Episode 3:  The Five Stages of Grief – An Endless Cycle – Transcription

[INTRO] 

Welcome to the Broken Vessels podcast. This podcast is hosted by Carrie Ann Bothmer, a mother who has experienced profound grief following the loss of her daughter, Cassie. As bereaved parents, the lasting impact of losing a child changes us forever, leaving us as broken vessels in search of hope and purpose. 

In each episode, Carrie Ann and special guests will share personal stories offering insights and coping strategies covering a wide range of subjects. Carrie Ann’s desire is that through these conversations, you will find a sense of connection, understanding, and perhaps even moments of healing. Let’s take this step together, one episode at a time. 

Now, here is your host, Carrie Ann.

[Episode]  

Hello! And thank you so much for listening in today. In this episode, we’re going to touch on the five stages of grief. And what I’ve come to know as endless cycle for parents who’ve experienced the unfathomable, the loss of their children, it is as if you’ve lost a piece of yourself physically. Often I’ve shared the analogy of someone who has lost a limb, an amputee. They are forever changed. Undoubtedly, while the missing limb may be concealed and perhaps not obvious to others, it’s always obvious to the amputee that they’re missing a part of their body. Everything about their existence has changed. 

After the amputation, the individual will have to learn how to navigate life without that limb. Perhaps it’s learning to walk without a leg or the inability to extend a hand for a handshake. Living life, quote, normally no longer is an option. There will likely be surgery and painful recovery therapy. And then having to face the reality that things have drastically changed. 

The amputee grieves the loss of their limb and the loss of the life they had prior. Likely wondering what their purpose in life is after the loss. Perhaps angry at God, depressed and withdrawn. Who they were prior to the amputation and who they are after the amputation are two completely different people. 

There inevitably will come a time when the individual accepts the fact that their life has permanently changed, and they will start to lean into that reality. However, the fact remains that they will never be the same as they were before the amputation and there will be no getting over it. I use this example when I describe the trauma of losing my daughter. 

My quote “limb”, my daughter has been removed from me permanently. Sometimes it seems like a bad dream that I’m going to wake up from, as if Cassie did not die, like she is still here with me. However, I am thrown back into reality when I reach for her and realize, just like the missing limb, she’s not there. 

My life will never be the same as it was. I am a completely different person than I was before Cassie died, and that can be difficult for others to understand. Specifically, those who have never experienced the loss of a child. There is an immediate separation, the trauma or amputation, followed by the darkest days of my life, questions without answers. 

For as long as I can remember, I’ve understood that grief encompassed a series of stages. Each stage of grief defined by the emotion one would experience or feel during it. On many occasions, I have heard well-meaning folks refer to these stages of grief to identify why perhaps a bereaved person is behaving a certain way, indicating that it is a process and a path that may soon pass. 

Oh, she’s in the anger phase or he’s in denial. You have probably been privy to these conversations as well. Shortly after the loss of my daughter. I was provided with a pamphlet from the hospice staff who cared for my daughter in her final days. This pamphlet was intended to help families navigate the stages of grief, whether your loved one was suffering with a terminal illness, or if you were mourning the death of your loved one. 

It was modeled after the five stages of grief as defined by Elizabeth Kubler Ross in her 1969 book On Death And Dying. As I read the grieving process as defined in the resource pamphlet, I was troubled from the very beginning. While I understood the sentiment and importance of providing a resource for families, I was a bit perplexed at the notion that grieving is something you move through. 

Five stages were identified. It seemed that there was a defined starting point and an ending point, starting with denial, moving on to anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance. As if one stage would feed automatically into the other. This left me with more questions than answers. Was there a determined time allotted for each stage? 

It seemed to be so regimented. What if I got stuck in the anger stage? How could I, Cassie’s mother, ever stop grieving or accept her death? It’s unthinkable. As I dug into the material, I identified with the emotions defined in each stage all at once. It was clear. I was in denial. She cannot be gone. Even though I held her as she took her last breath, bathed her broken body, braided her beautiful black hair one last time. 

To this very day, I feel like she is still here. I watched in horror as the funeral director transferred her lifeless body to a thick plastic bag and pulled the zipper closed. How could this world continue to spin if my sweet daughter is not in it? Waves of anger came over me frequently in the days, weeks, and months after my daughter passed away. 

 Anger toward the circumstances. The addiction that took her away from us for eight years. I’ll never get that time back. Anger at the people who supported her addiction. The drug dealer that supplied her addiction without an ounce of care for her life. She was simply a transaction. Never mind the fact that she was someone’s daughter, mother, sister, friend. 

The so-called friends who used her and abused her without hesitation. Angry at the world we live in, where mental health is not prioritized, and resources are limited to support it. Angry that I was not able to save her, that my love for her was not enough to persuade her to stop using. Furious that she was so horribly mistreated, and that it was all so preventable. 

And yes, although I knew better, I was even angry at God for a bit. God provided me with so much grace in those moments. Yes, I’m still angry. I want to blame someone for the pain. For the loss of my daughter and all the moments we will not get to share together. It is not an all-consuming anger or a place I feel stuck. 

I have learned how to manage it in a healthy way, but I am still angry. I held my daughter as she took her last breath. What good would it do to beg and plead for her life at this point? I have a box of ashes in my living room to remind me of this reality daily. I certainly did my share of bargaining while Cassie was in the depths of her addiction. 

I begged her, and I begged God to save her from the abyss. I knew that there had to be some way or somehow for me to help her, something I could do or say that would change the way things were heading. Every day as I drove to work, I would pray, pray that God would bring someone into Cassie’s life that would help her navigate her way out of the pit. 

After years of trying, it was clear that I was making no progress and as much as I wanted to be the one who would save her, I was willing to say, It does not have to be me, anyone, I’m begging you God, save my daughter. As time continues to pass, I spend a great deal of time on the what ifs. What if I had called her instead of responding to a message via text? 

What if we had moved out of state when she was a teenager? Would it change in location, new friends? Would that have been enough? While I am not bargaining with God any longer to save her, I find myself continuously setting up alternative scenarios in my mind and watching them play out. There is not a day that goes by where I am not wondering if I had done or said something differently that the outcome may be different. 

The depression in the first few years of life without Cassie was completely crippling. Looking back now, I can still recall the searing pain in my chest. As if a hot knife had been placed deep into my heart. I felt like I could not breathe. Yet somehow, my body did it anyway. There were days that I did not get out of bed at all. 

And then there were days where I had to keep moving to keep myself from the crippling pain brought on by the realization that my daughter was gone. Everything about my life changed in an instant. I am completely different without my daughter. Still her mother, but not able to BE her mother. Not able to share in the life we dreamed we would have together.  Void of all the memories we missed out on. The sadness is more than I can bear alone.  

While sadness is a contributor to depression, the two, sadness and depression, are not the same at all. I can feel sadness. Cry. and move on. It can live in my everyday life. Depression, however, prevents me from living normally. 

The searing pain in my chest has dulled over time, but there are still moments where I can feel myself moving from sadness back to depression. Sometimes I must give in to the emotion and allow myself to feel it. These are the days where I shut out the world a bit. Perhaps stay in bed, ignore incoming calls, and just recoil into the emotion. 

I wish I could say that this is only on occasion, but the truth is, every day it’s a challenge to get out of bed, and every day starts with tears. But I am driven to move through the sadness. I must function. There are things that demand my attention, and there is not time for me to have my emotions cripple me. 

Caring for my family, my work responsibilities, for example. Dinner is not going to make itself. Kids need help with homework, and payroll needs to be run. Groceries need to be purchased, and birthdays need to be celebrated. In these instances, I find that I have to figuratively put my emotions away in a box on the shelf. 

I have to work through what has to get done, the life that needs to be lived today, and revisit the emotions later. The week before Cassie went into the ICU, my daughter Carly and I shopped for her wedding gown, An October Bride. The venue selected, the dress purchased, DJ on retainer. And the attendee list drafted, even though everything in my life had been turned upside down and I was in the deepest darkness imaginable.  I had to make an effort to be present for my daughter as she planned for what should have been the happiest day of her life. I remember clearly she came to me shortly after Cassie passed away and told me she was planning to postpone the wedding. I know she was concerned for my wellbeing. Every day she saw me in the deepest, darkest grief. 

Of course she didn’t want to go through with it. But she deserved to have joy, and me being part of that joy is what she needed. So, we powered through and held the wedding as scheduled. It was beautiful and difficult at the same time, but I am so grateful I chose to live through the pain. I am over three years into my grief journey, and I still have to choose to engage in life. 

Some days are harder than others, and some seem impossible. But then there are days when I am able to breathe and smile. Something I thought I would never be able to do again.  

Acceptance? No, thank you. Accepting my daughter’s death was not even a consideration. Just a moment of pondering the notion that she was no longer here with me would initiate an involuntary shaking of my head from left to right. 

No, I cannot. My body would physically respond to the emotions strongly in the first few years. But as I have stated with each of these documented, quote, grief emotions, I have moments that take my breath away every single day since Cassie passed. I did not have time to contemplate my daughter’s death prior to her passing. 

 Even in the last moments I had with her, I believed with every part of me that she would survive. She was a fighter and it was unfathomable for me to think otherwise.  

While in my COVID bubble in early 2021, I found myself drawn to Disney Plus and the Marvel Studios captivating series, WandaVision. The series was a blend of classic television and the Marvel Cinematic Universe, in which Wanda Maximoff and Vision, two super powered beings living idealized suburban lives, begin to suspect that everything is not as it seems. 

In episode 8, Wanda was reliving her memories and her losses, including the death of her brother. She was experiencing deep grief. A conversation took place between her and Vision: 

Wanda. “It knocks me down when I try to stand up. It just comes for me again. And I can’t. It’s gonna drown me”  

Vision replies. “No, no…” 

“How do you know”, asked Wanda.  

“Well, because it can’t all be sorrow, can it?”, Vision replies. “I’ve always been alone, so I don’t feel the lack. It’s all I’ve ever known. I’ve never experienced loss because I’ve never had a loved one to lose. But what is grief if not love persevering? “   

That final statement from Vision was profound.  It brought me to tears. But what is grief if not love persevering?  My interpretation of that is, if you do not grieve deeply, you would not love deeply. I love my daughter deeply, without end. Grieving is an extension of that love. I will always grieve my daughter, because I will always love her. 

Experiencing the loss of my beautiful daughter and the indescribable grief that followed has brought a whole new understanding of what those who are grieving are actually going through. I’ve learned that grief is not linear, nor is it a short-term condition that will improve in time. The five stages of grief are going to repeat themselves over and over again, in no specific order. 

It’s normal to grieve, to be sad and angry. To visit disbelief and question everything. It’s also okay to live and find moments of joy while you’re navigating this desert road. There is no time restriction on grief, no number of years determined to get through it, and there are no rules on how to do it. 

There is no right or wrong way. Over time, I have learned to live life and allow the grieving to occur. And I encourage you to do the same.  

Thank you for joining the broken vessels podcast. The loss of a child is a profound sorrow, and I’m honored to share this space with you as we navigate this unwanted journey together.  Your grief is a testament to your love, and in that love, you are never alone. If today’s episode brought you a moment of comfort or connection, please consider sharing it with someone who might need it, and be sure to tune in for the next episode. Until then, may you find moments of strength and gentle comfort. 

God bless.