It is nice to know that people care about us in our grief. Ultimately,in the days, weeks, months, and years following the death of a child, the messages will taper off quickly. So, those early messages are comforting and keep us afloat through that initial shock. Still, dealing with the barrage of messages, even those who are well-meaning is a lot to deal with.
The Barrage of Messages
I could barely read all the communication coming my way while my daughter was fighting for her life. In hindsight, I probably should have had a point person who was the go-to for answering all questions and responding to communication requests. As a matter of fact, I think hospitals offer sites like that, where you can set up an account to let people know what is happening. Even though I would have benefited from others’ help (not my strong suit to ask), it did give me something to do since I couldn’t be with my daughter in the hospital due to COVID-19. Irony.
Those 30 days were mostly a blur. I tried to respond to people, but eventually, the adrenaline wore off.
I’m Sorry For Your Loss
After her death, I could barely lift the phone or open social media. Every time I looked, I saw another message saying, “I’m sorry for your loss.” It reminded me over and over again that she was really dead. I’m sure they were sorry. Eventually, I would come to recognize that there was not much else to say. Actually, there is nothing to say. At the time, it didn’t really bring any comfort, and I didn’t want to talk about it. My daughter was just off in the Bahamas, unable to call or answer her phone. Bad reception. Maybe she didn’t pay the bill. She’d be back.
Grief Vampires
There is nothing like death–especially of a child–to bring out the curiosity and concern of many people. Not only did I receive messages from family and friends, but I also received messages from all over the world, people who “saw her story” in the news, and acquaintances of acquaintances whom I’ve never spoken to. Ever.
I do not want to take away from people who are genuinely trying to help, but I do want to warn you there are people out there who are there for some kind of thrill ride. They enjoy getting the details to share with their friends. They may seem kind and ask all the right questions, but if you feel depleted after speaking with them and notice they only took in that conversation and didn’t give, you’re probably talking to a Grief Vampire or a Gossip Wossup.
It is hard enough to navigate this horrible loss without having to spend energy trying to fend off the constant barrage of questions from people who are there for the drama. For two weeks leading up to my daughter’s death, I did not post updates on social media. People I didn’t even know sent requests for updates. Had they been robbed of their daily entertainment? Anyone close to that situation already knew what was happening, and their requests were out of line.
I knew my daughter was going to die, so I did not post about it on social media in the two weeks leading up to her death. I had apparently robbed them of their daily entertainment.
Exhaustion
Once the adrenaline wore off, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I had used every last ounce of strength to get through picking out a coffin (for my daughter!) and somehow staring blankly at the wall during the funeral. I began to shut down. The last thing I wanted was to talk to anyone. What were they going to say? I wanted to lie on my bed under the electric blanket and never speak to anyone again.
Emojis
After a week of trying to respond to everybody, I realized it was draining me. Some communicators were supportive, but others were there to gawk and be “in the know” about this tragedy. I don’t know why that brings some people joy, but it does. Be aware.
Making decisions was exhausting. I once started crying when someone asked me what I wanted to eat. It was too much of a decision. There were too many options. I’m not sure I could have picked between two options. It was mostly do you want to eat or not? I had no capacity to make any decisions.
A Possible Solution
It was with this in mind that I decided to create a system on my phone. I reviewed every friend or family member I had in my contact list. After considering who brought comfort and who was sucking my energy, I put an emoji 🥰next to the ones that warmed my soul. Instead of a picture, they had an emoji.
when I was too tired to make a decision, the emoji made the decision for me
When I received a message from someone I had predetermined to fill me up, I responded to them whether I wanted to or not. I was never going to want to. Not in the beginning. And I had already predetermined those were the relationships to which I wanted to give time. When I had 20 or 30 texts or message requests from different people, and I would see that emoji, I would know who to respond to. When I was too tired to make a decision, the emoji made the decision for me.
A Good Friend
Unfortunately, you will probably experience the loss of more than one friendship. I didn’t think that was possible. I thought I had a good, solid group around me. It wasn’t that people were necessarily unkind or unfriendly; it’s just that my priorities changed.
I had no idea the impact grief would have on every aspect of my life. Every. Single. Aspect. Losing a child made me rethink everything. I changed. How could I not change? My tolerance for shenanigans disappeared, and I didn’t have much to give. I didn’t care about little things and was drawn to those with knowledge of the more important things in life–and death.
My friendships changed. People I thought were solid friends slid away. Maybe they didn’t know what to say, but more than likely, my priorities changed. In their place, new people showed up. My new emoji buddies are the ones I call A Good Friend. They are friends for life.
A simple change in my contact list made a huge difference for me. Maybe it would help you, too. 🥰