The first time I used, I was 9. I stole some of my mom’s appetite suppressants. For the first time in my short little life, I felt like I could do anything. I forgot that I felt like I didn’t belong. Don’t ask me why I felt that way. I am an adopted child raised by a good family, so I should have felt fine. I truly believe that addiction is genetic. With dope, at long last, I belonged. I wasn’t afraid.
Life went downhill from there. I gradually branched out to other drugs. At 14, I was stealing my parents’ cigarettes and booze and smoking pot. At 18, I got introduced to what would become the great love of my life-meth. I really could do anything on that stuff-no job was too big, and my mind worked like a pinball machine with an electrical short-thoughts careened around so fast I never held one long enough to examine it, so I never really thought about feelings of inadequacy or fear.
Or shame.
At 19, I was tired of trying to make it on my own, so I found myself married to an abusive bastard; anybody who’s ever been through that can understand what I mean when I say that it destroyed any shreds of self-worth I had a chance of having. By then, I knew how to fix that-I used more dope. It didn’t matter what kind as long as it helped me shove those feelings of worthlessness into some dark, forgotten corner of my soul.
I went through a string of failed relationships for a couple of years, until I met “the one.” He actually started to redeem the male of he species for me. For a year and a half, I somehow managed to limit my drinking and drugging. Life was pretty good. I was living the suburban American dream.
In the end, untreated addiction always wins. I got involved in some unsavory business, running drugs up and down the interstate. For each time I got arrested, I made it through at least a few more times. I guess sometimes it really is better to be lucky than good, or I’d still be in prison.
My second husband finally had enough, and I got sentenced to prison knowing that divorce awaited me when I got out. Looking back, I can’t blame him. At the time, I was just enraged.
In prison, in a state far from home, I didn’t have drugs but I still had that fight in me, and the ability to stuff my emotions into some dark corner of myself and forget them. It allowed me to survive in a cold and lonely place. When I got out, I did what I always did. I got high. How else was I supposed to deal with my situation? I was 4 states from all I knew, being held against my will by a parole officer who wouldn’t let me move home.
Fast forward to 2005.
I’m on probation for yet another drug offense, headed for an inpatient drug treatment center at the judge’s (and probation officer’s) suggestion. I had reached that point where I used dope to become that static-y snow on a TV with no reception. I didn’t want to feel. I didn’t want to deal with the mess my life had become and I damn sure didn’t want to deal with the mess that I had become.
I muddled along for a while until I had a using experience so horrific I will never forget it. I had finally used so much dope, trying to kill my feelings, that I had used myself into a corner and it was that dark corner of my soul that I had been avoiding for 27 years.
The dope had led me right into the hell I had been denying from the time I first discovered dope at the tender age of 9.
I got clean, finally. It hurt. Detox can kill, and I guess I considered myself lucky to be alive, considering the way I had used my body for a toxic waste dump.
The human psyche is an amazing thing, with a remarkable talent for self-preservation. I managed to avoid the real problem: here I was drugless, and the big shitty mess inside was still there. Denial became my best friend. I felt no emotions (or so I told myself.) I damn sure didn’t show them.
For the first two years I was clean, I was involved with another abusive bastard. Got a busted eardrum out of it. During that two years, I did a good job of not allowing myself to feel much of anything, partly out of determination to deprive that bastard of the satisfaction of knowing he had affected me, and mostly because I didn’t want to look at that big shitty fucking mess in my mind and soul.
I did all this while calling myself a member of a twelve step fellowship.
Two years into my abstinence, the pain of my living situation became too much. Denial, toughness, bad attitude-none of it was working anymore. Without the dope to numb my soul, the big shitty mess in the darkest corner of my heart began to fester. So I got honest. Well, a little bit, anyway. Six months later, I was out of the abusive relationship. I was healing.
At least that’s what I told the world.
Until the physical after effects of the corrective surgery on my eardrum became unbearable. They also became a physical representation of all that was wrong with my psyche.
Broken.
I could no longer use those old defense mechanisms. I could no longer be the hardass, the tough girl who didn’t give a fuck. I gave a fuck and I was tired of being broken.
Aunt Becky, I cried. Like I don’t think I have ever cried before.
I cried for all I wasted. I cried over all the wasted potential, the wasted years, the wasted lives I destroyed with my sick spirit.
I cried for a little girl who never felt like she belonged. I cried for my mother who couldn’t fix her child. I cried for what was left of myself and for the parts of me that were lost forever. I screamed. I cried until my throat hurt, my rib cage hurt, my head hurt. I cried until my entire head was so congested I couldn’t breathe. I cried over all the sadness I had never cried over, I cried over all the pain I never cried over, I cried over all the fear I never cried over. I have no idea how long I cried. It seemed like forever.
And then I slept. I slept the sleep of the damned. Because as I cried, screaming about how I was tired of being broken, I realized that nothing could fix me. I was doomed to this existence of knowing I was broken and the only thing that ever made me feel whole was dope and I couldn’t have it anymore. It had been killing me while it killed my feelings, except it wasn’t killing the feelings anymore. I couldn’t stop using once I started, and once I used I became this horrible beast who got arrested and burned bridges with the people in her life. So dope was out.
I was, finally, alone with the truth. I was rotten inside and nothing could fix me.
At 40 years of age, I’m glad I can say that a lot has happened in the 3 years since I cried that night and screamed my frustration at being broken. I started working the 12 steps of recovery from addiction. I have a sponsor. I have 5 years clean. I have a reasonably good relationship with my mother these days. I am now in a very serious and mostly healthy relationship with the man who held me the night I cried-he is truly a good man. I am in my first senior year of college. I have been well trained in the work I do and have been working the same part-time jobs for 5 years now. I’m good at my job. I have a few friends-true friends.
Aunt Becky, I wish I could give you a happy ending. I wish I could say that I have finally progressed through the 5 stages of grief. I think it’s safe to say I have passed through denial.
Yet I still can’t let go of those old defense mechanisms. It is so fucking hard to express emotions. It’s just as hard to live through them. So I shop. I eat chocolate. I find things to distract me. Often, I stick my feelings in that dark corner of my soul. Even the good ones. I still miss the ability to deny their existence. I don’t know what to do with them, so it’s easier to deny them.
I guess it’s progress, being able to admit I have emotions.
Some days, I get so angry. Why the fuck can’t I be normal? Why oh why do I always seem to feel inadequate, less than, afraid? At least the rage can be empowering, motivating me to get up and try one more day to find a way to heal my sick spirit. If nothing else, rage feels good. It’s so primal.
Some days, I’m depressed. The possibility of spending the rest of my life knowing I am irretrievably broken saddens me beyond belief. This is where I am grateful for my adoptive mother-she’s my REAL mother. Nothing ever stopped her, and rarely did anything slow her down. She always kept going. What an amazing example; I believe it’s the only reason I keep going on my depressed days.
Bargaining. Yes. I do that. I make bargains with whatever’s out there-if you would just fix me, God, I would try to touch another life so some other woman doesn’t ever have to live with the pain I lived with for so long. Just please fucking fix me so I am not afraid, ashamed, and insecure. Make me not hurt and I will try to share it with someone who needs to know it is possible to not hurt.
Acceptance. Not so much. Today, I refuse to accept that I am irretrievably broken. Maybe that is where the twelve steps are beginning to work in my life.
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.
When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.
All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.
They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; his eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.
Author unknown
What Is Pet Loss?
For many of us, a pet is not “just a dog” or “just a cat,” but rather a beloved member of our family, bringing companionship, fun, and joy to our lives. A pet can add structure to your day, keep you active and social, help you to overcome setbacks and challenges in life, and even provide a sense of meaning or purpose. So, when a beloved pet dies, it’s normal to feel a painful sense of grief and loss.
While we all respond to loss differently, the level of grief you experience will often depend on factors such as your age and personality, the age of your pet, and the circumstances of their death. Generally, the more significant your pet was to you, the more intense the emotional pain you’ll feel. The role the animal played in your life can also have an impact. For example, if your pet was a working dog, service animal, or therapy animal, then you’ll not only be grieving the loss of a companion but also the loss of a coworker, the loss of your independence, or the loss of emotional support. If you lived alone and the pet was your only companion, coming to terms with their loss can be even harder. And if you were unable to afford expensive veterinary treatment to prolong your pet’s life, you may even feel a profound sense of guilt.
Whatever the circumstances of your loss, remember that grief is personal to you, so you shouldn’t be ashamed about how you feel, or believe that it’s somehow not appropriate to grieve for an animal friend. While experiencing loss is an inevitable part of owning a pet, there are healthy ways to cope with the pain, come to terms with your grief, and when the time is right, perhaps even open your heart to another animal companion.
Losing a pet, for any reason, is something that happens to every pet owner eventually. Whether your pet is stolen, dies, or must be re-homed – the loss can be overwhelmingly difficult to deal with.
Our pets often become members of the family, companions, confidantes, best friends, and some cases a coworker (working dogs) or ticket to independence (service dogs). For those reasons (and many others), the loss of a pet can trigger agonizing grief along with a whole host of other emotions – anger, guilt, shock, and many other strong emotions.
Grief and Pet Loss:
It’s natural to go through the stages of grief as you would with any loss of somebody you care for. In many cases, the people around you don’t understand the grief you are going through, and may tell you to “get over it.” You may hear things like “it was just a dog/cat/bird” or “you can just get another one.” Our society generally doesn’t recognize the significance of pet loss, nor does it allow for ‘proper’ bereavement.
Different Types of Loss.
Grieving is a highly individual experience. Some people find grief following the loss of a pet comes in stages, where they experience different feelings such as denial, anger, guilt, depression, and eventually acceptance and resolution. Others find that their grief is more cyclical, coming in waves, or a series of highs and lows. The lows are likely to be deeper and longer at the beginning and then gradually become shorter and less intense as time goes by. Still, even years after a loss, a sight, a sound, or a special anniversary can spark memories that trigger a strong sense of grief.Different Kinds of Loss
Death can happen expectedly, after a long-term illness or when age has taken its toll. Equally painful are unexpected deaths, such as vehicle accidents or fatal injuries. When human error or maliciousness are to blame for an animal’s demise, feelings of guilt or anger can complicate an already devastating time. If there is a question of wrongful death, do not rule out legal proceedings. State laws are constantly improving with regard to animal abuse and compensation for the loss of companion animals. Visit your state’s legislative Web site for more information. Perhaps your dog was stolen or your cat was accidentally let out or simply disappeared, leaving you without the ability to say goodbye or the knowledge of his or her whereabouts and safety. Divorce, college, or other kinds of forced separation can also prompt feelings of grief.
The grieving process happens only gradually.
It can’t be forced or hurried—and there is no “normal” timetable for grieving. Some people start to feel better in weeks or months. For others, the grieving process is measured in years. Whatever your grief experience, it’s important to be patient with yourself and allow the process to naturally unfold.
Feeling sad, shocked, or lonely is a normal reaction to the loss of a beloved pet.
Exhibiting these feelings doesn’t mean you are weak or your feelings are somehow misplaced. It just means that you’re mourning the loss of an animal you loved, so you shouldn’t feel ashamed.
Trying to ignore your pain or keep it from surfacing will only make it worse in the long run.
For real healing, it is necessary to face your grief and actively deal with it. By expressing your grief, you’ll likely need less time to heal than if you withhold or “bottle up” your feelings. Write about your feelings and talk about them with others who are sympathetic to your loss.
Some things that can make your grief harder to deal with are: lack of support or understanding, guilt over making the decision to euthanize, and wondering how to discuss it with your children. One of the most important things you can do to get through the difficult time of bereavement is allow yourself to feel it. Holding it in and hiding it is generally not conducive to working through the feelings.
Your journey of grief will not take on a prescribed pattern or look like stages, such as the five stages of grief, as Kubler-Ross, or other patterns of grief. The following tips can help with grief and grieving the loss of your beloved pet.
When Death Is a Decision
If your animal companion’s quality of life has diminished to the point where therapy or medicine is no longer able to help, euthanasia is the only humane choice. Discuss this option thoroughly with your veterinarian. Once you have resolved to end your friend’s suffering, insist on being with him or her during the procedure. Ask about sedative options in order to make your companion’s passing as stress-free as possible. As devastating as it may seem, euthanasia is never a mistake. Delaying, in the hope that one more day might make a difference, may actually mean just one more day of distress. Your friend may feel your pain, too, and try to hold on for your sake. Dealing with these emotions, and especially the guilt afterwards, is a journey unto itself.
Acknowledge the reality of the death
Acknowledging the full reality of your loss may take weeks or months, but will be done in a time that is right for you. Be kind to yourself as you prepare for the “new normal” of a life without your beloved pet. Just as it took time to build the relationship with your pet, it will take time to get used to him or her not being there. Once you become accustomed to the idea that your pet has died, you can move forward. Just because your pet is now gone does not mean that you don’t still love him or her as much as you’ve always done.
Move toward the pain of the loss
Experiencing these emotional thoughts and feelings about the death of a pet is a difficult, but important, need. A healthier grief journey may come from taking your time to work through your feelings rather than trying to push them away or ignore it. Those who bury their feelings and pain of the loss of their much-loved pet find it coming out in very different ways: self-medicating with alcohol, irrational bouts of anger, and difficulty concentrating on daily tasks. It is far more healthy to feel your feelings rather than stuffing them down deep inside.
Continue your relationship through memories
Just because your pet has died does not mean that he or she never existed. Your memories allow your pets to live on in you. Embracing these memories, both happy and sad, can be a very slow and, at times, painful process that occurs in small steps. For example, take some time to look at past photos, write a tribute to your pet, or write your pet a letter recalling your time together. Most people can understand the loss of a beloved pet and it may prove beneficial to reach out to others. Plant a memorial garden. Find a special way for you to visit the memories of your pet.
Adjust your self-identity
Part of your self-identity might come from being a pet owner. Others may also think of you in relation to your pet. You may be “the guy who always walked the big black dog around the neighborhood” or “the friend whose cat always jumped on laps.” Adjusting to this change is a central need of mourning. Now you’re in a new reality without your beloved pet. It may feel scary and awful, but over time, you’ll be able to see yourself as the same person who loved that pet, only without the pet. Adjusting to a loss is always complicated and fraught with sadness, but in time, you will be able to look back on cherished memories of your pet.
Search for meaning
When a pet dies, it’s natural to question the meaning and purpose of pets in your life. Coming to terms with these questions is another need you must meet during your grief journey. Know that it is the asking, not the finding of concrete answers, that is important. Many people feel silly or stupid for being so upset about losing their loved pet, like it’s not that serious, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. This was someone you shared your life with, your home; someone you were responsible for. The emptiness of your life may feel overwhelming, which is why you should try to search for your new normal, place to belong, and practice self-care.
Receive support from others
Don’t hesitate to ask for help dealing with your heartache. Solace is to be found in a number of places. Support groups are springing up everywhere, some sponsored by professionals, and can give you the opportunity to share your feelings with people who understand your pain. There are help lines that you can call and many books for adults and children that deal with losing an animal companion. Some veterinary schools are increasing their efforts to help alleviate animal caretakers’ grief and have social workers on hand for counseling. The Internet is a wonderful resource for helping you find groups, individual grief counselors, and even chatrooms. Sympathetic family and friends can be a great source of comfort, too. They probably have known your nonhuman companion for as long as you have and can share fond memories.
You need the love and support of others because you never “get over” grief. Talking with other pet owners who have experienced the death of a pet can be one important way to meet this need. Try reaching out to others who’ve been where you are so that you can share your sad times and happy times with each other. Support will remind you that you are grieving a very real loss and help you through that grief.
Coping With Pet Loss:
The experience of loss is different for everyone and can present unique challenges to each person in each situation, but some of the following tips may help you come to terms with the loss of your fur-baby.
The deafening silence – the silence in your home after the death of a pet may seem excruciatingly loud. While your animal companion occupies physical space in your life and your home, many times their presence is felt more with your senses. When that pet is no longer there, the lack of their presence – the silence – becomes piercing. It becomes the reality of the “presence of the absence.” Merely being aware of this stark reality will assist in preparing you for the flood of emotions.
The special bond with your pet—the relationship shared with your pet is a special and unique bond, a tie that some might find difficult to understand. There will be well-meaning friends and family members who will think that you should not mourn for your pet or who will tell you that you should not be grieving as hard as you are because “it’s just a cat” or “just a dog.” Your grief is normal and the relationship you shared with your special friend needs to be mourned.
Grief can’t be ranked—sometimes our heads get in the way of our heart’s desire to mourn by trying to justify the depth of our emotion. Some people will then want to “rank” their grief, pitting their grief emotions with others who may be “worse.” While this is normal, your grief is your grief and deserves the care and attention of anyone who is experiencing a loss.
Questions of spirituality—during this time in your grief journey, you may find yourself questioning your beliefs regarding pets and the after-life. Many people around you will also have their own opinions. It will be important during this time for you to find the answers right for you and your individual and personal beliefs.
Don’t let anyone tell you how to feel, and don’t tell yourself how to feel either. Your grief is your own, and no one else can tell you when it’s time to “move on” or “get over it.” Let yourself feel whatever you feel without embarrassment or judgment. It’s okay to be angry, to cry or not to cry. It’s also okay to laugh, to find moments of joy, and to let go when you’re ready.
Reach out to others who have lost pets. Check out online message boards, pet loss hotlines, and pet loss support groups—see the Resources section below for details. If your own friends and family members are not sympathetic about pet loss, find someone who is. Often, another person who has also experienced the loss of a beloved pet may better understand what you’re going through.
Rituals can help healing. A funeral can help you and your family members openly express your feelings. Ignore people who think it’s inappropriate to hold a funeral for a pet, and do what feels right for you.
Create a legacy. Preparing a memorial, planting a tree in memory of your pet, compiling a photo album or scrapbook, or otherwise sharing the memories you enjoyed with your pet, can create a legacy to celebrate the life of your animal companion. Remembering the fun and love you shared with your pet can help you to eventually move on.
Look after yourself. The stress of losing a pet can quickly deplete your energy and emotional reserves. Looking after your physical and emotional needs will help you get through this difficult time. Spend time face to face with people who care about you, eat a healthy diet, get plenty of sleep, and exercise regularly to release endorphins and help boost your mood.
If you have other pets, try to maintain your normal routine. Surviving pets can also experience loss when a pet dies, or they may become distressed by your sorrow. Maintaining their daily routines, or even increasing exercise and play times, will not only benefit the surviving pets but can also help to elevate your mood and outlook, too.
Seek professional help if you need it. If your grief is persistent and interferes with your ability to function, your doctor or a mental health professional can evaluate you for depression.
When Others Devalue Your Loss:
One aspect that can make grieving for the loss of a pet so difficult is that pet loss is not appreciated by everyone. Some friends and family may say, “What’s the big deal? It’s just a pet!” Some people assume that pet loss shouldn’t hurt as much as human loss, or that it is somehow inappropriate to grieve for an animal. They may not understand because they don’t have a pet of their own or are unable to appreciate the companionship and love that a pet can provide.
Don’t argue with others about whether your grief is appropriate or not.
Accept the fact that the best support for your grief may come from outside your usual circle of friends and family members.
Seek out others who have lost pets; those who can appreciate the magnitude of your loss, and may be able to suggest ways of getting through the grieving process.
How Do I Tell My Children?
Young children aren’t developmentally ready to understand death in the same way adults do. As their understanding deepens over time, the lens through which they view death changes too. From ages 3 to 5, children tend to view death as temporary and reversible. They may believe you can bring a pet back to life by taking it to the doctor for a shot. Magical thinking also may prompt your 4-year-old to believe he somehow caused the pet’s death when he wished for a playful puppy to replace an elderly dog with bad breath and health problems.
From ages 6 to 8, children usually know death is irreversible but believe it only happens to others. They understand the concept but may not be able to accept that a death is happening to them. From ages 9 to 11, children come to understand that death is inevitable, even for them. However, children in these age ranges may still feel somewhat responsible for the pet’s death, thinking their beloved pet may not have died if only they’d taken her for more dog walks or kept the water bowl full.
You are the best judge of how to discuss the loss with your little ones. Honesty is important, and you should encourage your children to talk out their feelings with you. This may be the first time a child has dealt with death in any way, and an opportunity for you to help them understand how to grieve, as well as clear up any misconceptions they may have about death and dying.
One of the most difficult parts about losing a pet may be breaking the bad news to kids. Try to do so one-on-one in a place where they feel safe and comfortable and not easily distracted.
As you would with any tough issue, try to gauge how much information kids need to hear based on their age, maturity level, and life experience.
If your pet is very old or has a long illness, consider talking to kids before the death happens. If you have to euthanize your pet, you may want to explain that:
the veterinarians have done everything that they can
your pet would never get better
this is the kindest way to take the pet’s pain away
the pet will die peacefully, without feeling hurt or scared
Again, a child’s age, maturity level, and questions will help determine whether to offer a clear and simple explanation for what’s going to happen. If so, it’s OK to use words like “death” and “dying” or to say something like “The veterinarian will give our pet a shot that first puts it to sleep and then stops the heart from beating.” Many kids want a chance to say goodbye beforehand, and some may be old enough or emotionally mature enough to be there to comfort the pet during the process.
If you do have to euthanize your pet, be careful about saying the animal went “to sleep” or “got put to sleep.” Young kids tend to take things literally, so this can conjure up scary ideas about sleep or surgery and anesthesia.
If the pet’s death is more sudden, calmly explain what has happened. Be brief, and let your child’s questions guide how much information you provide.
Sticking to the Truth
Avoid trying to gloss over the event with a lie. Telling a child that “Buster ran away” or “Max went on a trip” is not a good idea. It probably won’t alleviate the sadness about losing the pet, and if the truth does come out, your child will probably be angry that you lied.
If asked what happens to the pet after it dies, draw on your own understanding of death, including, if relevant, the viewpoint of your faith. And since none of us knows fully, an honest “I don’t know” certainly can be an appropriate answer — it’s OK to tell kids that death is a mystery.
Helping Your Child Cope
Like anyone dealing with a loss, kids usually feel a variety of emotions besides sadness after the death of a pet. They might experience loneliness, anger if the pet was euthanized, frustration that the pet couldn’t get better, or guilt about times that they were mean to or didn’t care for the pet as promised.
Help kids understand that it’s natural to feel all of those emotions, that it’s OK to not want to talk about them at first, and that you’re there when they are ready to talk.
Don’t feel compelled to hide your own sadness about losing a pet. Showing how you feel and talking about it openly sets an example for kids. You show that it’s OK to feel sad when you lose a loved one, to talk about your feelings, and to cry when you feel sad. And it’s comforting to kids to know that they’re not alone in feeling sad. Share stories about the pets you had — and lost — when you were young and how difficult it was to say goodbye.
Looking Ahead
After the shock of the news fades, it’s important to help your child heal and move on.
It can help kids to find special ways to remember a pet. You might have a ceremony to bury your pet or just share memories of fun times you had together. Write a prayer together or offer thoughts on what the pet meant to each family member. Share stories of your pet’s funny moments. Offer lots of loving hugs. You could do a project too, like making a scrapbook.
Keep in mind that grieving over the loss of a pet, particularly for a child, is similar to grieving over a person. For kids, losing a pet who offered love and companionship can be much harder than losing a distant relative. You might have to explain that to friends, family members, or others who don’t own pets or don’t understand that.
Perhaps most important, talk about your pet, often and with love. Let your child know that while the pain will go away, the happy memories of the pet will always remain. When the time is right, you might consider adopting a new pet — not as a replacement, but as a way to welcome another animal friend into your family.
Euthanasia: The Difficult Choice
While some pets die of old age in the comfort of their own home, many others become seriously ill, get injured in some way or experience a significantly diminished quality of life as they grow very old. In these situations, it may be necessary for you to consider having your pet euthanized in order to spare it from pain and suffering. Here are some suggestions for dealing with this difficult decision, as well as some information about the euthanasia procedure itself.
Knowing when it’s time
Talk to your veterinarian. He or she is the best-qualified person to help guide you through this difficult process. In some cases, your veterinarian may be able to tell you definitively that it is time to euthanize your pet, but in other cases, you may ultimately need to make the decision based on your observances of your pet’s behavior and attitude. Here are some signs that may indicate your pet is suffering or no longer enjoying a good quality of life:
He is experiencing chronic pain that cannot be controlled with medication (your veterinarian can help you determine if your pet is in pain).
He has frequent vomiting or diarrhea that is causing dehydration and/or significant weight loss.
He has stopped eating or will only eat if you force feed him.
He is incontinent to the degree that he frequently soils himself.
He has lost interest in all or most of his favorite activities, such as going for walks, playing with toys or other pets, eating treats or soliciting attention and petting from family members.
He cannot stand on his own or falls down when trying to walk.
He has chronic labored breathing or coughing.
Saying goodbye
Once you have made this very difficult decision, you will also need to decide how and where you and your family will say the final goodbye.
Before the procedure is scheduled to take place, make sure that all members of your family have time with the pet to say a private goodbye.
If you have children, make sure that you explain the decision to them and prepare them for the loss of the pet in advance. This may be your child’s first experience with death, and it is very important for you to help her or him through the grieving process. Books that address the subject, such as When a Pet Dies by Fred Rogers or Remembering My Pet by Machama Liss-Levinson and Molly Phinney Baskette, may be very beneficial in helping your child to deal with this loss.
It is an individual decision whether or not you and your family want to be present during the euthanasia procedure. For some pet owners, the emotion may be too overwhelming, but for many, it is a comfort to be with their pet during the final moments. It may be inappropriate for young children to witness the procedure since they are not yet able to understand death and may also not understand that they need to remain still and quiet.
Some veterinarians will come to your house, which allows both the pet and the family to share their last moments together in the comfort of their own home.
What Happens During Euthanasia?
Making the decision to say goodbye to a beloved pet is stressful, and your anxiety can often be exacerbated if you do not know what to expect during the euthanasia procedure.
Your veterinarian will generally explain the procedure to you before he or she begins. Don’t hesitate to ask your veterinarian for further explanation or clarification if needed.
Small to medium-size pets are usually placed on a table for the procedure, but larger dogs may be more easily handled on the floor. Regardless of the location, make sure that your pet has a comfortable blanket or bed to lie on.
In most cases, a trained veterinary technician will hold your pet for the procedure. The veterinary technician has the skill needed to properly hold your pet so that the process goes quickly and smoothly. If you plan to be present during the entire procedure, it is important that you allow enough space for the veterinarian and technician to work. Your veterinarian will probably show you where to stand so that your pet can see you and hear your voice.
Your veterinarian will give your pet an overdose of an anesthetic drug called sodium pentobarbital, which quickly causes unconsciousness and then gently stops the heartbeat. Your veterinarian will draw the correct dose of the drug into a syringe and then inject it into a vein. In dogs, the front leg is most commonly used. In cats, either the front or rear leg may be used. The injection itself is not painful to your pet.
Often, veterinarians will place an intravenous (IV) catheter in the pet’s vein before giving the injection. The catheter will reduce the risk that the vein will rupture as the drug is injected. If the vein ruptures, then some of the drug may leak out into the leg, and it will not work as quickly.
Your veterinarian may give your pet an injection of anesthetic or sedative before the injection of sodium pentobarbitol. This is most often done in pets that are not likely to hold still for the IV injection. An anesthetic or sedative injection is usually given in the rear leg muscle and will take effect in about five to 10 minutes. Your pet will become very drowsy or unconscious, allowing the veterinarian to more easily perform the IV injection.
Once the IV injection of sodium pentobarbitol is given, your pet will become completely unconscious within a few seconds, and death will occur within a few minutes or less.
Your veterinarian will use a stethoscope to confirm that your pet’s heart has stopped.
Your pet may experience some muscle twitching and intermittent breathing for several minutes after death has occurred. Your pet may also release his bladder or bowels. These events are normal and should not be cause for alarm.
After your veterinarian has confirmed that your pet has passed, he or she will usually ask if you would like to have a few final minutes alone with your pet.
The choice to stay for the euthanasia or not is a personal one. Some vets will make a home visit to ease the transition, others prefer not to have the owner present at all. You’ll want to discuss your desires and concerns with your vet, and if they are unable or unwilling to accommodate you, then perhaps you should ask for a referral.
What’s Next?
After your pet’s death, you will need to decide how to handle the remains. It may seem easiest to leave your pet with a clinic for disposal (a fee may apply – check with them), but there are several other options available to you.
Your veterinarian can offer you a variety of options for your pet’s final resting place.
Cremation is the most popular choice, and you can choose whether or not you would like to have your pet’s ashes returned to you. Most cremation services offer a choice of urns and personalized memorials.
Burial is another option. You may want to bury your pet in your own yard, but before doing so, be sure to check your local ordinances for any restrictions. There are also many pet cemeteries throughout the United States. To locate a pet cemetery near you, check with the International Association of Pet Cemeteries.
Home burial is a popular choice, but you’ll need to have the land, and make sure it’s legal in your area.
Cremation is generally less expensive than a cemetery, and offers up more options as to what you do with the remains. You can choose to keep the ashes with you, scatter them somewhere special, or bury them. Your vet, a pet store, or local shelter is likely to have more information about the options available in your area. It might be a good idea to have a plan in place ahead of time, rather than trying to muddle through in the midst of your grief.
Saying Goodbye
A burial service can provide closure. There are hundreds of pet cemeteries around the world as well as several companies that manufacture coffins, urns, and grave markers for companion animals. If you decide on a home burial, however, you must first check with city and county ordinances to determine the legality of interment. Your veterinarian can also dispose of the body but you may want to ask about the clinic’s policy. Space or legal limitations may necessitate developing your own method of remembrance. Your veterinarian can recommend an animal crematory center, enabling you to keep the remains in an urn for a private memorial at your companion’s favorite park or beach.
When Should I Get Another Pet?
You may be tempted to rush right out and get another pet just like the one you lost. However, it might be better to mourn your old pet and wait until you’re more emotionally ready. You’ll also need to be careful of expecting the new pet to be the exact same as the older pet; this can lead to disappointment and frustration.
There are many wonderful reasons to once again share your life with a companion animal, but the decision of when to do so is a very personal one. It may be tempting to rush out and fill the void left by your pet’s death by immediately getting another pet. In most cases, it’s best to mourn the old pet first, and wait until you’re emotionally ready to open your heart and your home to a new animal. You may want to start by volunteering at a shelter or rescue group. Spending time caring for pets in need is not only great for the animals, but can help you decide if you’re ready to own a new pet.
Some retired seniors living alone may find it hardest to adjust to life without a pet. If taking care of an animal provided you with a sense of purpose and self-worth as well as companionship, you may want to consider getting another pet at an earlier stage. Of course, seniors also need to consider their own health and life expectancy when deciding on a new pet. Again, volunteering to help pets in need can be a good way to decide if you’re ready to become a pet owner again.
Children may feel it’s disloyal to love a new pet, especially if what they really want is the old pet back. In most cases, it is better to get a pet that is different from your old one, to avoid making comparisons, but you will know what you and your family can handle.
If you live alone, you may want to find a new pet sooner, to help stave off loneliness and give you a sense of purpose and companionship.
You’ll also need to consider the needs of any other pets you have.
Additional Pet Loss Resources:
Pet Loss Support Page – This page is a little cluttered, but has extensive resources, including many international ones, as well as several articles and many links to other helpful pages.
Delta Society: The Human-Animal Health Connection – Offers up articles, information, and links that may be very useful (and quite a bit of information about pets in general and how they can benefit us).
Pet Loss Memorial Pages:
Rainbow Bridge – Well known Rainbow Bridge poem. Also has resources about animal health and pet loss grief.
Pet Loss Hotlines:
US Pet Loss Hotlines:
C.A.R.E. (Companion Animal Related Emotions) Pet Loss Helpline – (877) 394-CARE (2273) We are here to accept calls from 1 to 6 pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You may call at any time and leave a message, and your call will be returned as soon as possible, usually within 24 hours.
Washington State University Pet Loss Support – 1-(866) 266-8635 Phone and/or email message can be left for staff 24 hours a day. Phones are normally staffed during the semester Monday-Thursday from 7 PM-9 PM and Saturday 1PM-3 PM PST. While school is not in session and during holidays – abbreviated hours checking phone and email messages Monday-Thursday and Saturday once daily.
There is no greater loss than the loss of a child. It’s out of order; parents should die first. Yet, these tragic deaths happen more often than we’d like to believe and leave an indelible mark on the worlds of their loved ones.
Sudden death is a contradiction to everything we know to be true; losing a child to sudden death is a disruption in the natural law and order of life. It is a heartbreak like no other. Parental grief is different from other losses—it is intensified, exaggerated, and lengthened. Children are not supposed to die; parents expect to see their children grow and mature, and one day to bury their own parents. Ultimately, parents expect to die and leave their children behind, as this is the natural course of life, our life cycle continuing as it should.
The loss of a child is the loss of innocence, the death of the most vulnerable and dependent. The death of a child signifies the loss of the future, of hopes and dreams, of new strength, and of perfection. Grieving parents say that their grief is a lifelong process, a long and painful process by which they try to take and keep some meaning from the loss and life without the child.
After a child’s death, parents must embark on a long, excruciating journey that’s scary and lonely and, unfortunately, a journey that never ends. The hope and desire that healing will come eventually is an intense and persistent hope for grieving parents. The child who died is considered a gift to the parents and family, and they are forced to give up that gift, “I didn’t LOSE my baby; she was TAKEN from me.” Yet, as parents, we also strive to let our child’s life, no matter how short, be seen as a gift to others. Parents of a child who died of SIDS seek to find ways to continue to love, honor, and value the lives of their children, and to make the child’s presence known and felt in the lives of family and friends, thereby not forgetting that the child existed.
Bereaved parents frequently live their lives more fully and generously due to this painful experience.
What Is Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS)?
Sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS), also called “crib death” and “cot death,” is the unexplained death, usually during sleep, of a seemingly healthy baby less than a year old. SIDS is sometimes known as crib death because the infants often die in their cribs. Although the cause is unknown, it appears that SIDS might be associated with defects in the portion of an infant’s brain that controls breathing and arousal from sleep.
According to the CDC, in 2016, there were about 3,600 sudden unexpected infant deaths (SUID) in the United States. These deaths occur among infants less than 1-year-old and have no immediately obvious cause.
The three commonly reported types of SUID include:
SIDS.
Unknown cause.
Accidental suffocation and strangulation in bed.
In 2016, there were about 1,500 deaths due to SIDS, 1,200 deaths due to unknown causes, and about 900 deaths due to accidental suffocation and strangulation in bed.
SIDS is a diagnosis of exclusions, meaning that after a child dies suddenly, and an autopsy performed, the medical examiner is unable to pinpoint the direct cause for the child’s sudden death.
Researchers have discovered some factors that might put babies at extra risk. They’ve also identified measures to take to help protect your child from SIDS. Perhaps the most important is placing your baby on his or her back to sleep.
The impact of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) presents unique grieving factors and raises painful psychological issues for the parents and family as well as those who love, care, and counsel them. SIDS parents must deal with a baby’s death that is unexpected and unexplained, a death that cannot be predicted or prevented, an infant death so sudden that it leaves no time for preparation or goodbyes, and no period of anticipatory grief. In many cases, parents of SIDS babies are very young and are confronted with grief for the first time.
SIDS often occurs at home, forcing parents and sometimes siblings or other children to witness a terrible tragedy and possibly scenes of intense confusion. In some cases, the parents themselves are the ones who find the child dead and they must always live with that memory. In other cases, the parents may feel overwhelming guilt or anger if the death occurred while the child was in child care. They may feel that the baby might not have died if they had been caring for the infant.
SIDS parents, like other child loss parents, are very often plagued by “if only’s” that they cannot resolve. They replay such thoughts as: “If only I hadn’t put the child down for a nap when I did.” “If only I had checked on the baby sooner.” “If only I had not returned to work so soon.” “If only I had taken the baby to the doctor with that slight cold.”
Professionals need to provide parents with reliable information, as well as emotional support in these situations.
SIDS parents, relatives, child care providers, health care professionals, and other adults feel helpless in trying to explain the inexplicable to other young children who may have been present at the time of the baby’s death. It is especially difficult for children to understand why a baby died when the infant didn’t appear to be sick. Also, in some cases, parents are required to explain SIDS to adults who are misinformed or know nothing about the syndrome.
In some SIDS deaths, the autopsy findings may help answer questions. Parents are often anxious to consult with the pathologist after the autopsy. Discussing the autopsy results often helps most parents accept the reality of their infant’s death. The pathologist reviews the autopsy results, explaining in terms the parents can understand how these findings point (or do not point) to a determination of the cause of death. The pathologist should also take the time to answer any questions that arise.
Friends and family members should try to do all they can to show their concern and help the parents in keeping memories of their baby alive. For most SIDS parents, it is also reassuring for others to try to mention special things they noticed about the baby and remember the child’s birthday or the anniversary of the death. By extending these personal and sensitive gestures, loving and concerned relatives, friends, and caregivers can become a source of reassurance and comfort for the grieving parents.
Some SIDS babies are so young when they die that family members and friends never had a chance to welcome them. They may have missed sharing the parents’ excitement over the birth and affirming the child’s existence. Many individuals do not understand the depth of parental attachment to a very young child. Bereaved SIDS parents should not be made to feel that others don’t want to hear them, that others won’t permit them to openly grieve.
The parents of SIDS babies want their child’s short life to matter not only to them, but to their families and friends, to the others in their circle of loved ones, and to the world. “All too frequently, a SIDS loss is not socially validated in the same way other deaths are. Others often fail to recognize that, despite the brevity of the child’s life, the family’s attachment to that child is strong and deep and has been present in various ways since the knowledge of conception.
Potential Causes and Risk Factors for SIDS (SUID):
It’s likely that a combination of physical and sleep environmental factors can make an infant more vulnerable to SIDS. Researchers are still looking to pinpoint an exact cause for SIDS, as it is a diagnosis of exclusion, meaning that when an autopsy is performed, no other cause for death can be found, it is called SIDS or SUID (sudden unexplained infant death. Potential risk factors vary from child to child.
Physical factors
Physical factors associated with SIDS include:
Brain defects. Some infants are born with problems that make them more likely to die of SIDS. In many of these babies, the portion of the brain that controls breathing and arousal from sleep hasn’t matured enough to work properly.
Low birth weight. Premature birth or being part of a multiple birth increases the likelihood that a baby’s brain hasn’t matured completely, so he or she has less control over such automatic processes as breathing and heart rate.
Respiratory infection. Many infants who died of SIDS had recently had a cold, which might contribute to breathing problems.
Sleep environmental factors
The items in a baby’s crib and his or her sleeping position can combine with a baby’s physical problems to increase the risk of SIDS. Examples include:
Sleeping on the stomach or side. Babies placed in these positions to sleep might have more difficulty breathing than those placed on their backs.
Sleeping on a soft surface. Lying face down on a fluffy comforter, a soft mattress or a waterbed can block an infant’s airway.
Sharing a bed. While the risk of SIDS is lowered if an infant sleeps in the same room as his or her parents, the risk increases if the baby sleeps in the same bed with parents, siblings or pets.
Overheating. Being too warm while sleeping can increase a baby’s risk of SIDS.
Risk factors
Although sudden infant death syndrome can strike any infant, researchers have identified several factors that might increase a baby’s risk. They include:
Sex. Boys are slightly more likely to die of SIDS.
Age. Infants are most vulnerable between the second and fourth months of life.
Race. For reasons that aren’t well-understood, nonwhite infants are more likely to develop SIDS.
Family history. Babies who’ve had siblings or cousins die of SIDS are at higher risk of SIDS.
Secondhand smoke. Babies who live with smokers have a higher risk of SIDS.
Being premature. Both being born early and having a low birth weight increase your baby’s chances of SIDS.
Maternal risk factors
During pregnancy, the mother also affects her baby’s risk of SIDS, especially if she:
Is younger than 20
Smokes cigarettes
Uses drugs or alcohol
Has inadequate prenatal care
Can We Prevent SIDS/Sudden Infant Death Syndrome/SUID?
There’s no guaranteed way to prevent SIDS, but you can help your baby sleep more safely by following these tips:
Back to sleep. Place your baby to sleep on his or her back, rather than on the stomach or side, every time you — or anyone else — put the baby to sleep for the first year of life. This isn’t necessary when your baby’s awake or able to roll over both ways without help,
Don’t assume that others will place your baby to sleep in the correct position — insist on it. Advise sitters and child care providers not to use the stomach position to calm an upset baby.
Keep the crib as bare as possible. Use a firm mattress and avoid placing your baby on thick, fluffy padding, such as lambskin or a thick quilt. Don’t leave pillows, fluffy toys or stuffed animals in the crib. These can interfere with breathing if your baby’s face presses against them.
Don’t overheat your baby. To keep your baby warm, try a sleep sack or other sleep clothing that doesn’t require additional covers. Don’t cover your baby’s head.
Have your baby sleep in your room. Ideally, your baby should sleep in your room with you, but alone in a crib, bassinet or other structure designed for infants, for at least six months, and, if possible, up to a year.
Adult beds aren’t safe for infants. A baby can become trapped and suffocate between the headboard slats, the space between the mattress and the bed frame, or the space between the mattress and the wall. A baby can also suffocate if a sleeping parent accidentally rolls over and covers the baby’s nose and mouth.
Breastfeed your baby, if possible. Breastfeeding for at least six months lowers the risk of SIDS.
Don’t use baby monitors and other commercial devices that claim to reduce the risk of SIDS. The American Academy of Pediatrics discourages the use of monitors and other devices because of ineffectiveness and safety issues.
Offer a pacifier. Sucking on a pacifier without a strap or string at naptime and bedtime might reduce the risk of SIDS. One caveat — if you’re breastfeeding, wait to offer a pacifier until your baby is 3 to 4 weeks old and you’ve settled into a nursing routine.
If your baby’s not interested in the pacifier, don’t force it. Try again another day. If the pacifier falls out of your baby’s mouth while he or she is sleeping, don’t pop it back in.
Immunize your baby. There’s no evidence that routine immunizations increase SIDS risk. Some evidence indicates immunizations can help prevent SIDS.
Grieving The Loss of a Child to SIDS:
Grief is a process, not a singular event. Although parents might wish otherwise, grief cannot be bypassed or hurried; it must be allowed to happen. Parents cannot work through the grief and come out the other side the very same person. Grief changes parents. One approach to understanding bereavement, developed by Dr. J.W. Worden (2002), identifies grief not as a succession of phases through which a person passes with little or no control, but as four tasks for the bereaved person:
Accepting the reality of the loss:
When someone dies, there is always a sense that it hasn’t happened. It may seem like a dream or an alternate reality. The first task of grieving is to come full -ace with the reality that the child is dead, that the child is gone and will not return. The opposite of accepting the loss is not believing through some type of denial. Denial usually involves either the facts of the loss, the significance of the loss to the survivor, or the irreversibly of the loss. To accomplish this task, the parent must talk about the dead child and funeral, as well as the circumstances around the death.
Working through the pain of grief:
We must acknowledge and work through the pain of grief or it will manifest itself through some symptoms or atypical behavior. Not everyone experiences the same intensity of pain or feels it in the same way, but it is impossible to lose someone with whom you have been deeply attached without experiencing some level of pain. The negation of this second task is not to feel. People may avoid feeling pain by using thought stopping procedures or by avoiding reminders of the child. Many emotions such as shock, anger, guilt, and depression may be expressed. The bereaved must allow themselves to indulge in the pain: to feel it and know that one day it will pass. It’s been said that it’s easier to express emotions with someone who knew the child or who can relate to the experience directly.
Adjusting to an environment in which the deceased is missing:
Caring for a child takes an amazing amount of time and energy. Parents and other caregivers once consumed with the constant task of meeting the needs of a baby are suddenly forced into inactivity. What was once responsibility is now gone. During their adaptation to loss, people can work to avoid promoting their own helplessness by gradually reforming schedules and responsibilities. Creating meaningful rituals like making a special memorial, keeping a journal, or writing poetry are helpful components of completing this task.
Emotionally relocating the deceased and moving on with life:
Survivors sometimes believe that if they withdraw their emotional attachment, they are dishonoring the memory of the child. In some cases, parents are frightened by the prospect of having another baby because he or she might also die. For many people, this task is the most difficult one to accomplish. They may get stuck at this point and later realize that their life in some way stopped at the point the loss occurred.
Some bereavement experts note the grieving process includes not only the parent adapting to the loss and returning to functioning in their life, but also includes changing and maintaining their relationship with the infant or child. It is normal for parents to report that they having an on-going relationship with their child through their memories and mental life.
Factors that may interfere with the grief process (read more about grief and grieving here)
Complicated grief is delayed or unfinished adaptation to loss.
Those who have complicated grief experience a failure to return, over time, to pre-loss levels of functioning, or to the previous state of emotional well-being. Grief may be more difficult in younger parents, women, and persons with limited social support, thus increasing their risk for complicated grief. The grief surrounding a child’s death is unique in its challenges and may necessitate professional counseling from the clergy, grief counselor, family physician, or mental health professional.
Grieving Fathers:
Although both mothers and fathers grieve deeply when such a tragedy occurs, they grieve differently. Fathers are expected to be strong and stoic for their partners; to be the “rock” in the family. All too often, fathers are the ones who attend to the practical but not the emotional aspects surrounding the death; they are expected to be the ones who should not let emotions show or tears fall outwardly, the ones who will not and should not fall apart.
Men are often asked how their wives are doing, but not asked how they are doing. Such expectations place an unmanageable burden on men and deprive them of their rightful and urgent need to grieve. This need will surface eventually if it is not expressed. It is not unusual for grieving fathers to feel overwhelmed, ignored, isolated, and abandoned, but many say that such strong emotions are very difficult to contain after their child’s death.
A father’s grief needs to be verbalized and understood by his partner, other family members, professionals, coworkers and friends, and by anyone who will listen. Fathers repeatedly say that for their own peace of mind, they (and those who care about them) need to move away from this mindset and allow themselves to grieve as they need to.
Families Needing Extra Support:
The tragedy of a child’s death brings profound pain to all affected, and it presents incredibly difficult and unusual problems for all grieving parents.
For some parents, the effects of such a complicated and devastating tragedy can be further compounded when the death occurs in a family already experiencing added stress in their lives, such as substance abuse or domestic violence.
There are some parents for whom there is no “circle of concern” or extended family.
There are also families who choose not to seek out a support network for their own reasons.
It is important to assess each family’s special needs and preferences. Additional resources for families include hospice organizations, local health departments, bereavement support programs, and community or religious leaders or healers. Each family’s cultural beliefs and practices must be honored during the bereavement process.
When a non-traditional family experiences the death of an infant, the community’s response may be less supportive of that family. It may be necessary to assist the family to seek out support networks that will best address their needs. Examples of a non-traditional family include:
Single parent
Unmarried parents
Teenage parents
Step-parents
Parents in blended families
Adoptive and foster parents
Gay and lesbian parents
All of these parents and those in traditional families may find their grief unusually complicated. Regardless of the family’s composition, parental experience, coping strategies, and cultural practices are unique for each family.
Helping The Grieving Family:
Acknowledge the child’s death by telling the parent(s) of your sadness for them and by expressing love and support and trying to provide comfort.
Allow the parent(s) to express feelings without imposing your views or feelings about what is appropriate behavior. Avoid telling the parent(s) you know just how they feel.
Allow the parent(s) to cry–it is appropriate to cry with them.
Visit and talk with the family about the child who died; ask to see pictures or memories the family may have.
Refer to the child by name.
Extend gestures of concern such as bringing flowers or writing a personal note expressing your feelings, letting the parent(s) know of your sadness for them.
Attend the child’s funeral or memorial service.
Offer to go with the parent(s) to the cemetery in the days and weeks after the funeral, or find other special ways to extend personal or sensitive gestures of concern.
Remember anniversaries and special days.
Donate to a specific memorial in honor of the child.
Make practical and specific suggestions, such as offering to stop by at a convenient time, bringing a meal, purchasing a comforting book, offering to take the other children for a special outing, or treating the parent(s) to something special.
Respect the dynamics of each person’s grief. The often visible expressions of pain and confusion shown by the grieving parent(s) are normal. Grief is an ongoing and demanding process.
Keep in mind that the parent(s) may not be able to ask for help or tell you what they need.
Ways That May Help Parents Heal from the Sudden Loss of a Child:
Admitting that their grief is overwhelming, unpredictable, painful, draining, and exhausting—that their grief should not be diminished or ignored.
Allowing themselves to be angry and acknowledging that they are vulnerable, helpless, and feeling disoriented.
Trying to understand that to grieve is to heal and that integrating grief into their lives is a necessity.
Acknowledging the need and desire to talk about the child who died as well as the moments and events that will be missed and never experienced with the child.
Maintaining a belief in the significance of their child’s life, no matter how short.
Creating memorial services and other rituals as ways to commemorate the child’s life.
Deriving support from religious beliefs, a sense of spirituality, or personal faith.
Expressing feelings in journals, poetry, prayers, or other reflective writings or in art, music, or other creative activities.
Trying to be patient and forgiving with themselves and others and refraining from making hasty decisions.
Counting on, confiding in, and trusting those who care, listen, and hear, those who will walk with them, and not be critical of them, those who will try to understand their emotional and physical limitations, while also trying to understand and respect the limitations of their caretakers.
Increasing their physical activity and maintaining a healthful diet.
Volunteering their services to organizations concerned with support for bereaved parents.
Obtaining help from traditional support systems, such as family, friends, professionals or religious groups, undergoing professional counseling, joining a parent support group, or acquiring information on the type of death that occurred as well as about their own grief.
Reassuring themselves and others that they were and still are loving parents.
Letting go of fear and guilt when the time seems right and the grief seems less.
Accepting that they are allowed to feel pleasure and continue their lives, knowing their love for the child transcends death.
When Does The Pain End?
When are you ready to live again?
There is no list of events or anniversaries to check off, and in fact, you’re likely to begin living again before you realize you are doing it. You may catch yourself laughing or pick up a book for recreational reading again. You may start playing lighter, happier music.
When you do make these steps toward living again, you’re likely to feel guilty. “What right have I have to be happy when my child is dead?” And yet something inside feels as though you are being nudged in this positive direction. You may even have the sense that this nudge is from your child or at least a feeling that your child approves of it.
All newly bereaved parents must find ways to get through, not over, their grief—to go on with their lives. Each is forced to continue life’s journey in an individual manner. Many bereaved parents find solace in their religion. Seeking spiritual comfort in a time of grief does not mean repressing the grief.
Many grieving parents also find comfort in rituals. Funerals or memorial services have served many parents as beautiful and meaningful ways of saying goodbye, providing a sense of closure after the child’s death.
For others, ending announcement cards about the baby’s death, writing poems, keeping journals or writing down personal reflections or prayers, or volunteering with a parental bereavement group become ways to remember and honor the child who died.
Grief is a natural response to any loss. Healing for bereaved parents can begin to occur by acknowledging and sharing their grief.
Friends and caregivers who care should grieve and mourn with the parents; and listen. Bereaved parents need to know that their child will be remembered, not just by them but also by family and friends. They need to have the child acknowledged and referred to by name. They want that child’s life to matter. They do not want to forget and they don’t want others to forget.
What has happened to these parents has changed their lives; they will never see life the same way; they will never be the same people. As they attempt to move forward, bereaved parents realize they are survivors and have been strong enough to endure what is probably life’s harshest blow. By addressing their grief and coping with it, they struggle to continue this journey while making this devastating loss part of their own personal history, a part of their life’s story, a part of their very being.
Eventually, time will cease to stand still for parents. Painful and terrible moments will still occur—striking, poignant, but in some ways comforting reminders of the child who died. There will also be regrets for experiences that were never shared. But at some unknown and even unexpected point, parents will come to realize that there can be good moments, even happy and beautiful moments, and it will not seem impossible or wrong to smile or laugh, but it will seem right and beautiful and a fitting way to honor and remember the child who died.
One day, bereaved parents may come to be surprised by joy.
But in time…nature takes care of it; the waves of pain lose intensity a little and come less frequently. Then friends and relatives say the parents are getting over it, and that time heals all wounds. The parents themselves say that as the pain lessens, they begin to have the energy for people and things outside themselves…This is a decision parents say they must make to live as well as they can in their new world. They can become to be happy, but never as happy. Their perspective on this and everything has changed.
Their child’s death is the reason for this and is a measure of the depth and breadth of the bond between parent and child.
It’s been a spell, I know, and it’s primarily my fault.
Let me explain: when I became homeless after getting sober, I had no money. I had LESS than no money after all the medical bills added up together. When that happened, I had to let go of most of my sites – unlike other sites, The Band was built on Django, and required about 30 bucks a month. Sounds pretty measly, I know, and if you can believe it, that cost was FAR less than the previous server which was 90 bucks a month – I’d been paying for it for several years out of my own pocket and I didn’t and don’t care.
My server guy paid for the site for an additional three months, and then, not hearing from me, he closed it.
No backups existed.
(As a sidebar, there were no missing Go Fund Me funds: the money I’d gotten went back and forth to The Band and Mommy Wants Vodka’s account, which is why this site was up as long as it was, even after I began my downward spiral. The bank account for The Band over-drafted, then closed, mostly due to the sluggish sale of the calendars we’d made. So, I paid the server out of my money. It sounds more complicated but it’s really not. The money always went to the right place.)
As I healed from addiction and worked my recovery, I knew that I wanted to get The Band, whelp, Back Together. Unfortunately, with no backups of the site, it’s an enormous task.
Some of our volunteers (click to join), including myself, have been tirelessly working to get the site back to its previous life. It’s quite tedious, actually: we are copying and pasting the old data from the Wayback Machine. This would be why you see my name on a great number of comments and posts – I didn’t write all the comments and I certainly didn’t write all the posts.
The user data from the old site is gone, so each post is anonymous. I’m sorry about that, but trying to replicate that data would be an unnecessarily challenging event, as I don’t even have a list of emails for the old site.
The site, I’m aware, is a bit funky looking right now, but that’s just because we’re trying our best to get the site as user-friendly as possible.
Resource pages, like posts, must be recreated for the site, and as many of the pages were written ages ago, need to be rewritten and audited. I think I’ve done around 90, but there are HUNDREDS more to go. Here’s the master Resource Page, which may be a bit challenging to use at the moment, but will be easily accessible…eventually.
If you’re new around here, welcome. If you have no idea what we are, let me make this plain.
The Band Back Together Project is a group weblog and nonprofit* organization that provides educational resources as well as a safe, moderated, supportive environment to share stories of survival.
Through the power of real stories written by real people, we can work together to de-stigmatize mental illness, abuse, rape, baby loss and other traumas so that we may learn, grow, and heal.
All are welcome.
When I say all, we do mean all, people are are welcome. We’re not a narrowly focused site, rather accept all stories – happy and sad. About love and loss, life and death, illness and health, mental illness, and addiction. If you’re story doesn’t fit into a boxed category, know that we will make the category for you.
September is A Letter I Can’t Send month, and October is Loss month. This doesn’t mean we’ll only publish these types of stories or these particularly stories will only occur once a year. We are always open and we are always accepting submissions – no matter the topic.
I cannot wait to see what stories you are going to share!
Any questions? Please email bandbacktogether@gmail.com OR becky.harks@gmail.com
Love,
Aunt Becky + The Band
*another thing lost to homelessness is our 501c3 status. We are working to build a board and achieve our 501c3 again. However we do operate not for profits – every cent goes back into the site and promotional material.
There is a picture of me, somewhere out there, probably still on my dad’s phone unless they’ve turned into Christmas Card people, in which case, the picture is most definitely out there in the world for all to see.
I hope it is not.
I didn’t see the picture until I was 5 months sober, staying in the unfinished basement at my parents house, grateful that I was no longer homeless, while I hunted for a job. Before this, I’d been staying there after a stint at a ramshackle, rundown motel, the kind of place you probably could dismantle a dead body, leave the head on the pillow, and no one would think anything of it. But it was my room, and despite the lice they gifted me, I loved it. Until money dried up and suddenly I was, once again, homeless. I’d moved in there after I was discharged from the inpatient psych ward, in which I was able to successfully detox after a suicide attempt. Got some free ECT to boot.
(WINNING)
Despite what you see on the After School Special’s of our childhood, I didn’t take a single Vicodin, fall into a stupor, and become insta-addict – just add narcotics! No, my entry into addiction was a slow and steady downward spiral of which I am deeply ashamed. It’s left my brain full of wreckage and ruin, fragmented bits of my life that don’t follow a single pattern. Between the opiates, the Ketamine, and the ECT, I cannot even be certain that what I am telling you is the truth; what I’ve gathered are bits and pieces of the addict I so desperately hate from other people who are around, fuzzy recollections, and my own social media posts.
About a year and a half before I moved from my yellow house to the apartments by the river, Dave and I had separated; he’d told me that while he cared for me, he no longer loved me. While we lived in the same house, we’d had completely separate lives for years, so he moved to the basement while I stayed upstairs. I’d been miserable before his confession and after? I was nearly broken. Using the Vicodin, then Norco, I was able to numb my pain and get out of my head, which, while remarkably stupid, was effective. For awhile.
Let me stop you, Dear Reader, and ask you to keep what I am about to say in mind as you read through this massive tome. I’m simply trying to make certain that you understand several key things about my addiction and subsequent recovery. I alone was the one who chose to take the drugs. No one forced me to abuse opiates, and even later, (SPOILER ALERT) Ketamine. This isn’t a post about blaming others for my misdoings, rejecting any accountability, nor making any excuses for the stupid, awful things I’ve done. I alone fucked up. My addiction was my own fault. However, in the same vein, no one “saved” me but myself. There was no cheeky interventionist. No room full of people who loved me weeping stoically, telling me how my addiction hurt them. No letters. Nothing. It was just me. I was alone, and I chose to get – and remain – sober.
The delusions started when I moved out, sitting in my empty apartment alone, paralyzed by the thought of getting off the couch to go to the bathroom. Always a night-owl, I’d wake at some ungodly hour of the morning, shaking. It wasn’t withdrawal, no, it was pure unfettered anxiety.
It was the aftermath of using so many pills, all the fun you think you’re having comes back to bite you with crippling anxiety and depression.
Which is why I’d do more.
Yes, opiates are powerful, and yes, I abused them, but things really didn’t become dire until I added Ketamine to my life.
Ketamine, if you’re unaware, is a club drug, a horse tranquilizer, and a date rape drug. You use too much? You may wake up at some hipster coffee bar, trying to sing “You’re Having My Baby” to the dude in the front row who may or may not actually exist. In other words, it’s the best way to forget how fucked you are.
The delusions worsen as time passed. I could see into the future. I could read your mind. I was going to be famous. I was super fucking rich. In this fucked-up world, I could even forget about me, and the life that I’d so carelessly shattered. I remember sitting in Divorce Class at the courthouse, something required of all divorces in Kane County, weeping at all that I’d thrown away – using a total of three boxes of the low-quality, government tissues. I left with a shiny pink face and completely chapped nose and eyes that appeared to be making a break from their sockets. I went home, took some pills, took some Ketamine, and passed out.
I retreated ever-inward. I didn’t talk to many people. I didn’t share my struggles. I was alone, and it was my fault.
The hallucinations started soon after Divorce Class ended and my ex and I split up. He’d left my house in a rage after a fight and went to live with his sister. I got scared. His temper, magnified by the drugs, the hallucinations, and the delusions, grew increasingly frightening. Once he’d moved out, the attacks began. I’d wake up naked in my bedroom, my body sore and bruised, and my brain put the two unrelated events together as one – he was attacking me. It happened every few days, these “attacks,” until I found myself at the police station, reporting them. I was dangerously sick and I had no idea.
My friends on the Internet (those whom I had left), sent me money for surveillance cameras. I bought them, installed them – trying to capture the culprit – and when I saw what I saw, I immediately called the police and told them the culprit.
The videos in my bedroom captured an incredibly stoned, dead-eyed, version of myself, violently attacking myself, brutally tearing at my flesh. In particular, THAT me liked to beat my face with one of my prized possessions – a candlestick set from our wedding, take another pill or hit up some Ketamine, then violating myself with the candlestick. It lasted hours. I’d wake up with no memory of events, sore and tired and unsure of how I’d gotten there.
I’d never engaged in self-injury before – not once – so the very idea that I’d hurt myself was unbelievable, but right there, on my grainy old laptop, was proof of how unhinged I’d become. Charged with filing a false report, I plead guilty.
In early September of 2015, I decided to get fixed, and made arrangements with work to take a few weeks off to do an inpatient detox, and, for the first time in a long time, I woke up happily, rather than cursing the gods that I was still alive.
It was to be short-lived.
Several days later, sober, I was idly chatting with my neighbor about her upcoming vacation (funny the things your brain remembers and what it does not), standing by my screen door, when karma came calling. It sounded like the shucking noise of an ear of corn, or maybe the sound that a huge thing of broccoli makes when you rip it apart – hard. It felt like a bullet to the femur. I crumpled on top of my neighbor and began screaming wildly about calling an ambulance, yelling over and over like some perverse, yet truthful, Chicken Little: “my leg is broken, my LEG is broken!”
I don’t remember much after that. I woke up in (physical rehab) and learned that my femur (hereafter to be called my “Blasfemur,”) had broken, fairly high up on the bone, where the biggest, strongest bone in your body is at its peak of strength. Whaaaa?
The doctors and nurses shrugged it off my questions, with a flippant “It just happens” and sent me home, armed with a Norco prescription, in November, to heal. I added the Ketamine, just to make sure.
A couple of weeks later at the end of November, I was putting up the Christmas tree with the kids and my mother. It was all merry and fucking bright until I sat down on the couch and felt that familiar crunch. Screams came out of me I didn’t know were possible, but I’d lost my actual words. My mother stood over me yelling “what’s wrong? what’s wrong?” and I couldn’t find the words. I overheard her telling my babies that I was “probably just faking it” as she walked out the door, my screams fading into an ice cold silence. They left me alone in that apartment where I screamed and cried and screamed. Finally, I managed to call 911 and when they asked me questions, all I could scream was my address.
I woke up in January in a nursing home. When I woke up, I found myself sitting at a table in a vast dining room, full of old people. For weeks to come, I thought that I’d died and gone…wherever it is that you go.
This time, I learned, my (blas)femur and it’s associated hardware had become infected after the first surgery, which weakened the bone, causing it to snap like a tree. They put me all back together like the bionic woman, but the surgery had introduced the wee colony of Strep D in the bone into my bloodstream, creating an infection on meth. I’d been in a coma for weeks. Once again, I learned to walk, and once again, I was sent home in late January with another Norco prescription. The nursing home really wanted me to have someone stay with me to help out, but I insisted that I was fine alone. In truth, I had nobody to help me out, but was far too ashamed to tell them.
The picture I referenced above was taken some time in May, as far as my fuzzy memory allows me to remember, after my third femur fracture in March. This time, I’d been so high that I fell asleep on the toilet and rolled off. Glamorous, no? Just like Fat Elvis. Luckily, my eldest son was there and he called 911 and my parents to whisk him away. I remember my father on the phone, telling Ben that I was a liar and I was faking it. I was swept away in the ambulance for even more hardware, and finally? A diagnosis:
HypoPARAthyroidism.
It’s an autoimmune disease that leaches calcium from the bones, resulting in brittle bones. It is managed, not treated. There is no cure.
But, I had the answer. Finally.
After my third fracture, I once again was sent to the nursing home, and quickly discharged with even higher doses of Norco, when my insurance balked, I’d used up all my rehab days for the year. By this time, I’d lost my apartment, my stuff was in storage (except the things that we’re thrown away, which my father gloated about while I was flat on my back) and my parents let me stay with them, which was about the only option I had. They couldn’t really kick me out if my leg was only freshly attached. I feel deeper into a depression, self-loathing, and drug abuse as I realized what a mess I’d made with my life. How many bad choices I’d made. How many people I’d hurt. How much I’d hurt myself. How much I loathed myself. How I once had a life that in no way resembled sleeping in my parents dining room. How I’d been a home owner. How I’d been married. How lucky I’d been. How I threw it all away. My life turned into a series of “once did” and “used to.”
The only one who hated me more was my father.
While we were once close confidants, in the years after my marriage to Dave, his disdain had become palpable. My uncle had to intervene one Christmas, after my father mocked me incessantly for taking a temp job filling out gift cards while I was pregnant with Alex. It may seem normal to some of you, this behavior, but in THEIR house, NO ONE was EVER SAD and NOTHING was EVER WRONG. WASPs to the core, my family is.
When I moved back in, broken, dejected, and high, our fights became epic. For the first time in my life, I stood UP to one of my parents. Then, I was promptly kicked out.
Guess I’m not so WASPy after all.
I want to say that the picture was taken around May of 2016, but my estimate may be thoroughly skewed, so if you’re counting on dates being correct and cohesive, you’ve got the wrong girl.
This is a picture of me, though you probably wouldn’t recognize me. I am wearing the blue scrubs that you associate with a hospital: not exactly sky blue, not teal, not navy, just generic blue hospital scrubs. These are, I remember, the only clothes I have to my name. I was given them in both the hospital and the nursing home, a gift, I suppose, of being a frequent flier, tinged with a bit of pity – this girl has no clothes, we can help. Whomever gave them to me, know that you gave me a bit of dignity, which I will never forget. Thank you.
I am wearing scrubs, the light of the refrigerator is slowly bleaching out half of my now-enormous body, as opposed to the darkness outside. There is a tube of fat around my neck, nearly destroying any evidence of my face, but if you look closely, you can make out my glasses, my nostrils, my hair cascading down. My neck is stretched back at nearly a 90 degree angle from my body, my head listlessly resting on the back of my wheelchair. My mouth gaped wide, which, should I been engaging in fly catching, would have netted far more than the average Venus flytrap. I am clearly, unmistakably, and without a single shred of doubt, passed the fuck out.
It is both me and not me.
High as i was, I don’t remember a thing about the photo being taken. But there I was, in all my pixelated glory.
By the time I saw the photo, I was once again in my “will do” and “can do” space. I’d kicked drugs in September 2016 and had found a job that I enjoyed. I stayed with my parents while I began to sort out my medical debt and save toward a new car and an apartment of my own. My spirits were high, my depression finally abated to the background, and I was tentatively happy. I’d apologized until my throat was sore, but my fragmented memory saved me from the worst of it, but I was not forgiven. I don’t think I ever expected to be. And now, I never will.
It’s okay. I can’t expect this. I know I fucked up.
My father, who’d actually grown increasingly disdainful of me, the more sober and well I became, confronted me when I came home one day after work, preparing to do my AFTER work, work.
My mother shuffled along behind him, Ben, the caboose. All three of them were in hysterics, tears rolling down their cheeks as I sat down in my normal spot on the couch. After showing them a video of two turtles humping a couple of days before, I eagerly waited to see what they were showing me.
What it was was that picture. Of the not me, me.
They could hardly contain their laughter, my father happier than ever, braying, “Isn’t this the best picture of you?” and “You PASSED OUT, (heave, heave) IN FRONT OF THE FRIDGE!” punctuated, with “I’m going to frame this picture!” The tears welled in my eyes while my teeth clenched, they laughed even harder at my reaction.
Like I said, if they’ve become Christmas Card sending people, this will be the picture of me they show, expecting others to laugh uproariously. Before I moved out, in fact, my father made certain to show the picture to anyone who came over. “Wanna see something hilarious?” he’d ask. Expecting memes or a funny cat playing the piano, they’d agree. I could see it when they saw it, my dad chortling with laughter, nearly choking on his giggles, the looks on their faces: a mixture of confusion and pity. Even in my drug-hazed “glory,” I’d never felt so low.
Maybe that picture is splashed all over the internet, in the dark recesses I don’t explore, and maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s hung on their wall, replacing all of the other pictures. Maybe it’s not.
Hey, The Band,