer a few weeks on, I had begun to think of myself as “OK.”
Yet I was having trouble accepting my OKness.
That may sound odd, but the tide of sympathy that engulfs the newly bereaved is almost uniformly colored by an assumption that a grief-stricken person is, for a time, lost completely to sorrow. With their worried frowns and concerned How-are-you’s, well-wishers communicate the assumption that you are not all right. Each time someone told me I was “amazing” for bearing up so well, I wondered if my grief was abnormal.
I’m OK, You’re OK
About two weeks into mourning, I had an appointment with Joe’s and my attorney, Grace, to begin the process of settling Joe’s estate. A year earlier, Grace had shared the painful news that her young adult daughter, after a long illness, had died. Because I knew that Grace had experience with grief, I responded to her calm “How are you doing?” with candor. “Better than I would have expected,” I said. “I’m still waiting for the moment when I fall apart.”
A look of surprise flickered across Grace’s face. “You won’t,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “You’re strong, like I am. You’ll cope just fine. That doesn’t mean you won’t go on missing Joe. I miss my daughter every day. But I also have a lot going on in my life. You do, too.”
She then talked about my daughter, my magazine job, my friends. She spoke about my strength, my competence, my ability to cope. She applauded my decision to return to work the following week; she, too, had returned to work soon after her daughter’s death.
I hung on Grace’s every word. Here was someone offering an alternative to paralyzing sorrow. In her scenario, I would be, as she was, profoundly sad, but I would keep going because I had a life worth living. I took from our conversation something I hadn’t realized I needed: “permission” to be OK.
Four months later, when I discovered that bereavement researchers have a term for my OKness — resilience — I stopped worrying whether it was OK to be OK. Grappling with grief is hard enough.
I was relieved to be done with the additional burden of feeling guilty that I was coping as well as I was. I also realized there must be countless other people who feel ill-served by the one-size-fits-all cultural script that insists, “Now you fall apart.” Perhaps if we let go of that misplaced assumption and give the bereaved room to experience their grief without the weight of societal expectation, more people will find they really are OK.


A Different Script for Grief

Jill Smolowe

When Carla Sofka's mother died just before Thanksgiving 2017, Sofka didn't immediately post the news on social media. She was busy planning the funeral, making travel arrangements and getting an obituary ready for the weekly newspaper in her mother's community.
"We had 23 hours to get the information to them if we didn't want it to be 10 days before Mom's obituary was in the local paper," says Sofka, a professor of social work at Siena College in Loudonville, N.Y.
Then the phone rang.
Unbeknownst to Sofka, the funeral home had posted the obituary on its website, and almost immediately a childhood friend had spotted it and shared it on Sofka's Facebook page.
"The minute that obituary showed up on my feed, people who saw it started posting comments and messages to me," she says. "I didn't even know this was going on, because I didn't know it was there."
A good question to ask yourself is, "Is it your story to tell?"
What makes Sofka's story ironic is that she has been writing and teaching about the impact of technology on grief and dying for decades. She even coined the term "thanatechnology" ("thana-" means death in Greek) in 1997. But in her moment of grief, she never thought to say to the funeral director, "Please don't post Mom's obituary on your website until we tell you that we've notified the people who need to find out another way." (By the way, that funeral home now asks families whether posting is okay.)
Lee Poskanzer, CEO of Directive Communication Systems, which helps clients safeguard digital assets in their estates, experienced a more pleasant Facebook surprise in 2010 when he posted news of his mother's death on Facebook. "A very close friend of mine, who I would never have thought about calling, actually hopped on a plane and was able to make my mom's funeral the next day," he says.
The Social Media Rules Have Changed
As Poskanzer and Sofka's stories illustrate, digital technologies have changed the rules surrounding grief and dying.
"How does one decipher a uniform approach when our society is using technology in so many diverse ways and each one of us has a different approach to our online presence and our digital footprint?" Poskanzer asks.
Fortunately, experts like Poskanzer and Sofka have begun answering those questions. While the landscape is still shifting, it's possible to discern some basic rules of "netiquette."
Here are eight tips about death and social media:
1. Leave the scoops to CNN and Fox News. If you've heard about a death but haven't seen a Facebook post from the next of kin, that could be because family members are still trying to contact people who need to hear the news firsthand. Sofka says a good question to ask yourself is, "Is it your story to tell?"
2. Think before you post. Even when it's appropriate to share, make sure what you're sharing is appropriate. Don't post painful or disturbing information without the family's consent — and even then consider whether sharing is appropriate. "We may not recognize that we could be harming someone by posting or tweeting or putting a picture on Instagram," Poskanzer says.
3. Avoid being cryptic. Nuance vanishes in cyberspace. A post that says "I'm praying for the Johnson family at this difficult time" could refer to anything from a death to a job loss to a house fire. "You have to know the poster in order to understand a little bit where they're coming from," Poskanzer says. When in doubt, pick up the phone.
4. Remember that news travels fast. When Sofka's aunt died unexpectedly, she elected not to tell her teenage daughter, who was on vacation in Florida and didn't know her great aunt well. Unfortunately, cousins began posting stories about the deceased woman on Facebook, so Sofka's daughter quickly found out and wanted to know what was happening. "I can't believe I didn't expect that," Sofka says.
5. Be patient. "Sometimes people watch how many people like a post or how quickly they acknowledge it," Sofka says. "Somebody who's grieving doesn't have the time or energy to focus on that." And if you're on the other side of the situation, consider posting something like Sofka did after her mother's passing: "I'm overwhelmed by the caring and the kindness of the postings. Please forgive me if I don't have time to respond right now."
6. Watch out for problems. Unfortunately, online death notices can attract everything from negative comments to fraudulent GoFundMe campaigns allegedly set up to pay for funeral expenses. "As family members and friends, if we see that, we need to contact the family immediately so somebody can contact GoFundMe," Poskanzer says.
7. Be helpful — but not too helpful. It's fine to offer to monitor the family's online presence for problems, but don't go too far. Poskanzer recalls a woman whose husband had just passed away. "While she was sitting shiva (mourning in the Jewish tradition), somebody had memorialized the page to her husband's Facebook," he says. As a result, the grieving woman no longer had access to the page. Facebook also has information about legacy contacts; people chosen in advance to oversee memorialized accounts.
8. Adjust your response to the situation. Poskanzer lost a friend recently who was very active on social media — to the point of chronicling her cancer battle online — so sending online condolences after she died made sense. On the other hand, Sofka talked with a woman who's not active on social media and had recently lost her father. "She said, 'Nobody sent cards; that was the hardest thing for me, because if felt like nobody cared,'" Sofka recalls.
As the rules of netiquette change — funeral selfies, anyone? — perhaps the best rule to follow is the Golden Rule: Blog, post and tweet about others as you would have them blog, post and tweet about you.


Addressing Loss on Social Media

Mark Ray

Lou said often that he knew we would be married from the moment he saw me. I had no such flash. When we met, I was involved with someone else.
"What would you have done if I'd married Ted?" I asked him once. "Oh, I knew you wouldn't," Lou quipped. "He wasn't right for you." None of that made sense to me. That kind of thing only happened in movies.
Lou and Leida earlier in their marriageWhen Lou proposed marriage after I broke off with Ted, I blurted out, "Marry you? I don't even know you!" Lou was indignant. "Not know me? I'm the guy who's waited more than two years for you. I'm the guy who wants to spend the rest of my life with you."
"I wasn't there with you."
When I agreed to marry Lou, a colleague asked if I loved him. "I don't know about love," I answered slowly. "What I know is, we fit together." I linked my fingers to show her. I never experienced — believed in — his feelings. Until Paris.
The trip with Lou wasn't my first to Paris, but it was his. "It's silly for you to wait while I go to my meeting," I said. "I know you'll want to visit the Eiffel Tower." I carefully wrote out directions. Meeting up later, he beamed, "Just how I'd always dreamed it would be."
I couldn't keep from laughing, catching his delight. "What do you want to do now?" I smiled up at his 6'4" tallness. "Let's go to the Eiffel Tower," he enthused. Whaaat? "But you were just there!" I was puzzled
Lou said: "I wasn't there with you."
The Force of Love 
That was when the force of his love hit me, enfolding me, making me whole.
So we went to the Eiffel Tower, to be there together. We were inseparable for more than 41 years. I was a New York theater critic, and Lou was my plus-one. Later, when I worked for a national trade organization, my husband came to all the conferences. I joined a chorus, and Lou picked me up after every rehearsal and was in the audience for every performance.
As a citizen activist, Lou's passion was transportation, and I went with him way uptown, deep into Harlem, and miles underground, to follow what was happening with the Second Avenue subway. I marveled at local parks that he helped turn into reality.
We explored New York, our city, together. We found special restaurants. We walked everywhere, holding hands. We'd sit at our partners' desks, facing each other in our shared home office, commenting off-and-on all day. 
We'd sit at our partners' desks, facing each other in our shared home office, commenting off-and-on all day. 
Or we'd take what we called a lap break: he'd sit on the sofa in the living room, and I'd find my spot in the crook of his arm, and we'd lie there, sometimes talking, sometimes not saying a word. It was in the sharing that our love lived.
We didn't travel much. Sometimes this was frustrating. I had to convince him to go outside our bubble. When I insisted, we did get to roam — to Italy, England, Israel, China and Japan, and back to Paris. But any voyaging was to accommodate me. Lou would look up from his desk across from mine, and as long as I was there, he didn't want or need to be anywhere else.
Our Time Was Limited 
Lou died after a years-long cancer battle on September 18, 2023. Cancer with unknown primary (CUP) affects 2% to 5% of diagnosed malignancies. Doctors throw multiple tests and hard to pronounce chemicals at their patients, but it's all guess work. In Lou's case, there were ghastly side effects, but no cure.
I knew our time was limited. I thought I was prepared for the end, but somehow I didn't expect to miss him so much. The grief is like the undertow in the ocean, pulling me down, engulfing me in waves.
The grief is like the undertow in the ocean, pulling me down, engulfing me in waves.
I am so much better now. I am functioning, spending time with friends, relatives, and clients. They no doubt believe I'm well past the worst of the bottomless sadness. They don't see me at home when I collapse, when the despair grabs me by the throat, threatening to drown me, leaving me gasping for air.
Folks mean well when they suggest that I keep busy. They don't understand that I can enjoy being in others' company, that I can laugh with a smart comedian or lose myself in a Broadway show. But I miss talking about the world with Lou. I miss sharing breakfast with him. How he would putter in the kitchen and make a pot of loose tea for us, keeping track of the brews I preferred. Missing the sharing is one of the gut-tearing truths about losing a life partner.
Lou and Leida in ParisLou's wristwatch is where it always was, on the table on his side of the bed. His razor is in the medicine cabinet. His certificates hang on our office walls. And the fire engine red windbreaker that he wore constantly hangs in the foyer closet. I have photos of him from when he was dying and I can't delete them; but the photos I display show him healthy and us, so much "we."
There is a Zen understanding that says there may be sadness when there's a loss, but there is grief only where there is love. I want to believe, that it is because my love is so strong that the hurt is so deep.
The one certain thing about all of us, is that we are all going to lose someone we love.
Every loss is unique. Every mourner grieves differently. I've checked with quite a few taking this unwelcome journey through mourning. Some lost their loved ones recently. For others, the abyss opened years, even decades, ago. Some remain alone, others have found new partners, some are remarried. Every one, without exception, shared an ongoing partnership with felt loss.
Navigating Grief 
So how do we navigate this voyage? The help needed is more than/different from that offered by family and friends. The search for comfort is boundless. Music, art, and poetry are the go-to's for some. Others find that therapy helps. Still others hook up with like-minded travelers in support groups offered by hospitals, hospices, funeral homes, and Zen teachings. Or in books or articles. I was fortunate in finding someone to talk to.
There is no getting over, or beyond, it. I have trouble believing so many months have passed since Lou died. 
The reality is that going through grief is moving through a process, in which you begin to engage proactively with life, while still involved with profound loss. It's the integration of grieving and living. It is knowing that the pain will always be there even as there is a merging, a blending, with life.
There's an essay by the American journalist and author Emily Hahn, published long ago, about her decline into opium addiction and her emergence from that poison. I've never been into drugs, yet her words resonate for me. The opium had dulled the ache of living for her. At the end of her article, Hahn acknowledges there is no cure. She writes: "The pain has always been there, and now it hurts again. That is all. It is supportable."
It is the same with grief. There is no getting over, or beyond, it. I have trouble believing so many months have passed since Lou died. The wound feels so fresh. If the experience of others proves true for me, the heartache will always be there and will stab again and again.
What I hold onto is that, as the months and years pass, as I continue the journey, it will become bearable. It will be supportable.


Surviving Grief

Leida Snow

"Drive safely," my father said, his drawl still noticeable despite not having lived in the South for 80 years. We were saying goodbye at his assisted living facility outside Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Only later did I realize his send-off to me would be his last cogent message.
"Every morning I took a long walk, and in the afternoons I'd sit at a table facing the ocean, painting in my sketchbook.""I'm not driving, Daddy," I said. "I'm taking Uber to the airport tomorrow, and then flying home to California." 
Even though my father was 101, I didn't expect it. Do we ever?
I've often pondered the timing of a person's death, and my father was no exception. I left Pennsylvania on a Wednesday morning. Thursday afternoon, the hospice nurse contacted my sisters and me to say he had gone into a sudden decline. He died a week later.
Even though my father was 101, I didn't expect it. Do we ever? His mental state had become wobblier in the previous six months, but physically he was sturdy, and had only recently started using a walker.
The Map of Grief 
The nine months since my father died have been a terrain of highs, lows and unexpected curves. As the British theologian C.S. Lewis wrote, after the loss of his wife, Joy Davidman, "Grief is like a long winding valley, where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape." 
I look back on the period since my father's death in sections: the gentle weeks before the memorial service, when I was at home with my husband in Eureka, California; and the more turbulent period after, when I was in Guanajuato, Mexico, where Barry and I live part of the year. 
Only in the last twenty years of his life, when he finally became single, did I become very close to him.
In Eureka, Barry and I would paddle down winding tributaries in the bay near our apartment, watching the herons and seals. I took long walks with friends and by myself, listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir perform "Be Thou My Vision", which I had sung at my mother's funeral in the 70s. 
My father not only outlived my mother by almost fifty years, he also survived two later wives and a girlfriend. Only in the last twenty years of his life, when he finally became single, did I become very close to him. 
Despite the gentle texture of those weeks, I missed chatting with him on the phone. During COVID I called him every morning – often the highlight of my day. It didn't take much to make him laugh, and he brought out a playful side of me, too.
One morning during the pandemic, I phoned him during a showery walk. When it started to rain, I'd take shelter under a canopy of tree branches, where we'd chat. When the rain stopped, I'd hang up, race to the next tree, and call again. "Guess what! I'm dry! Briefly!" We'd both crack up.
Shaky at the Service 
At the memorial service, I described my earliest memory of him. When I was five, Daddy was rowing on a lake towards my younger sister and me. We were waiting on the dock for our turn. I can still remember the calm, silvery water in the mist. It wasn't surprising, I said, that my first memory of him involved the outdoors, because he had instilled a love of nature in all his children. Then I gave examples of his legacy, and how each of my siblings in our different ways enjoyed being outside.
Although I felt my talk honored him, I couldn't stop shaking afterwards. When the service was over, thinking others might also feel fragile, I went up to each participant and thanked them for their contribution. I assumed they would also acknowledge what I'd said, but for some reason that did not happen, which left me in a state of heightened vulnerability that lasted for weeks. 
The author dancing with her fatherMy anxiety seemed to revolve more around family dynamics than grief, but who can say where grief starts and ends? It's all so marbled.
The Spanish 'R' Saved Me
After the memorial service, Barry and I flew down to our home in Guanajuato, a colorful, spirited place that always makes me happy. From previous losses I knew the importance of routines: brush teeth, make bed, cook dinner, wash dishes. But even in Mexico my mood didn't lighten much.
Late afternoons, I'd read in our patio, resting my eyes occasionally on our ficus tree and plants, the green so gentle and healing, it almost brought me to tears. With my tutor, I practiced the Spanish r and rr, which took my mind off what by then had turned into curdled resentment. 
I'd ruminate over the service, sparing no one. This family member had gone on too long, this one was vapid. Between spurts of anger, I'd force myself to repeat potta tea, potta tea, potta tea, the soft English t that is a way station to para ti and the Spanish r.
Working on my pronunciation really helped. As a friend who has struggled with depression said, "You forget you're down when you're focusing on the Spanish subjunctive."
The Blessing of the Beach 
What turned the tide – so to speak – was spending a week at the beach. Our Mexican hotel had a spacious outdoor area, with tables and chairs facing the ocean, and delicious morning coffee. The first day, I wrote in my journal: "I feel exhausted and I can't even explain why. Being here is the right place for a deep rest." 
I remember now what I didn't before — that we all mourn differently, each in our own mysterious way, perhaps indecipherable even to ourselves.
Every morning I took a long walk, and in the afternoons I'd sit at a table facing the ocean, painting in my sketchbook.
Within a week, I was a different person. I wrote, "Walking on the beach, the world looms rich and thick… heel, arch, toe; rocks; pelicans; man with pail; sandpipers; breeze; warmth of sun on back; markings on sand; clouds; palm trees; shadows – all this in only 30 minutes!"
Back in Guanajuato, Barry built me a table, a dedicated space to paint. My "studio" was just a piece of plywood, but it worked magic: everyday I would lose myself in a watercolor world of burnt sienna and cobalt blue.
Grief Isn't Pretty 
In the weeks after the memorial service, I saw, close up and unvarnished, that grief isn't pretty. Mine sure wasn't. Inwardly, I felt jealous, petulant and sour. 
But I was fortunate. Not everyone's father lives to 101 or gets to go to a beautiful beach after their loved one dies. 
With the gift of distance, I no longer feel angry or hurt. I remember now what I didn't before — that we all mourn differently, each in our own mysterious way, perhaps indecipherable even to ourselves. As Lewis said, we're following grief's "long winding valley," with its unpredictable bends, twists and turns.


The Geography of Grief

Louisa Rogers

Suddenly, after months, maybe years of caregiving, it's over. For me, it was just after midnight on a Monday in December. The phone rang, and a voice from Skilled Nursing said, "I'm sorry to tell you that your mother passed away at 12:10 this morning."
"Oh my god, it's over," I gasped. I felt a clutching in the pit of my stomach. Oh my god, it's finally over.
"Care does not end with death but involves actively caring for memories."It may have been different for you — perhaps you were there when they died. Perhaps it was peaceful; perhaps it wasn't. Maybe you were waiting for a plane back home when you got the news that Dad had died.
However it happened, your person died, and your caregiving is over. Loss … and guilt. You feel disoriented, unmoored, off-balance, numb and in a fog, and you may also feel guilty.
"After she died I felt guilty that I had the freedom. I felt guilty that I could sleep through the night."
Judy Smith, a former English teacher and Peace Corps volunteer, had brought her ailing mother to her DC home. "Her bedroom was across the hall. After she died I felt guilty that I had the freedom. I felt guilty that I could sleep through the night."
The Hardest Job in the World 
"It's the number one thing that people tell me afterwards," says Selena Tourtillotte, a hospice social worker in southern California. "They feel so guilty. 'Am I a horrible person to feel a little relieved?' they ask. There's no need to feel guilty, it's perfectly normal. Being a family caregiver is the hardest job in the whole world. It's natural to feel some sense of relief."
And what if you weren't there when they died? You stepped out for coffee, and when you came back into the room, your person had passed. Carmel Murphy-Kotyan is a Massachusetts-based caregiver consultant and founder of Elder Service Network: 
"It's as if they wait until you walk out the door. I hear that a lot. There is nothing to feel guilty about. People pass the way they do. Sometimes when they're by themselves, that's when they pass. There should be no guilt. It is a solo journey."
Grieving on Your Terms
Recent thinking about grief suggests that we zigzag between moving forward with our lives and revisiting the loss. So the following days are filled with the cut-and-dried tasks of emptying our person's room, calling the lawyer and notifying Social Security. 
"The key to grief after caregiving is to allow yourself that time to grieve."
And in between, the grief wells up, and the memories come to the surface and collide.
Rosanne Corcoran cared for her mother for twelve years and now hosts a podcast on caregiving and a Daughterhood Circle supporting caregivers. "The key to grief after caregiving is to allow yourself that time to grieve. Not on someone else's terms, not how someone else thinks you should." 
"I had lost this person who was my world. If I need to just sit in a chair, that's where I'm at. It's not going to be forever."
Judy Smith says, "Four or five months after my father died, I went by myself up to West Virginia and stayed at an inn. I sat there on the bed and wrote in my journal for four or five hours, and cried and wrote, and cried and wrote. It was a very special time."
Baby Steps
Meanwhile, you need to rebuild your life. After being on call 24/7, intensely entwined with your person and their needs, "you can lose yourself to the point of not knowing who you are anymore," says Adriana Covarrubias Hernandez, regional bereavement manager with Silverado Hospice. 
"What is my purpose? What am I good for now? You're not going to reconstruct your life overnight. Take little tiny baby steps," says Corcoran. "It doesn't have to be a grand gesture, a trip to the Caribbean. Just meeting a friend, taking a morning walk. Explore. Sometimes you have to push yourself out of your comfort zone. Say, 'I'm going to try this.' You have to be open to trying."
Rediscover things you liked, tap into things that bring you joy.
Allow yourself to take a joy break every day. Even 5 or 10 minutes — read a few pages from that spy thriller, watch cat videos, open your window and listen to the birds. Tourtillotte says, "Rediscover things you liked, tap into things that bring you joy."
"And learn to slow down," says Hernandez. She likes Sudoku. "For me, it's a mindless activity that helps my brain relax." Some people do jigsaw puzzles, play word games and paint by numbers. It's not about the accomplishment; it's about taking a mental timeout. It's part of the healing.
Caring for Memories
The person you cared for may be gone, but there is still one more task. Arthur Kleinman, who nursed his wife through the ravages of dementia, declares in his book "The Soul of Care": "Care does not end with death but involves actively caring for memories."
Many caregivers have technicolor memories of their person in their prime ("she looked like Ava Gardner, raven-haired, with a lovely figure and a beautiful smile") but also darker memories of their decline, their suffering and their last days. 
I learned things about my mother that I never would have known if I hadn't been at the table with her for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
So how do you care for those painful memories? Tourtillotte says, "Sometimes you have to take an active role. None of us is just one moment. Remember the whole life, the happiest moments. The ending is such a small piece in this amazing life that they've lived."
Caring for memories can also be very tangible: Smith makes fudge from her mother's recipe every year at Christmastime. There is the widow who keeps her husband's bathrobe on a hook on the bathroom door, the son who keeps his mother's pastel of an Italian landscape by his desk, where "it radiates her energy to me every day."
Svava Kristinsdottir raised chihuahuas in California and was the caregiver for her friend Jerry. She keeps a Wall of Angels in her home — pictures of Jerry and the dogs she has loved and lost. She has set a timer so the wall is lit at night. 
"Does it make you sad to pass by here all the time?" I asked. "No, never," she told me. "The pictures give me comfort. They remind me that they are all still with me."
Reflecting and Reframing
The caregivers I've talked with freely acknowledge how stressful and exhausting long-haul caregiving can be. But after the caregiving ends, they look back and often see something else. "It gave me purpose." "It was transformative." "It was a growth experience."
And they make discoveries. They come upon old photos and old love letters. Bruce Frankel, president of the Life Planning Network, a national association devoted to positive aging, took care of his mother for four years, two of those in his home: "I learned things about my mother that I never would have known if I hadn't been at the table with her for breakfast, lunch and dinner."
"I'm starting to be able to look back and say, Wow, I got her to the finish line. Through all of it, she knew she was loved, she knew she was safe," says Corcoran. "She knew that I was always there for her. That was a gift. I can allow myself to accept that it was a gift. I guess I did a good job."
And I'm working through the loss, trying to let the grief take its course, allowing a new life to unfold. As the images of my mother in her last days begin to soften, pale and lose their grip, I'm assembling an inventory of sweet memories — bright ones where my mother smiles, lovely ones where she is young and hopeful. 
Sometimes I write to her and sometimes write down what she is saying. My heart is now our letterbox.


When the Caregiving Ends: Recovering from Loss, Rebuilding Your Life

Connie Baher

It happened again this morning. I’d just finished a task at my desk and thought, Okay, time to call Dad. Then my eyes teared up as I remembered, Dad’s not here anymore.
Jill Smolowe with her fatherMy father died on March 19 at the age of 87. Four days earlier, he’d played tennis. The end was swift, and for that my two brothers and I are grateful. Seemingly little pain. Seemingly little suffering. If you’ve gotta go, that’s the way to go.
But the fact that he’s gone? That part makes me very, very sad.
I adored my father. After my mother’s death in 2010, I took to calling him daily — initially out of concern, then because I found that I really enjoyed talking with him. As we traded daily phone calls over the next eight years, with a visit mixed in every other month, our relationship deepened and sweetened. Now, I’ve lost not only my dad, I've lost my friend.
No Stranger to Grief
I’ve done this grieving thing before. My first husband died in 2009, my sister and mother the following year. With those three deaths, I came to understand that it’s not the person we grieve; rather, it’s the loss of our relationship with that person.
What I find striking as I digest this newest loss is how different my bereavement feels this time around.
The attending ache and need are unlike what I experienced with each of my earlier losses. This time, I can be distracted from my sadness and shift my focus elsewhere. The pain is gentler, less frantic, more tolerable. All of this has heightened my appreciation for how both the timing of a death and the surround-sound of a particular moment in life affects the nature of our grief.
When my husband, Joe, died, my anguish was trained on the crater that his absence had created in my life. By losing my constant companion of 28 years, I felt like my entire life had been disarranged. Fear and worry informed my pain. How would I parent our 15-year-old daughter solo? How would I live with so much loneliness? How would I reimagine my life?
I thought about Joe constantly, but the “I” who had to survive was inextricably connected with any thought of him. It would take a few years before I could separate myself out and make space for happy memories of Joe.
At the time of his death, which had followed a prolonged illness, I took little solace from hugs and consoling words. I didn’t want to share my tears. What I needed most from those closest to me was reassurance that I was doing the right things for my daughter, and that I could, and would, go on.
A Different Timetable
The deaths of my mother and sister the following year resulted in a very different timetable for my grief. Key to what unfolded emotionally was how their deaths happened so close together in time.
During the eight months that my mother and sister were both in unarrestable decline, my brothers and I wanly joked that they were in a “race to the finish.” It was a logistical nightmare ricocheting between my sister in Vermont and my mother in North Carolina.
My sister died first; my mother followed 18 days later. In the bizarre twilight between their deaths, as my mother’s liver shut down, turning her skin from beige to yellow to orange, my grief couldn’t find a place to settle. I can’t fully grieve Ann while Mom is going, I wrote in my journal.
After both were gone, my emotional confusion deepened. I would start to think about Ann, then think guiltily, I should be thinking about Mom — or vice versa. Or I’d think of one of them and the thought would intrude that I should be thinking about Joe.
Later, each of my brothers would tell me that it took them 18 months to really feel their grief for our baby sister. For me, there had been deep pre-death grief as I stuck close to Ann to help care for her through her decline from colon cancer.
But it had been too much illness and death for me to truly process so much loss. It would take another 5 1/2 years before I would be wrenched by bereavement for my sister. I think of, and miss, my mother, of course. But I wouldn’t be surprised if I get whacked by a bout of grief for her one of these days.
It’s so different with my dad.
This time round, the playing field is clear, so to speak. No one else in the family is sick or dying. My daughter is grown and no longer needs my constant minding. Unlike with Joe, I feel no fear, worry or fuzzy-headedness. Unlike with my sister and mother, I feel no confusion or numbness.
Time to Remember Dad
With my mind and heart free to settle on the loss of my father, I have time to think of Dad — and only Dad. And so I do.
What I feel is unadulterated sadness. Where I couldn’t make room in my brain and my heart for words of solace after Joe’s death, I take comfort from every expression of sympathy about my father. I linger over notes that summon a recollection of him. I nestle into people’s hugs. I well up a lot. Sometimes, I let the tears flow in the presence of others.
Sometimes, those tears have a bittersweet edge. Unlike with Joe, Ann and Mom, the happy memories aren’t buried beneath layers of illness that will require years of excavation. My happy memories of Dad are right here, right now. I hear his voice, I see his smile — and they remind me how much I’m going to miss his presence in my life.
“I hope your grief is pure and purifying,” a friend wrote to me. I think that captures perfectly what this grief feels like: pure and purifying.
For now, my father is often on my mind. I’m in no rush to let go of those thoughts. I know that the day will come when the thought doesn’t cross my mind, Gotta call Dad.
And when that day comes, I know that, too, will make me very, very sad.


Losing My Dad

As the passing of renowned physicist and public intellectual Stephen Hawking is met with grief and remembrance the world over, Next Avenue wanted to honor the man who educated the world on a host of issues by sharing five important lessons we learned from him:
1. Trust in science, but remember that we haven't uncovered all its mysteries yet.
At 22, Professor Hawking was diagnosed with a rare form of motor neuron disease and told he only had a few years to live. For most of his adult life, he was wheelchair bound and could speak only with the aid of a vocal synthesizer. Yet, against all odds, Hawking had a successful career and rich family life until passing away at the age of 76.
2. Sometimes a person's greatest impact happens when he or she feels (literally) voiceless.
From Oxford graduate to public figure to cosmologist to celebrity, Stephen Hawking was perhaps the scientist with the most prominent place in the public eye in the past few decades. His book, A Brief History of Time, shattered expectations for sales. And in recent years, he was a vocal critic of environmental policies that he felt were hurting the planet. He traveled to space, figuratively, and had a "theory of everything." In short, Hawking hasn't spoken without the aid of a computer for decades, but he has most definitely been heard.
3. The universe is vast, and our own potential is just as limitless.
Professor Hawking had as much to say about humanity as he did about the cosmos. In a 1998 interview with Der Spiegiel he said "We are just an advanced breed of monkeys on a minor planet of a very average star. But we can understand the Universe. That makes us something very special." He also had great wisdom about our responsibilities to ourselves and one another as people. In a 2010 interview with Diane Sawyer on ABC, Hawking offered three pieces of wise advice: "One, remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Two, never give up work. Work gives you meaning and purpose and life is empty without it. Three, if you are lucky enough to find love, remember it is there and don't throw it away."
4. Live in the moment and remember what (and who) truly matters.
Despite having his mind and gaze directed at the stars, Hawking was always present in the life, family and community that surrounded him. Indeed, his children have credited him as being a loving father, noting that he would often say, "It would not be much of a universe if it wasn't home to the people you love."
5. Don’t fear the end.
Perhaps one of the most famous of Hawking's quotes is the most prescient on the day of his passing. Once, when speaking on his theory of everything, in which he explains that the universe is governed by a set of laws, Hawking pondered how the universe began. He then added, "Where is it going and will it have an end? If so, how will it end? If we find the answers to these questions, we really shall know the mind of God." In other words, the end was not a finale as such, but the beginning of a whole new way of knowing.
So long, Professor Hawking, and may you find peace on your journey. You helped make the world kinder and smarter for having been in it. You are a giant on whose shoulders we now stand.


5 Life Lessons From Stephen Hawking

Bryce Kirchoff

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