I have always been a daddy’s girl. My father was my rock, my support, my counselor and my guide. With two very strong clashing personalities in the house—my mom and me—my father was the one who navigated our family out of troubled waters time and again. A medical legend, he started his career with treating blood diseases in children, so it was weird to find that, at the height of his fame and career, he was diagnosed with an end-stage rare and very aggressive cancer that had found its way into his blood.

Despite the poor prognosis, he continued his work as a global advisor for public health and community health projects to national and international governments and non-government agencies. Ironically, he contracted the public menace—dengue—in his weakened post chemotherapy state, and passed away fighting the same diseases he spent a lifetime saving others from.

I had always read that grief has five stages, but you always think that these things are what happen to others. And then, I had to face them myself. Here’s what I learned.

How I Experienced the 5 Stages of Grief

Stage 1 of Grief: Shock

That moment, when the doctor walked out of the ICU to tell me my father had suffered a cardiac arrest, will be etched in my mind forever. Even as they tried to save him in vain, I stood by his inert body in utter disbelief. Three weeks earlier, he had been hale and hearty and his normal self. All kinds of hospital emergencies imaged from movies and TV serials went through my mind. I remembered those scenes where the doctor would tell the loved ones to speak to the patient, and the heart of the patient would miraculously start beating again. I tried cajoling him, pleading with him, shouting at him, even outright threatening him. But the heart monitor did not respond. I thought of scenes where someone would bang on the chest and the heart would start beating again. But no amount of CPR brought him back. In the end, I had to face the fact that he was gone.

It is a moment where different parts of your being seem to operate at different speeds. The past, the present and the future seem to collide in disjointed images, and the overwhelming feeling is that of shock and bewilderment. People around you tell you things, and you are both listening yet not listening at the same time. Perhaps this is the feeling of your soul being ripped apart, as part of you dies with your loved one. And yet, the rest of you is anchored in reality, where there are others to take care of and formalities to get through. And you plunge into a haze of activity as you try to banish your loss to the deepest and darkest recesses of your mind.

I had always read that grief has five stages, but you always think that these things are what happen to others

Stage 2 of Grief: Denial

No one is prepared for death of a loved one, whether it comes suddenly or after a long illness. But time doesn’t give you the luxury of grief immediately. In my case, I was immediately plunged into formalities—getting the hospital paperwork completed, making arrangements for the body to be taken home. These days you have mobile mortuaries that keep the body preserved at home till it is time for last rites.

I remembered my dad telling me stories of when my maternal grandfather had passed away and he had, with much difficulty, arranged for huge blocks of ice, that were salted to keep from melting, so that they could keep the body at home. And it hit me—I was already referring to Dad as a body. The thought seemed to freeze every molecule in me. This could not be happening. This wasn’t true. Dad was not… I could not even bring myself to say the D-word mentally. Someone asked me a question, and I shoved these thoughts away, again into far corners of my mind, in vain hope that if I don’t think of it, it won’t be true. And paradoxically I plunged into the next formality that needed to be completed. The body needed to be dressed properly because if you wait too long, the body goes cold and rigor mortis sets in. In this state, the body goes rigid and inflexible, and it is next to impossible to dress or re-position it. With the clock ticking, all these transactional activities kept me going, till we brought Dad back home, late at night, and there was nothing left to do till morning.

No one is prepared for death of a loved one, whether it comes suddenly or after a long illness

Stage 3 of Grief: Anger

As I lay down in bed, wide awake at 3am, all the thoughts I had been shoving away spilled over. This is the time when you should never be alone, even if the other person is sleeping or doing something else. The sense of loss, of loneliness, of all the things that will never be, hits you with a force that can take your breath away. Indeed, for a while, all I did was sit and count my breaths as time and distance warped in my mind. Snapshots from the past, his voice, his little actions, his idiosyncrasies all tumbled together in a kaleidoscope with what had been an expected future timeline with him, morphing to a timeline without him. And then came the rage, the injustice of it all. My dad, who had spent a lifetime saving others, had been failed by the very people he had taught. He, who treated and cured others, was lost to the very diseases that he had fought. Anger against cancer, against dengue, against the hospital, the doctors, against fate. Rage, disbelief and utter loneliness ripped through me night after night that first week, as sleep remained elusive.

Stage 4 of Grief: Bargaining

Surely it had not been his time yet. His own father had passed away just seven years ago. His own uncles were still alive. Dad easily had another 10 – 15 years in him. He was beyond particular about his health, waging war on salt, sugar and oil at home and at work. He meticulously monitored all his vital signs. When he passed away, apart from his blood report, every other report and organ was normal. He was a prime specimen for his age, even after cancer had decided to strike. In truth, he did not suffer much, as it had been just three weeks when we first discovered something might be wrong, and just one week from final diagnosis to his death.

The sense of loss, of loneliness, of all the things that will never be, hits you with a force that can take your breath away

Stage 5 of Grief: Acceptance

The last stage of grief is acceptance. There are moments where I feel I have accepted his absence. And then something triggers and I find myself back at one of the earlier stages. Sometimes I wonder if I really want to reach acceptance. Would it not be a travesty to not honor his loss? At other times, I tell myself, this is what he would want. To keep his memories alive through practising all that he taught me, and honor his life by living mine to the fullest, just as he did.

Conclusion

I don’t know what the future holds. I just know that I still expect him to walk through the door, with a smile on his face and a project on his mind. And if he saw me crying, he would just sit with me in silent support. In spirit, he will always be with me.

The post How I Experienced the 5 Stages of Grief appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

In the Delhi suburb where my husband Girish and I started married life, the library was a hole-in-the-wall space. When we moved to Chennai, I became a member of two libraries: Eloor, a single room that housed racks and racks of books; and, the plush British Council Library with its bright orange furniture and comfy couches.

Days after we moved to a Chicago suburb, I stepped into Schaumburg Township District Library for the first time and thought I’d stumbled into heaven. My imagination can conjure up pretty amazing stuff, but even I wasn’t prepared for anything like this: the cavernous carpeted spaces and books housed in two storeys; the adult section and the “Enchanted Forest” for tots, the music and DVD sections, ESL classrooms, computer labs and a cozy café.

Time stands still when I’m in a library; my fingers caressing the thick spines, smelling the ink and gazing at the tall shelves of books that never fail to remind me: so many books, so little time.

Books used to be my friends

It is daunting that I find no solace between the pages of a book now; something I’ve always counted on for escape. A book got me through most of life’s challenges: when Appa’s drunken binge pushed me to the fuzzy edges of sanity; when I started married life in a city without a single friend to call my own; when I missed my siblings; as a new mom doing the diaper marathon; and sitting outside the intensive care unit waiting for a white-coated doctor to show up with an update on Appa.

No book holds my attention now. When you’ve stared death in the face, trite characters and plots seem trivial. Akin to an alcoholic who gags at the sight of the amber liquid he once thirsted for.

Questions buzz non-stop in my head: Why me? Why her? Why now? Where did she go? Images recur, like a screensaver. One particular image edges the rest out, occupies centre stage: Amma’s lifeless body in a turmeric-yellow silk sari, its breath silenced. The image is accompanied by a single thought that plays over and over, a record needle stuck in its groove.

We come into this world with nothing; we leave with nothing.

Amma worked hard her whole life, but left with nothing except the one garment she was wearing.

This truth fills me with despair and dread. And if this is the truth, my entire life has been a lie. It mocks all that I’ve ever believed in: success, ambition, material comforts, basically a life of fulfilment. None of it makes any sense. I feel a void.

Trying to fit the pieces

You come into the world an innocent infant full of potential and possibility; you grow up and get an education; you get the right degrees; you get a job; you get married; have kids; they grow up and have kids; and if you’re lucky, you get to bounce your grandkids on your knee before you die an average unglorified death. Is this all there is?

Something tells me this script is incomplete; that I’m missing a vital link here.

And again, the single tormenting image. Amma’s body draped in a yellow sari, the only earthly possession she took with her—that too, only as far as the crematorium.

Where do the pieces fit, I begin to wonder. The struggle to find the perfect job, the one that makes you feel like a million bucks even if it doesn’t bring home anything close? The rented apartment which mocks you, so you obsess about finding ways to increase your real estate footprint? The scooter, the car, then the bigger car, the fancier car… and on and on, this relentless quest for ‘stuff’ we never get to take, anyway.

The answers begin to pop out

I wander around the library for hours, the questions growing louder inside my head—just so I don’t have to stay home alone and wrestle with them.

Just as I turn to head out, I come to a dead halt in the non-fiction aisle. A book screams out loud at me. A book I’ve glimpsed many times in the past, and know to be an Oprah’s Book Club selection—A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life’s Purpose by Eckhart Tolle. I don’t quite understand the urgency, but I lunge and grab it like it’s the last copy on the planet.

When I get home, and start to read, I cannot put it down. It has me hooked like a spy thriller, only it’s chock-full of philosophy that’s all new to me. Tolle refers to the ego as the false self, and illumines the need to awaken to a new consciousness from the place of one’s true self. I drink deep, waking from a long, dry thirst, as if this is the book I’ve been waiting for, the answer to life’s recent anguish.

When you die, the book proclaims, you will be judged on the basis of your true self, and how well you lived your life according to its tenets. Amma’s life flashes before my eyes. A+ all the way, I think to myself. She scores big because she had no desire to be right, to win the arguments, to walk over others. For most of my life, I had a word for it: doormat. I watched how she never let petty quarrels upset her rhythm, was rarely offended, and hardly ever blamed anyone, no matter what was going on in her life. What I’d always seen as weakness I now begin to know is strength.

My quest to understand death

Over the weeks, books on death and dying and the afterlife begin to fascinate me. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’ On Life After Death explains that Amma shed her cocoon [physical body] and became a butterfly in death. I love the image of Amma as a colourful butterfly, flitting about sunlit gardens, drinking deeply to fill her soul, free and untethered in a way her earthly life could never be.

One evening, I pick up a copy of Sogyal Rinpoche’s The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying and flip through the pages. A friend handed me the book before I left Chennai. I skip to part two: Dying. The first words in the section speak to me: “In a hospice I know, Emily, a woman in her late sixties, was dying of breast cancer. Her daughter would visit her everyday and there seemed to be a happy relationship between the two. But when her daughter had left, Emily would nearly always sit alone and cry. After a while, it became clear that the reason for this was that her daughter had refused completely to accept the inevitability of her death…”

The words shock me in the solar plexus. It sounds so familiar to Amma’s story, and mine. A voracious appetite stoked, I read further.

Every page I turn, key concepts jump out at me: compassion, forgiveness, preparing to die, and dying well. Concepts I’ve never considered, being too busy living life. The words make me feel petty and childish. I consider the futility of the energy we invest in hanging onto grudges and offences, real and imagined. The truth: it all evaporates the instant our breath leaves the body.

The sense of urgency I experience is so powerful I stride to my desk, flip open my laptop and make a list of names. They are the people I’ve wronged and need to make amends with: a dear friend with whom I fell out over a silly argument; a business contact whose actions I’d silently questioned and blamed; a friend whose life I’d disappeared from. Dredging up incidents and names from the hidden recesses of my mind is strangely liberating.

Over the next half an hour, I compose emails to each of them, rendering an apology, resolving a conflict, taking ownership, letting go. When I’m done, my moral slate wiped clean for now, I feel a sense of deep peace in the centre of my being. So much better than the bitter acid that churned in my gut making me hold on, grasp, want to be right.

These books are my first encounters with a sliver of peace, a feeling that just maybe, there is meaning to this madness we call the earthly journey. Buried beneath the chaos and ruins of my tragic situation are treasures that I’m slowly waking up to.

The post Losing my mom and the journey to find myself appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Watch it. It’s a wonderful and moving talk; the experiences she shares are remarkable. Becki shares many stories which, with her style of narrating, is a joy to watch.

At 1:01, she discusses issues faced by family members of a terminally ill or dying patient. Not every member of the family can be there by the bedside, she says. Some people are just not able to get themselves to be there. Either the needles and tubes make them nervous or just the fact that it’s time to say good-bye.

Becki suggests that in such situations families should not point fingers and send the other person on a guilt-trip saying, “You were not there when s/he wanted to see you.” She adds,”It’s not your job to see what the others are doing, it’s only your job to see what you are doing”. In such a case, instead of comparing and complaining, it is better to engage these people with other errands that need attending to, so that they too feel like they are contributing and it helps to share the load. See how they can contribute and put them to use. Don’t push them away.

The post Hospice nurse shares 30 years of experience with the dying appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Of course, it was difficult for me. She didn’t hide her pain or zip it up safely inside for the sake of others, the way I was used to doing. Theresa was living in the centre of that hurt, anger and confusion. I don’t think I had ever let myself go that far. Sure, I’d been hurt, but I didn’t allow myself to be wounded. I may not have known it then, but Theresa was already so far ahead of me. She was going to be authentic no matter what the cost. “I’m not even transparent,” she tells me now. “I’m translucent. I can’t hide stuff.” But at the time, that was all I was good at.

Holding my friend in her time of pain

Sitting across from her, I felt like such an impostor. I hid the fact that I was scared, that I hadn’t yet experienced that typhoon of emotion, the life event that brings you to your knees. How was I supposed to help her if I hadn’t gone through it myself? So I just listened. I let her talk. I let her be silent. I stood witness to where she was at that moment. It was all I knew how to do.

But to Theresa, even my slapdash style of help meant the world to her. “Certain people don’t know how to negotiate pain. You held my pain in your hands like a slippery warm egg. I knew it wouldn’t break, not in your hands.” To hear those words now, I’m in awe of her. The level of trust that she brought to our friendship made me begin to trust myself. I was going to need it. My own storm was already on the horizon.

She didn’t hide her pain or zip it up safely inside for the sake of others, the way I was used to doing

I was his rock

It’s been about eight months since I’ve spoken with my nephew. He’s 16 now and has changed into someone who I don’t really recognise. Maybe all parents feel this way, but I wasn’t supposed to be his parent. I was supposed to be the fun aunt, who got to take him out for ramen and gyoza, and to films where people swear in different languages. But as time went by, I began to really care about that boy. Maybe because someone had to. His home life wasn’t ever stable after the divorce of his parents. He needed a rock, and I was it.

That’s probably why it hurts so much more now that he’s not in my life. Sometimes I wonder what I could have done differently? Other times, I’m angry with myself for opening up my heart, only to get hurt. There are even times when I catch myself reminiscing about his childhood. I see us laughing so hard, we’re rolling on the floor. I know this is the path he’s chosen, that the journey to being a man has some parts where you travel alone. But it’s hard to let go. It’s hard to be hurt.

I understood loss

Some time later, I truly understood what Theresa was feeling. I haven’t gone through a failed adoption, but I experienced someone, whom I had opened my whole heart to, walk right out of my life. I understood loss. I understood those feelings of confusion, anger and hurt. I knew what it was like to be brought to your knees. If Theresa had seen me during this time, she would have recognised the vacant look in my eyes, the taste of heartache in the air. But I didn’t let her in on my suffering. I wasn’t as brave as she was. Still, throughout this whole process, Theresa has been on my mind. I realise now that she’s the strongest person I know. And not just for surviving life’s trials but for allowing me to see that fragile part of herself, for trusting me with her tired heart, for accepting my vain attempts to try to make her feel better. Whether I like it or not, she’s been trying to do that for me now.

If Theresa had seen me during this time, she would have recognised the vacant look in my eyes, the taste of heartache in the air

You may ask, what’s the point of vulnerability?

You may want to save yourself all that hurt. Stay at home and eat cup-o-noodles for one. I guess I could look at things that way too. But I’ve lived enough life to know that the lesson isn’t always visible. The thing about vulnerability is that sometimes you will get hurt, and you’ll get hurt bad. I don’t want to deny that that’s not a possibility, having gone through my own private tour of hell. But the experience of being vulnerable, of holding your precious heart out to someone else, opened my world so much more than it would have been. If I hadn’t let my nephew into my heart, I wouldn’t see the world the way I do now. The colours are richer, the feelings are deeper and the tastes are more immediate. And wouldn’t you want to read something from a writer who has tasted despair and hurt, joy and elation with all of her being rather than someone holed up in the middle of nowhere, not living?

What being vulnerable taught Theresa

Theresa has said that the experience of that adoption journey has made her more grateful for the two beautiful children she was finally able to adopt. “I definitely appreciate my kids more. I appreciate the kids for their strength. We all fought to get to each other.” And while she’s still healing from losing her first adopted child, she acknowledges all the gifts she’s gained because of it. “My children, when they hear that story someday about the brother they have but don’t have will be able to appreciate vulnerability as a strength. If that story hadn’t happened, they wouldn’t have happened. I want my kids to value vulnerability.”

Vulnerability deepens the connection between two people. it makes your life richer

But she also acknowledges that vulnerability is a never-ending process. “Parenthood, it flays you open on a daily basis. Things you didn’t think would hurt you, do. When my daughter doesn’t want to kiss me good night, it hurts. But it’s birthing. I keep telling myself that we’re not done yet,” she says. And we will never be done. But with each encounter, we will love deeper and hope deeper. We will not be afraid to show our hearts. Isn’t that what it means to be human?

Vulnerability deepens the bond

When you’re vulnerable, it means you’re open. You’re allowing yourself to be yourself, to be authentic. In a relationship, this quality is non-negotiable. If you’re only going to hide behind your veneer, the other person will never truly get to know you with all your quirks and flaws. When we are vulnerable, it allows us to be receptive to love, and it gives the other person an opportunity to give love and practise compassion. Vulnerability deepens the connection between two people. And it makes your life richer.

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“Suffering is simply the difference between what is and what I want it to be.”
— Dr Spencer Johnson

If you’re human, you’ve known loss.

Where there is life, there is loss.

And loss is a word that contains much more than the death of someone we love and lose.

It is the grief we experience as we watch a beloved parent disappear into the shadows as dementia eats away at their sense of self.

It is the death of a marriage that once held the hope and promise of lasting happiness.

It is the severing of a friendship when betrayal and hurt tear apart the tenderness of a cherished connection.

It is the alienation of a geographical move, far away from everything and everyone familiar and known.

It is our children growing wings and leaving home to soar in the big, blue skies of freedom.

Loss walks alongside us on this earthly journey—because every life transition involves a measure of loss. How we deal with our losses determines how we live our lives. Some of us shut down and barricade our hearts, afraid and anxious of being hurt again. Others are broken open by loss and, as a result, go on to live more expansive lives.

Every loss has something to teach us—if we care to listen. Here are three lessons that come to us through the experience of loss in our lives.

We are not alone

Our first response to loss is usually Why me? It is normal to feel alone and believe that our life is doomed. We feel an intense sense of alienation, because we notice the world continues to move on, whereas life as we have known it has come to a complete standstill. But when we pause, take a breath and connect with the larger truth, this is what we know: Everything that is born must die.

Pain is part of the human experience and no one gets a free pass. This very realisation connects us to the truth that we are not alone in our experience of grief. Everyone’s life has its own form of pain—whether it’s a divorce, a terminal illness, family feuds, teenagers making poor choices or addictions that topple entire families. Singer Jana Stanfield’s lyrics “You hurt just like me, I cry just like you” bring home this powerful truth. So, no matter who you are and no matter the nature of your pain, stop and close your eyes for a moment. Connect with millions of others all over the world who are walking in similar shoes—and you will feel a little less alone.

Focus on what matters to you

Anytime we suffer a loss, life has a way of narrowing the lens. We have the opportunity to reflect on what truly matters—and let the other stuff go. When my mother died in 2009, a powerful truth dawned on me—I don’t have all the time in the world. It jolted me to the urgency of living my life on purpose, investing my time and energies in what fuelled my passions. I could no longer take my time here for granted. Living in alignment with that principle, I focus on my top passions: writing, teaching, coaching and learning. I have little time for gossip, complaining, or indulging in activities that drain my energy. Our soul is here to deliver its gifts, talents and treasures, and living purposefully is about being mindful of our soul’s agenda. Australian author Bronnie Ware draws our attention to this in her best-selling book The Top Five Regrets of the Dying. She says that the number one regret of the dying is: “I wish I’d lived a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.” When a crisis awakens us, it offers us a second chance to evaluate our priorities.

Heal another’s broken heart and you heal yours

When we are steeped in the sorrow of our loss, we buy into the notion that God or the Universe is unfair, unfathomable and punishing. But if we take the energy of our pain and turn it into purpose by serving another, the very act of being a healing touch in another’s life mends what’s broken in us.

For me, visiting nursing homes to console and comfort the elderly who ached for companionship was the most healing act of self-care in the midst of mourning my mother. Service helped heal my broken heart in ways that I simply cannot articulate. It is my belief that the Divine energy of reaching out in love was returned to me a thousandfold. Spiritual teacher Neale Donald Walsh, best-selling author of the Conversations with God series, says, “Your life is not about you. It is about everybody whose lives you touch.”

Loss is life’s biggest and best teacher. The only question is: Am I a willing learner?

This was first published in the April 2016 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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