Kay Cozad

  • The courage to bear witness

    As the anniversary of my nephew’s death approaches, I am immersed in vivid memories of not only the poignancy of his life, but also the tragic gift of his death. Sitting with a dying loved one is not an easy task, but offers its own treasure. Being present for the long term to those left to mourn their loss can be even more difficult.

    Adam was only 22 years old when he drew his final breath on earth after battling leukemia for over two years. When it became clear that his prognosis was bleak, he shared his greatest fear — that he would die alone. His exhausted, but ever courageous mother assured him that he would be surrounded by his loved ones when the time came.

    As Adam’s life force began to dim, his heartbroken parents put a call out to his family and friends with a solemn invitation to say farewell. His visitors came over the course of 18 hours, his mother waking him for each goodbye. One by one these caring and courageous folks stood at his bedside to speak sentiments of the heart to him as he lay dying.

    Surrounding him with the very presence of love, young and old stood witness to this young man’s last moments on earth. It wasn’t easy, as the stark reality of the situation blended into a surreal blur of exhaustion and grief — a number of us stood vigil with his parents and brother. Others could not bring themselves to stay long in the heartbreak. Nonetheless, Adam knew he was not alone.

    Following his death, those of us who remained began slowly to speak of our relationships with Adam and how he had touched our lives. We listened while his parents spoke of their beloved son through tears and laughter. Supporting Adam’s family and bearing witness to their grief, while facing our own sense of loss, was yet another difficult task.

    I believe it takes courage to stay with those who face the agonizing pain of loss. It calls for the desire to be present to the ones in need and the stamina to face the discomfort of experiencing the expression of another’s pain.

    In our mourning-avoidant culture, where death is many times quietly ignored and mourning is hastened to an unresolved end, those who mourn sometimes feel pressured to hurry through their grief. Sage advice is often offered on how to forget or move on. Bearing witness calls us to hold up each story with honor and be present to the pain. Supporting the bereaved means allowing them space to grieve as they must. They will direct us on what they need.

    Many of us have the mistaken impression that to be of any help we must have all the right answers or the perfect actions of comfort. Surprisingly, what I’ve learned through my own experience is that the main ingredient to bearing witness is simply offering one’s openhearted presence. Listening with both ears and our hearts, rather than focusing on what we might say, goes a long way in the healing process.

    That openheartedness sometimes means stepping out of our comfort zone. It means allowing the mourner to do and say what is appropriate for them at the time — without judgment. Our presence at the bedside of a dying loved one or at the side of the bereaved need simply be a gentle, quiet reminder of love and support.

    After most of Adam’s family and friends had left his bedside the morning of his death, I watched as my sister and brother-in-law sat silently with their precious son’s lifeless body. The pain and anguish reflected on their weary faces spoke volumes. When I began to take my leave, my sister asked if I would stay — to simply bear witness. So I sat with them as they whispered their last goodbyes. The grief was palpable but I felt honored to be a part of this family’s journey.

    In the five years since that day, my sister and I have supported each other through many other losses. We’ve sat vigil at dying loved ones’ bedsides, as well as marked each other’s passage through grief. Our healing has come, in part, through our shared witness.

    As witnesses we listen, reflect, share memories, laugh and cry. We will sit in silence with our bereaved loved ones, hold them and then we will let them go. We know that to bear witness doesn’t mean that we can fix their broken hearts, but we can offer understanding and hope as we walk with them on their journey of grief.

    Posted on July 13, 2011, to:

  • Breaking free of guilt

    Grief over the death of a loved one can cause so many different emotions to flare. I find one of the most mysterious of the emotions that drives our grief journey is guilt.

    Many bereaved have wrestled with a sense of guilt over the circumstances surrounding the death of their loved one, especially those who experience a sudden death. For several months after the accidental death of my husband Trent I found myself searching in vain for answers to my “what if” questions. “What if I had talked with him longer before he left for work. Then his car wouldn’t have been in the truck’s path.” “What if I had demanded he wear his seat belt at all times?” “What if he would have taken a different route to work that morning?”

    I, too, wrestled with the guilt that I felt over being unable to change the outcome of that fateful morning. But it was important for my healing to be able to voice my questions, no matter their futility.

    I found that several of my supporters were uncomfortable with my seemingly random questions and one friend even told me that I must stop asking because it didn’t change anything. Fortunately, I intuitively knew to follow my own course of grief and continued to question my husband’s death with those who would listen. Eventually, I realized that I was not in control of others’ lives and forgave myself for what I had perceived as wrongdoing on my part.

    Many feel guilt over not being present at the time of death. Others regret not doing more or behaving unkindly toward their loved one, even in the throws of debilitating fatigue during a long illness. These are all legitimate feelings that must be addressed for healthy mourning. And self forgiveness is the key.

    Talking these feelings through with a trusted listener or journaling  about them can help us process the “what if” questions that feed our guilt. One question I learned to ask myself is “Would doing ____ change anything now?” I may never learn the answer, but I do know that Trent died knowing I loved him. And for me, now, that is enough.

    Then there is what I call “moving on guilt” that can occur while we are discovering how to live after our loved one is gone. I recall experiencing this new and different guilt months after my husband’s death as I attended a family gathering. As I began to enjoy the day, the ache of my grief rose up and surrounded me in a confusing fog of guilt. “How could I be laughing with my family and friends when Trent is dead?” I thought as I struggled with my concern that if I participated fully in life again, I would dishonor — or worse — forget my beloved husband. That guilt took the wind from my sails and I retreated from the gathering quietly to face this new demon.

    As I spoke to others about my experience, I was reassured that life would continue to move on, (whether I wanted it to or not!) but I would never forget my beloved husband. And I learned, with time, experience and a little gentle self care, that rejoining life and all it has to offer, however slowly, was a good sign that my broken heart was healing and the memory of Trent was finding its rightful place in my life.

    Now 20 years later, I understand that the specter of my grief remains, sleeping deep within my heart. The fog seems always at the ready to reappear at a moment’s notice. But it doesn’t come nearly as often or as intensely now. And I have learned that when I face the ghosts as they come and mourn what is mine, I can let even guilt go once again, forgiving myself for what is passed.

    Posted on June 8, 2011, to:

  • The lexicon of loss

    During lunch recently my colleagues and I were discussing the details of the funeral of a noted community servant. As the discussion traversed the rich traditional funeral rite and the consolation of the hymns, we hit upon a sore subject — what do we call death?

    I’ve often wondered who chose the vocabulary our culture uses to describe the experience of death and loss. I’m also curious as to the reasoning behind the lexicon. Permit me to expound.

    It has become commonplace to substitute words such as passed on, passed away, late, expired, gone to Jesus, croaked, marched on, kicked the bucket, received into the arms of the Lord, crossed over, pushing up daisies, bit the dust and met their Maker, while describing the reality of death. A few are colloquial and rather amusing, but most are, I believe, simply ways of avoiding the truth about death.

    What are we afraid of with the use of authentic words such as “dead, died and death?” Does burying the event in metaphors make it any less final? Less painful? In my experience I have found those replacement words sometimes create more pain and confusion for the bereaved.

    I believe we have developed into a mourning-avoidant society. Using euphemisms when compassionate understanding is needed rarely helps and sometimes hurts those we wish to support. I recall during my husband’s wake all those years ago, one visitor told me, with all the best of intentions, that she knew I must be happy to have Trent sleeping with the angels. No, I thought, I’d rather have him standing by my side, living and breathing as he should be. I’ll never forget how misunderstood I felt.

    Children are particularly vulnerable to these camouflage words that we use to substitute life’s reality. I worked with a family whose father had died suddenly. His young daughter was told he went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Without hearing the truth about death at her level of understanding, her imagination took hold and she immediately became fearful of sleeping herself.

    In this present era of being politically correct with our lexicon, we have lost sight of the far-reaching compassionate response that words of truth can offer. Words like death and died only name the reality of the already painful experience of losing a loved one, not make it worse.

    Word choice is not the only way we sometimes cloak or minimize our grief experience today. In the not too distant past we spent the better part of a week (or two) preparing and sharing the wake and funeral service with family, friends and community members. Currently many are opting to forgo both visitation and funeral service to avoid causing an inconvenience or undue stress on the family.

    What we don’t seem to understand with this practice of avoidance is without sharing our grief and the grief of others, and publicly memorializing our loved one, it becomes so much more difficult to say goodbye to our loved one who has died and to gather the support we need to move through our grief to a full and joyful life.

    We’ve also lost sight of our natural ability to support our bereaved as a community. One hundred years ago families who had lost a loved one to death were encouraged by their friends and neighbors to mourn publicly. It was a common practice for mourners to wear black clothing or an armband to identify their grief. Community members knew then to approach the bereaved and invite them to tell their story of loss. In this way, mourners were offered compassionate community support as they worked through their grief.

    I have learned that shared grief and ceremony can help heal a broken heart. Our words and actions have power. So let’s use them compassionately.

    Posted on May 11, 2011, to:

  • We’re all in this together

    I recently attended the heart wretching funeral of a dear friend who lost her short-lived yet grueling battle with cancer. She was only 47, but had been a widow for nine years — which left her raising four children as a single parent. She and I had countless conversations over the past decade about the balance we sought between our widowhood, single parenting and faith.

    Though our lives were bound by so many similarities, we were nonetheless near polar opposites. She was a pragmatist and eternal optimist. I, on the other hand, am the deep-feeling type who analyzes events and corresponding emotions until I get to the core meaning, unafraid to sit with my pain. “It is what it is,” my friend would reply calmly to my continual questioning. I was and remain in awe of her world view and continued optimism even in the face of death. 

    As I drove out of town to attend her funeral service (something I suspect she would have scoffed at) I replayed the past eight months in my head. Upon diagnosis, my friend’s optimism kicked in to the exclusion of all other feelings. She was determined to beat this cancer with no tears, grief, conversation or additional support from family or friends. We all acquiesced at the time, stepping back from our need to be with her and comfort her, allowing her to handle this health crisis in her own way.

    But now a heavy heartedness has settled on us knowing we were denied the honor of walking with her during this difficult time, especially as she approached her untimely death.

    At the funeral home I wondered what words I would muster for her beloved children, who had lost both father and mother at their young age. And, I pondered, what does one say to the parents of a young mother whose only desire was to love her children long and well? 

    In the midst of this cacophony of thoughts I realized that although my greatest desire was to be present to this treasured friend’s family in their time of deep grief, I, too, felt in need of consolation. I allowed myself to recognize the feelings that accompanied the loss of my dear friend and confidant. And though I had a fleeting urge to withdraw in to my own grief, the deep compassion I felt for the family outweighed my present need.

    Over the years I’ve attended many funerals of loved ones, young and old. I’ve learned that, for myself, practice does not make it any easier when the next loss occurs. Some losses are more devastating than others, but one is not any easier than another to offer or receive support. 
    I have also learned that we sometimes withdraw from mourners because we simply don’t know what to do or say. Though we understand the mourner’s need for comfort, it is our own discomfort that keeps us at bay. 

    Compassion for our loved ones commits us to walking with them in their pain and suffering — even when it is uncomfortable for us. Staying present to the mourner’s needs takes courage and raw honesty. It is what we as friends and family are called to do. 

    I believe shared grief is a lightened burden. Many times there are no words to offer, but your quiet, consistent presence can be of great comfort to those who mourn. Being with others in their grief may benefit you in your pain as well.

    I thanked my beloved friend’s family for offering the funeral service in which we had the opportunity to share our grief and honor our friend. It was, I told them, a gift to us to be given the opportunity to say good-bye. Though it was a long and difficult day for them, and for all of us, my hope is that they did find consolation in the presence of those who loved their mother, too. After all, even with our differences, we’re all in this together, aren’t we?

    Posted on April 13, 2011, to:

  • What next?

    As I write this, taking in the peaceful sight of the softly falling snow, I ponder what this day has in store for me. What will I accomplish and of what service will I be to others? 

    I must admit, it seems not long ago that the deep and brutal grief over the death of my husband Trent crippled me so that my only thought each morning was not “How can I be of service?” but “How will I survive this day?”

    After learning that Trent had been killed in a car accident and enduring his funeral, I was left, as all bereaved are, to navigate life without my loved one. My life had been turned upside down in a single moment and my compass in life had been broken along with my heart.

    As life pressed on all around me, including the trials and joys of my two preschool-aged daughters, I found myself zapped of energy and faced with an unexpected and swirling cacophony of questions, not the least of which was, “What next?”

    “You’re young,” my well-wishers reminded me in hopes of encouraging me out of my grief, “You’ll soon forget Trent and start a new life.” Oh, how those words rang hollow in my ears. I could not comprehend forgetting Trent or the life we had made together with all its challenges, delights — and future plans. What was I to do now?

    Of course my main objective became how to be the best single mother I could be. Yet even with that, in the depth of my grief, something more profound was calling from within. As I began to face the multifaceted dimensions of my grief I learned that it was okay for me to take quiet time for myself and to ask those difficult, sometimes unfathomable questions. 

    Where was God in all this, I mused? My faith had been shaken to its core. Was this punishment for some ill I had caused? No, I discovered, not punishment, but a lesson in how to grow closer to my Redeemer.

    Who was I now that I was no longer Trent’s wife? Living in a couples’ world brought home the fact that I no longer fit in. The lonely space Trent’s death left in my heart gaped jagged and ever present. 

    How was I to support my family? Trent had been the family’s bread winner, while I stayed home with the girls. How would they fare if I went back to work so soon after losing their father? There were so many questions that only I would be able to discern over time.

    As I processed those questions, I came to realize that Trent’s death had changed me and how I saw the world. Nothing, I learned, would ever be the same. My priorities shifted and the awareness that life truly is fragile and fleeting took shape. Things that once seemed so important before his death held no interest for me now or were no longer relevant. 

    As time progressed and I made my way through the mourning process I began to realize that I wanted to spend my time doing meaningful activities. So, armed with only my faith and the deep abiding love I still held protectively in my heart for the man who had gone before me, I set out to determine my purpose.

    As I ventured out into the world again, I discovered where once I found pleasure in personal achievements and acquiring things, now I looked to deepen my relationships with family and friends. I felt a need to serve — my family, church and community. It didn’t happen over night, but on the painstaking journey I walked, a heightened sense of compassion for others naturally evolved and I began to feel a calling to work with the bereaved. 

    Many of us, after a loss, seek an entirely new life purpose, others a renewal of the passion we held before the death. I know a gentleman who left a high-paying corporate position to direct a nonprofit children’s organization following the sudden death of his father. Another young widow found new passion in presenting educational workshops in her field of nursing. A retired widow found fulfillment in volunteering not only at an area hospital, but also working with flowers, a lifelong passion, at a neighborhood florist.

    Life holds so many questions — and opportunities. As we seek new meaning for our lives after loss, over time hope and healing will open our broken hearts to yet unexplored ventures of purpose and love. We can find fulfillment and new life — and won’t our loved ones be proud!

    Posted on March 16, 2011, to: