Nathalie Himmelrich

Inspiring Hope | Finding healthy ways of Grieving | Writer

from personal experience

Why Grievers Are Often Misunderstood

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woman at the window
Photo by Thijs Kennis on Unsplash

Recently, in one week 80% of my arrangements to meet up with friends got cancelled. Not by me. I was utterly disappointed.

Maybe I’m a highly sensitive person, or perhaps I simply get easily disappointed. So when I inquired into one specific cancellation, which happened to be with another bereaved mother, she said:

“Since the death of my son five years ago I experience a daily challenge of organising my calendar, regularly double book myself (which is what happened on our supposed meeting day) or have people show up at my door without remembering why. This is just how it is.”

As much as I understood and could relate to what she described I was also hurt that we wouldn’t meet up, that our daughters wouldn’t be able to play with each other.

I took the sum of cancellations personally and reacted with overwhelm and lack of motivation for anything.

I even posted about my disappointment on my personal page on Facebook which I only very irregularly do nowadays.

Then, I realized something much bigger

This is where grievers are so often misunderstood. Her short-term grief experience is as unique as the longer-term effects she’s experiencing in her life. Full stop.

Even though we are both bereaved mothers I am reminded that I CANNOT compare myself to her. It’s human nature to compare and to want to find someone to relate to and feel understood by. ‘She experienced what I have’ I hear myself thinking.

“You are the first one who truly understands what I’ve been going through” numerous clients had said to me. It’s true: another bereaved person at least has a bit of insight into what is going on… but really – just ‘a bit’.

Grievers misunderstand other grievers when they compare their grief or are in different places relating to their loss. Every comparison of grief is a total misunderstanding of the uniqueness of EACH and EVERY loss, of the uniqueness of each relationship and each griever. The only two losses that can ever be compared are your own and even this comparison is not helpful.

Grievers are misunderstood because a non-griever is looking from that perspective of ‘not currently grieving’ and is simply not capable of relating. That’s when unhelpful myths like ‘just forget about it and you’ll feel better’ or old-fashioned beliefs like ‘you just need time’ get uttered in helpless attempts to sooth the pain.

Grievers are so often misunderstood and – at the same time – misunderstand those who might not be grieving a loss at this specific time or even others who are grieving differently or are in a different place with their grief.

Grievers expect the ‘outside’ world to have an empathy and understanding that far fewer people are capable of than those that – magically – seem to have that skill, gift or empathy, even without having a personal experience of that kind of loss.

This article was first published November 4, 2015 in Still Standing Magazine.

Dear Old Me

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grief quote

It’s been a long time since I last saw you, in fact it seems like an eternity. Still, I remember you. And I miss you, old me.

You had an air of realistic positivity. New things you approached with curiosity and delight. Even though I would say you were cautious, you also loved the thrill of skydiving or meeting new people. Your open and friendly nature was easy to be around and you generally enjoyed life.

You were not ‘old me*’ then, you were young and energetic. It’s just to me, it’s seem that you are no longer…

By no means were you completely naive but you had this childlike openness to new things. You even approached pregnancy with this openness, even though you weren’t considered ‘young’ anymore. The unexpected news of identical twins was met with a burst of laughter and delight.

Even though you had a sensitive nature all along and experienced deep emotions, you enjoyed life and took its experiences with glee. The picture I keep in my mind is you skipping along the path, pointing out the colors of the clouds in the evening sky and hugging trees.

I don’t do that anymore. Serious and many times overly anxious would be the words to describe the new normal me. Highly sensitive to noises and crowds, nowadays I prefer to stay at home over a night out. People around me probably don’t think of me as easy to be around.

The forest and its natural beauty still brings me absolute pleasure and joy, or should I say ‘again’ as it hasn’t for what seems years. Just yesterday I laid under the warm towels from the dryer, enjoying the smell and the comfort of the warmness. You did enjoy this and I just remembered as I was doing it. I had forgotten you, old me …

There seems to be many things that I have forgotten about you. First I was upset, really upset that you were no longer around. Screaming and shouting for you to return, for things to be like when you were me. After some time I realized that loss had stolen you from me. The only way to continue was to get to know the new normal me. Forced acceptance.

After some months or years I slowly forgot you. With that I noticed that (many) friends of the old me had also disappeared. The new me made new friends, mostly other new normal ones. And life moved on as much as I wished to turn back the clock.

The link between you, dear old me, and the new me is however never forgotten. It’s right here in my heart. The child we both dearly miss.

Maybe you would have never left, if the child was still with us.

Missing you,

The New Normal Me

*NOTE REGARDING THE USE OF ‘OLD ME’:

The term ‘old’ is not to mean old by age, but the person before the loss.

This article was first published November 2, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.

Gusts Of Grief

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Grief Quote by Nathalie Himmelrich
Handlettered Quote by Nathalie Himmelrich

My 4 ½-year-old just crawled into my bed, yawning and stretching.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
“Good morning, mum.”
I had just woken up a minute before she turned up at my bedside and was still in the land between asleep and awake. The next thing caught me by surprise.
“Mum, if only my sister wasn’t dead,” followed by a moaning sound.
“Yes, dear, that would be nice,” I reply and gently pulled her closer.
“Mum, did Mimi love me?” (Mimi is the name of my mother – her grandmother – who died from suicide 4 ½ months after her sister’s death.)
“Yes, she loved you very much.”
“Why did she have to die? How did she die?” 

Silence. An internal sigh. What do I respond?
Weighing the different options in my head, she’s already repeating her question.
Still, I’m grappling for an answer and I can’t think when she talks.
Telling the truth would be my choice but only if it’s age and situation appropriate.
Finally, I answer by saying “I will explain this to you later” and try to distract her continuous questions along the lines of “but why…?”.

Even though the sea of my grief is calm, I had to learn to live with the gusts of wind that come from the outside. Through her perspective I learn about a delayed form of grief, a yearning for her sister, a consciousness which only started to dawn around her 4th birthday.

She’s just representing one kind of gust of wind. There are others, which still catch me by surprise.
Today I saw two pregnant women and noticed a tinge of sadness at the fact that I won’t be pregnant again. We won’t have a sibling for little miss bliss.
Our preschool is holding a parent’s evening with the topic of ‘siblings’ this week. I decided not to attend, even though the teacher assured me that the talk would include the topic of one-child families.

And yet, you might say: ‘But you’ve got one.’
Yes, I have one.
Still, sadness over the yearning to mother does not magically get cured because I have one.

~~~~

The day ended with my daughter stroking my stomach.
Pensively she drew her fingers over it and spoke softly:
“Are you sure there isn’t a baby in your tummy?”
I lovingly looked into her eyes as I replied: “Yes, we are sure.”
“Have you looked?” she continued hopefully.
Hugging her tight I felt her head leaning softly against my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, possum, there is no baby in here.”

~~~~

And even if there was a baby, I can only echo the words of a fellow loss-mum on Instagram: “Life isn’t magically better when a new baby comes. In some way grief resets due to all the things we do with S that we never got to do with R.”
There is no ‘Life is magically better when…’ or ‘Grief is magically over when…’.

Shifting to an understanding and acceptance that the emotional relationship will never cease when the physical body is gone makes it easier to accept the ebb and flow of the sea of emotions. I don’t want to call it just grief because truthfully, my life was full of emotions before my losses, grief included.

¸.•*¨`*•✿      ✿      ✿•*´¨*•.¸

And… most important:
Talking about the daughter and sister (or mother) that isn’t physically here does not have to mean ‘not moving on’ or ‘grieving’ – for me, it means
REMEMBERING.

¸.•*¨`*•✿      ✿      ✿•*´¨*•.¸

This article was first published April 6, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.

Learning To Live Without You

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child asleep
Image from Nathalie Himmelrich’s personal archives

Dear Child of Mine,

Exactly 5 years ago I conceived you and your sister. I remember it so clearly because I reread the journal entries from that time, describing every day in January. Given our journey to bring you into this world hadn’t happened through natural conception, we started assisted conception at the beginning of January and I decided to document our adventure. But this is a story to be told another time.

Our journey brought us both of you, one to raise on planet earth, and one to learn to live without here present in physical form. I’m still learning… every day.

I’m finding it hard to find the words to express my thoughts and feelings in regards to learning to live without you. It’s something I neither expected nor wanted to learn.

Some have said to me: “No one should have to learn this”.
Others believe: “You were meant to learn this”.
Still others reply: “That’s not even a ‘learning’”.

I should?
I have to?
I never wanted to.
I need to?
I must?
… live without you?

Truthfully, I don’t exactly live without you. You are on my mind, every day. Some days more and some days less. We speak about you. Your sister speaks about you often. She misses you, more so lately, as she really understands the concept of impermanence. She wants a sibling to play with. She doesn’t understand and asks me repeatedly why you couldn’t stay.

I often wonder what the psychological imprint of an identical twin, with whom she spent the first 9 months of her life side by side, leaves behind.

I wonder whether there is consciousness that still connects you from your side with us on our side. We still think of you so often, what about you?

I wonder what you would be like, whether you’d be as energetic as your sister, as verbal and argumentative… I don’t need any help imagining what you would look like given you are identical twin sisters but I wonder how you would be different from your sister.

Would you have the same blond locks, the irresistible giggle when we’d play tickle games? Would you be as bossy as your sister and if so, who would be the one telling the other what to do?

I’m sure your kisses and hugs would be as sweet as your sister’s. Your enjoyment and excitement would match hers. You would probably listen to stories side by side and sing along with Frozen’s theme song together. I don’t doubt you’d enjoy art class, theatre and play group as much as she does.

I’m learning to live without you. I like this statements as it implies a process, something that is happening. It does not proclaim an end or a beginning. I live, without you living by my side. It doesn’t mean I forget you. How could I. Why would I? There is no need to forget. In fact, it is healthier to remember with reverence.

Recently I read on a friend’s post, celebrating his son’s (who had passed as a toddler) 19th birthday: ‘Still learning to live without you’.

Still? There are different meanings to this word. Most likely in this context, it means: up to and including the present or the time mentioned; even now (or then) as formerly.

I have accepted the loss.
Still, I miss you. I miss your unique giggle.
Still, I love you. I love the memory of you and your sister in my womb.

Still, you are part of me.
Still, I am your mother and you are mine. My child.

As Lexi Behrndt from Scribbles & Crumbs so aptly said: “No passage of time will ever change this.” (Quote as I remember it…)

¸.•´*¨`*•✿      ✿      ✿•*´¨*`•.¸

I love you. Full stop. 

¸.•´*¨`*•✿      ✿      ✿•*´¨*`•.¸

This article was first published January 6, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.

You Have Got To Be Strong Now

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be strong
Photo by Heather Ford on Unsplash

“You’ve got to be strong now…” I heard my Dad’s voice as if through fog, my sister and her daughter standing behind him as they all looked at me through the computer screen, connected via FaceTime. Before he would say anymore, I knew exactly what had happened.

Just 4.5 month earlier I had given birth. Elation, amazement and deepest despair and sadness only laid days apart. Giving life to my child and having to accept their death in a matter of days, two events that should never be so close together in time. Unspoken rule of time in regards to live and death would expect the parent to die before their children. And even though it ‘shouldn’t’ happen, that children die before their parents, it does. Most likely as you’re reading this it has happened to you too.

I experienced first hand that life has no rule about spreading out challenges in neat 5 year brackets. Dealing with the death of my daughter left me raw. There was no choice of being strong or not – I was overwhelmed at the sheer intensity of early grief’s ups and downs. Dealing with my mother’s decision to end her life revealed just another layer of rawness that left no space to be anything else than ‘in the moment’, to be with any emotions present.

Any of those well-intended messages like ‘be strong’ or ‘you have to keep it together’ are useless. They might bear some resemblance of intellectual truth but on an emotional level they are hopeless, rigid and unattainable. The truth behind those messages is: ‘I can’t deal with the intensity of emotions, yours or mine, so please hide them.’ Yes, emotionality makes most of us feel uncomfortable.

We all have some of those messages internalized to the point that we believe them without any doubt:

  • I’ve got to stay strong
  • I’ve got keep it together
  • If at all, I should cry when I’m alone
  • I shouldn’t feel so bad, at least I have…
  • If I keep myself busy, I won’t feel it

We actually believe they (or at least some of those) are true. When have you last said to yourself something like: ‘I made it through the day without crying’ or ‘I stayed on top of my emotions’ or ‘I couldn’t keep myself together so I had to leave’? If those strong emotions are there, don’t you think they have their purpose? Why would a human eye have been constructed with a tear duct if the eyes can stay moist without actually crying?

Those messages, those beliefs that ‘we got to be strong in the face of loss’ are myths, they have been told so many times that we accidentally started believing them. We are pushing ourselves to live up to those standards. They make us swallow our true emotions. Did you actually know that the composition of tears of grief are different to other tears? Did you know that expressing your emotions is helping you heal? Did you know that unexpressed emotions can manifest in your physical body and lead to illnesses?

Upon my dad’s helpless plight not to cause any more pain to my already broken heart, a guttural sound escaped my chest, then I sobbed and sobbed – there was no choice but to feel and express. And when those emotions were given room to let go I was ready to organise our trip to attend my mother’s funeral 20.000 km away.

To be clear, those waves of grief came again and again. After some time the tides were less high and more time passed between them. Now, 4 years later, the waves come from time to time. 

¸.•´*¨`*•✿      ✿      ✿•*´¨*`•.¸

I’ve befriended them, embrace them, express them and let them go.

¸.•´*¨`*•✿      ✿      ✿•*´¨*`•.¸

This article was first published February 3, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.

Death Anniversary: The Body Remembers

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woman in a field
Photo by Hector Gomez on Unsplash

Today is the seventh death anniversary of my daughter. As I’m typing it, I feel the strangeness of this sentence. I stop mid-sentence and find myself somewhat confused. How do I deal with something that I wish wouldn’t be real, year after year?

Death Anniversary: The body remembers

The week leading up to today was a mix of waking up in the early hours of the morning, usually, around 4-5 am* without being able to go back to sleep, general lethargy and lack of motivation. ‘What’s the point anyway?’ was the thought that kept circling in my head, without any place to rest.

The body remembers more than we think or are conscious of and not just because Facebook memories remind us. During the year, I don’t consciously think of my pregnancy until the week or days before the date I gave birth. It’s as if the body gently gets in touch with what happens during that time of the year, last year, or even many years ago, especially when it was highly emotional.

Replaying the memory

This year, my daughter serendipitously asked about childbirth the day before her birthday. “Mummy, did it hurt?” she asked gently. “No, it didn’t hurt because I couldn’t feel from my tummy down to my legs.” Our conversation led to me role-playing what happens during a C-section and in our specific case. We went on to have a look at pictures from that time, pictures I hadn’t looked at in a long while.

After a while, she started to stir on my lap and I knew she had seen enough. I continued for a while on my own, being swept away by the memories. Looking back, I notice I went beyond the point of ‘it’s enough now’.

Signs and symptoms

There are some signs that seem to repeat themselves over the years in the days around the death anniversary:

  • Lack of or trouble sleeping
  • Change in appetite
  • Increased tendency for inner reflection
  • Increased moodiness
  • Avoidance of social activities or chatting
  • Heightened fear of my child being forgotten

My way to deal with those signs is to give myself space to defer any self-expectations. This is not as easy as it sounds. Life still happens around me.

Last year, on the 6th anniversary I made this video which still rings true today. I speak about the ways you can support me or another bereaved parent. Watch it here: Death Anniversary

What helps you on a day like this?