On a Scale of 1-Infinity

When the Impact of a Loss Hits Harder Than Expected

We can prepare for a loss intellectually, often thinking we are equipping ourselves for the inevitable complex emotions, but we can never truly prepare emotionally. We cannot truly anticipate the depth of the sadness, pain, heartbrokenness, loneliness, disbelief, and uncertainty. We might also assume one loss will hurt more than another, and being wrong can be quite a shock.

I have been asked countless times if sudden death is worse than a long term death and vice versa. They’re both awful, because we lose someone we love regardless. On a related note, I’ve had people ask what it has been like to support parents who lose a child to a long term or chronic illness, such as a muscular degenerative disease or childhood cancer, a trauma, or infant loss in the NICU. Again, they’re all awful. Someone lost a child, whether they knew them for days or years. They lost a child and all the hopes and dreams they had for them. People wonder what is worse, to lose a baby in utero, in the NICU or a child who they have watched grow and develop their own unique personality. What I can say for sure is that every one of those parents (and their other children and extended family) were broken beyond belief. I can’t compare their grief or their loss, just as I cannot compare each of my own losses.

My career has shifted a bit in the last year or two, and I am torn about that. There’s grief there, too, but that is for another day. The aspect of it that is helpful for today’s topic is the bereavement work I am doing now. I am now supporting adults almost exclusively. Do I like it? No, but that’s not the point. There is a common theme in supporting adults who lose an elderly parent, and it still shocks me. More often than not, they report being “okay.” In my initial condolence call, they’re often upbeat and more annoyed at funeral arrangements than sad at losing their parent. There are some who reflect and say, “I’m glad they’re at peace now.” Those statements lead to some beautiful conversations. Others say, “I’m fine. I lost _____ years ago, and that was worse. Is that okay to say?” Yes, it is.

People ask which types of losses are worse, because they need validation. They want to know that it is normal to feel a deeper grief over the death of their dog than their parent. They want to know that it is normal to be in crippling pain as they grieve the death of one family member but were ready to go back to work days after another died. They want their grief normalized, and I am always ready to do that.

We cannot predict our grief-related pain.

My soul dog, Oliver, died 3 weeks shy of turning 16. He entered my life when I was 25, and he died when I was 41. He accompanied me through a stressful final year of graduate school, my five units of Clinical Pastoral Education, ups and downs with jobs, meeting Patrick and his dogs, adding Buckley, my own health issues, adding Gunner to the family, and he was right by my side for moves and adventures. My mom died when I was 17. Given that we only have a few memories of being toddlers and then solid memories aren’t really built until later, I had more real time with my dog than my mom.

I remember every second with Oliver, but most of the time with my mom is hazy. Grieving her is clear. Grieving having a mother is clear. But I don’t remember her voice or her laugh. I remember a few lessons she taught me and some hurtful conversations. I remember how creative she was, and how she loved and cared for everyone but was deeply sad. Perhaps we are more alike than I realized.

The purpose of addressing my shared time with Oliver and my mom leads to the difference in the grief. They are both such painful losses. With my mom, I grieve more of what she missed and will continue to miss in my life. I grieve who we would be together as we both aged. We may not have been best buddies when she died, but I believe we’d be quite the pair now. With Oliver, I grieve our life together. I grieve the person he made me, the joy he brought to every moment, and the beautiful soul he was.

The deaths of my mom and soul dog are both awful. They both feel different. Some days, one feels worse than the other, and then they swap. They’re both life changing losses. I will never know what it is like to have a mother beyond the age of 17. Her death changed me forever. Oliver’s life and death changed me. I hurt every day for both of them.

All deaths are awful for the bereaved. We may be shocked when one feels worse than another, but that is okay. Grief has no timeline, and it is cumulative. I’m lucky to be able to grieve so many people and animals, because it means I have loved and been loved. I hate the hurt of grief for myself and others, but I am so incredibly blessed to have such deep love in my life. I will grieve forever, because I continue to love my mom, Oliver, and all my other dogs, horse, and family members.