Anger as an Accessory
The throat begins to tighten. The eyes begin to burn. Eyes fill up with tears as you inhale deeply in an attempt to overcome the newly inflicted wound. Someone has just attempted to ease your pain with a casual comment about what they believe was "meant to be" and you are withholding your reaction to counter the remark.
I remember the feeling early in my grief years. Oh, the first few times I handled it very well. I believe it was surprise that allowed me to be so hospitable to those besieging me with platitudes. It took time to digest their comments. By the time I did, they were long gone. But as time passed, I found the anger and bitterness intensifying. With each passing remark, I got closer and closer to reacting. Until one day it happened. I exploded with anger at one individual who paid the price for dozens of hurtful cliches. I walked away from the incident feeling cleansed- like I had purged myself of a flesh-eating disease. I was certain after that the word "mercy" was no longer part of my vocabulary. I was on a mission to educate them all!
Anger was one of the most difficult emotions to overcome after Cheyenne's death. I wore my anger like an accessory. I was prepared to do verbal battle at any time. I tried to explain why the cliches hurt and how I wanted to be supported through this grief. A few people listened and respected my wishes. Most chose not to respond. That is when I decided to pro-actively determine who the "real" friends were. What I discovered was that strangers became friends, and friends became strangers. My anger accumulated quickly when most of my former "friends" chose to ignore me, placate me and whisper behind my back. I knew if I didn't do something with this anger, it would adversely affect my journey through grief. So, I separated myself from those who disregarded my request for empathy and support. I surrounded myself with other grieving families who did not change the subject or leave the room when I wanted to discuss my daughter's death. I spoke honestly to my family about my needs and my anger. I explained that although they may not understand some of my feelings, I needed their respect. Finally, I discovered what types of physical outlets were helpful for me during periods of debilitating anger such as walking, writing, visiting the cemetery, swimming, or hiking. I would always do these activities alone so I could really concentrate on my feelings of anger. Instead of repressing or denying them, I would acknowledge the feelings and validate them. I would say to myself, "I have a right to be angry. My child died."
I don't know at what point during this journey that the feelings of heightened anger began to subside. I didn't notice when it happened, although I am sure it was quite gradual. But I became aware of the newly acquired patience the other day. A friend of ours was over having dinner. This is a person who was not in our lives in 1994, when our daughter died. However, it is not possible to know the Cacciatore family without also knowing about Cheyenne. Thus, this person knew about our baby girl.
During dinner, my husband, Paul said, "I have changed so much since my daughter died."
Our friend responded with surprising horror in his voice, "You had a daughter that died!?" Paul and I looked at each other in astonishment, knowing he was aware of Cheyenne's death.
"Yes, of course," I said "remember we told you about our baby?"
Feeling a bit confused he replied, "Oh! I knew about her but I thought you meant you had a real child- like a five or a ten-year old that died."
Being the more outspoken of the two, Paul looked at me, waiting to see which plate I was going to hit him with. Much to his surprise, I just smiled and calmly said, "Well, I wish I would have had her for five or ten years!" We went back to our meal, without a hint of annoyance or spite.
I didn't think about the incident again until he left. I then realized that Paul was not the only one surprised by my lack of reaction. I surprised myself. Clearly, my more tolerant attitude did not come overnight, but I am glad to see it nonetheless. I am happy to say I have removed most of my coat of arms and put down my sword. The art of true wisdom is knowing who and what to overlook. One more of the many gifts our child has left for us.
An excerpt from the book "Dear Cheyenne" © 1996 by Joanne Cacciatore
My Child Has Died
Do not tell me it may be for the best
or that all things happen for a reason
My dreams are buried with her.
This unthinkable, unspeakable tragedy
Has become my reality.
And I will never be who I once was.
My child has died.
Do not attempt to comfort with mere mortal words
or spiritual delights
Nothing else matters now
This cold, bitter season I confront
Cannot heal with a band-aid or a kiss.
So, please, do not try to take away the grief
It is all that remains
And don't inquire of my condition
I cannot answer with shallow words
My child has died.
But as the world continues on in absolute oblivion,
Please, pause for a moment...
Do not urge me to abandon her memory.
Offer your kindness.
Speak to my soul with gentle words.
Impart condolences with compassion filled eyes
For her brief life was worthy of my pain and your remembrance.
My child has died.
But not in senseless vanity
Allow her to bring you closer to those you love
Discover through her existence how truly fragile life is.
Share with me her memory.
Her name is Cheyenne..