Should you forgive or stay angry?

When I first started as a hospice social worker, I had this vision in my head of the deathbed. In this fantasy of mine, the soon-to-be bereaved are with the dying and everyone is saying whatever needs to be said. It was a very pretty picture. But it didn’t take too long in real life practice to see that vision vanish.

Don’t get me wrong, it does happen sometimes, that everyone says the Four Things: I love you, I’m sorry, I forgive you, thank you. I’ve facilitated those conversations, I’ve witnessed them, and they are truly beautiful. But more often than that, a lot goes unsaid and unresolved. Maybe it’s because everyone thinks there will be more time; or there’s a fear of upsetting each other; or it’s just too hard to start the conversation. Then the person dies and the bereaved are left with whatever went unsaid or unresolved or unforgiven.

Also, not everyone who dies is saintly, or unconditionally lovable. Difficult people die too. They have loved ones who are left with complicated feelings. They have loved ones who are angry or hurt and now there can’t be a resolution. Maybe there couldn’t be a resolution when the person was alive either but once they’re dead, there’s really no way. In that case, what do we do? Should we forgive or stay angry?

I’ll answer this question with one of my own (just call me Socrates): who is forgiveness for? Is it for the person who’s wronged you? They don’t always want your forgiveness, and when they’re dead they certainly don’t care anymore (I imagine; I guess I’ll find out for sure one day). If it’s not for them, can it be for you?

You’re allowed to hold on to your anger for as long as you want. Even if the person you’re angry at can’t fight with you about it anymore, you are allowed to keep being mad. But everything has its tipping point. One day your anger won’t serve you anymore. Then you can consider forgiveness, if not for someone else, then for yourself.

Creative ways to explore your grief

People who are grieving often ask, "what should I be doing?" Usually I reject the premise of the question: there's nothing to do except experience your grief. You have to feel your feelings, even (especially) the hard ones.

That being said, I do appreciate the idea that there should be an action that accompanies grief, something to help move through it. There are any number of options in that vein. What follows here is a (small and not at all comprehensive) list of creative ways to experience and honor your grief. If they make you feel weird or too silly, don’t do them! But let me encourage you to consider doing something a little different (and maybe a little weird) in order to give your grief the attention it deserves.

1. Write a letter to your person. It can be about whatever you want: a list of things you miss about them; an update about the family; a rehashing of an old argument. You can write as much or as little as you want. You can burn it after it's done or tuck it away or share it with others. The object here is to connect with the person you love and miss, keeping a part of them alive for yourself.

2. Tend to a plant. I say "a plant" because I have a black thumb, not a green one, so an entire garden feels off-putting to me personally. But maybe gardening is your thing! Take your grief there. Tend to the living, green things; put your hands in the dirt. Talk to the flowers.

3. Write a song or a poem or a haiku or paint a picture. It doesn't have to be Pulitzer or museum-worthy. It doesn't have to be shared with anyone else, though it can be. Again, the only objective is to take some intentional time with your loss and find what’s beautiful in it.

4. Make a shrine. (This is my personal favorite). It can look any way you want. It can be tucked away in a corner or right in the doorway of your home. It can have pictures and ticket stubs or candles and symbols. Spend some time building it and looking at it so you can honor the memory of this person that you love so much. It’s a gift for you both.

Remember, in grief there is no way out but through. You may as well find a way to make the journey a little more interesting. And if you’re feeling particularly brave, share what you’ve created. I, for one, would love to see it.

How to Mark the Anniversary of a Death

I have never found the right word or phrase to describe the date of someone’s death. Anniversary sounds like something to celebrate; death day sounds flippant for some reason. Still, I can’t think of another way to say it so we’re going to stick with anniversary, which is technically what it is: an annual marker of an important date. And anyway, whatever you call it, the date of a loss is important and needs to be acknowledged.

A lot of people hang on to the idea that after that first anniversary passes, they will somehow be on the other side of grief. And although it’s true that time heals, there is no “other side” to grief. Which is not to say it never gets better; of course it does. But it doesn’t end. You don’t get to the other side so much as enter a new phase of grief. During holidays or birthdays or death anniversaries, our grief can grow again. As I've written before you haven’t had a setback when you feel your grief. Rather, you are continuing to experience normal, typical, regular grief. It ebbs and flows, like the tides.

Paths, tides, other sides: forgive my tortured metaphors. Let’s get more concrete: how should you mark the anniversary of a death?

The short answer is: however you like.

The longer answer is: it depends.

It depends on what will make you feel… not better, but comforted. What will make you feel that the day can pass without you white-knuckling through it? For some, the routine of every other day is paramount. I’m not recommending you ignore the day, but if it brings comfort and solace to get up and do your normal stuff, then that’s what you should do. For others, the day needs to be honored and ritualized and marked somehow. In my family, one of us texts the group chat with the number of years that have passed. It’s a small thing, but it helps to remember that we have suffered our losses together; that we are not alone in our grief. It’s a ritual, albeit a small one.

That’s the thing about rituals: they don’t have to be epic. You can choose to mark the day in a small, quiet, safe way. In fact, that may be the only way you can mark it. You can also choose something big and loud and intense. Your mileage may vary, as they say on the internet.

What’s important is that you figure out what works for you. There are no rules to grief and there are no rules about how to mark a death day. But I encourage you to mark it in some way: to write a note, share a photo, text or call someone you love who remembers. Tell a favorite story, take a walk in the woods, speak out loud to your person. Perform an act of service, sing a song, cry in public or in private. Find the thing that makes the day go by. Because it will go by. More days will come, some better and some worse. And on the worse days, I encourage you to lean in; let yourself feel. The only way out is through.

Talking to kids about death

I grew up in a house of death.

Which is not to say it was a sad or morbid place. On the contrary, my childhood was full of joy and happiness. I only mean that talking about death and grief was normal in my house. This was partly because my dad is a doctor, from a family of doctors. And it was partly because my mom had lost her father very young and she kept him alive for us with stories and memories. Later, our family suffered more tragic loss—a blog post for another time—and so talking about death and grief and loss doesn’t really stress me out. On the contrary, it feels like a natural part of conversation.

It turns out that this isn’t typical for everyone. I can tell because of the way people’s faces contort when I casually start talking about death and dying. It kind of freaks them out. And if adults are so freaked out or uncomfortable talking about death, it stands to reason kids would be as well.

But the thing is, kids are remarkably unphased by death. There are a few reasons for that. First, most of early childhood is a time of pure self-centeredness; kids can only understand the world and its events by how they are directly affected. (I don’t mean this derisively; it’s an appropriate developmental step). Second, and I would argue most importantly, kids take their cues from the other people around them. They don’t always listen to our words (as any parent can attest) but they do often mimic what they see us do. How we model big emotions—and grief is a big one—means more than the words we use to describe it.

We do also need words, of course. There’s a tendency to talk around the mystery of death, to use flowery metaphors instead of using the real words: dying, death, dead. Euphemisms may feel safer but they can be confusing and misleading. Shrouding death in secrecy like this isn’t fair to kids. We don’t have to tell them everything but we have to tell them something. We have to use the words: this person that we love, their body died. And listen, there will be follow up questions; namely “why?” (The whys are endless). And also, how? And—this one can be really tough—what happens when we die?

I know that all sounds intense. There’s a fear that of scaring kids or making them sad. But death is generally sad! Part of our job is to show kids how to handle big feelings. Basically, kids need to see that it is ok to discuss death and it is ok to grieve. I give you permission to cry in front of your kids; to say “I miss our person;” to explain that bodies die and to offer them a space to ask questions about that.

Talking to kids about big stuff—and death is one of the biggest—can be daunting. But I assure you, you won’t scar them for life by being honest and clear. You don’t have to make your home a house of death (not everyone is as cool as my family or origin). Start with the basics, don’t over explain, and most of all, let there be space to have big, tough feelings. For yourself, too.