MY STORY
On Sunday, April 25, 1977, my father died by suicide at the age of 48. In an instant, my world was shattered.
My mother was 35. I was 16. My brother was 14. Overnight, we were left emotionally devastated and financially destitute.
I was the only one at home with my father when he died. I pleaded with him not to leave us, but the emotional and physical pain he was living with overruled all of my appeals.
From that evening onward, the person I had been ceased to exist. My faith in the future disappeared. My ability to trust, to hope, and to feel safe was gone. From that point on, nearly every important decision I made came from fear, anxiety, mistrust, and cynicism.
I was unable to form healthy attachments. I developed coping strategies that helped me survive the moment, but did little to help me build a meaningful future. I saw no point in making plans, and I had no aspirations, no motivation, and no real belief that life held anything worth anticipating.
And yet, somehow, I carried on.
Through a fog of emotional numbness, I worked, maintained an emotionally detached social life, and moved robotically through the years. Any possibility of happiness was overshadowed by the fear of losing it, while any hope of attachment was tainted by the expectation of loss. Attempts by others to get close to me were often met with distance and indifference.
Beneath it all, I carried a crushing sense of guilt and shame. I believed that I had failed to save my father and that I had not been important enough for him to stay alive.
Life moved forward, but I did not move forward with it. I moved alongside it reluctantly and suspiciously, more a spectator than a willing participant.
After two years, five years, even seventeen years, I still had no understanding of the concept of lifelong grief or the permanent imprint traumatic loss can leave on a life. Like many grieving people, I convinced myself that I had “handled it all just fine, thank you very much.”
I had not.
My Mother’s Death Reopened Everything
In 1993, my mother was diagnosed with tracheal cancer. I became her sole caregiver and put my own life on hold to care for her throughout her illness. She died seven and a half months later, on March 17, 1994.
After almost eight months of living at the hospital with my mother, I emerged exhausted, isolated, and profoundly changed. And suddenly, as if pulled into a time warp, my father’s suicide and all the trauma that followed became vividly present once again.
Along with my mother’s death came a despair so overwhelming that it felt impossible to imagine life ever being meaningful again.
Although friends and family cared, few were able — or willing — to sit with the depth of my grief. I was met with discomfort, silence, and well-intentioned platitudes. There was no one with whom I could safely share my fear, confusion, frustration, and despair.
I was very much alone.
I wondered whether anyone else had ever experienced losses like mine and felt what I was feeling. I found it extraordinarily difficult to return to any semblance of a normal life. The landscape had changed forever, and so had I.
The Help That Changed My Life
Some time later, I met Dawn Cruchet, a grief specialist in Montreal. Dawn helped me understand what had happened to me. She showed me how to make meaning of my losses and how to live successfully with grief.
Her guidance changed my life.
For the first time, I understood that grief is not something we “get over.” It is something we learn to carry.
I decided then that I wanted to help others in the same way Dawn had helped me. I had found my calling.
Turning Grief Into Purpose
With renewed focus and motivation, I returned to school and earned two degrees and several professional certifications.
I went on to work with patients, families, and healthcare professionals as Cancer Patient Education Coordinator at the Oncology Day Centre of the Royal Victoria Hospital and on the oncology floor of the Montreal General Hospital.
I also volunteered in Palliative Care at Mount Sinai Hospital, facilitated grief, bereavement, and coping skills groups for Hope & Cope at the Jewish General Hospital and Wellness Centre, and maintained a private psychotherapy practice at the Queen Elizabeth Health Complex.
Through my work as a clinician, educator, and volunteer, one truth became unmistakably clear:
There is a profound need for compassionate, knowledgeable grief support.
Far too many grieving people are left to navigate the most painful experiences of their lives alone.
Christina’s Death
Years later, I sat beside my best friend of nearly 45 years as she was dying.
Her father turned to me and said:
“I guess this isn’t such a big deal to you. As a grief counsellor, and having worked in oncology, you must be used to it.”
His words stunned me.
I could barely breathe as I answered:
“No.”
There Is No “Getting Used to It”
I am a lifelong griever
My grief journey began at 16. It began again at 23, 34, 48, 55, and most recently on January 18, 2019, at age 58.
Each time someone we love dies, we begin again.
There is no “getting used to it.”
There is no immunity to loss. There is no professional training that protects us from heartbreak.
I belong to a club I never asked to join, and whose membership never expires.
And still, there is no “getting used to it.”
There is only the painful task of accepting a reality we never wanted and learning, once again, how to live without the person we love and still desperately need.
How do we get used to the absence of the person who shared and safeguarded our memories? Who loved and accepted us even when we could not love and accept ourselves? Who guarded our secrets, made us laugh, and brought adventure and meaning into our lives?
How do we ever get used to knowing we will never again tell them how important they are to us, or how deeply we love and need them?
The truth is that we do not.
What we can do is learn to live with grief with greater understanding, compassion, and meaning. That is the work to which I have devoted my life.
And if you are grieving, please know this:
You do not have to walk this path alone.
On Sunday, April 25, 1977, my father died by suicide at the age of 48. In an instant, my world was shattered.
My mother was 35. I was 16. My brother was 14. Overnight, we were left emotionally devastated and financially destitute.
I was the only one at home with my father when he died. I pleaded with him not to leave us, but the emotional and physical pain he was living with overruled all of my appeals.
From that evening onward, the person I had been ceased to exist. My faith in the future disappeared. My ability to trust, to hope, and to feel safe was gone. From that point on, nearly every important decision I made came from fear, anxiety, mistrust, and cynicism.
I was unable to form healthy attachments. I developed coping strategies that helped me survive the moment, but did little to help me build a meaningful future. I saw no point in making plans, and I had no aspirations, no motivation, and no real belief that life held anything worth anticipating.
And yet, somehow, I carried on.
Through a fog of emotional numbness, I worked, maintained an emotionally detached social life, and moved robotically through the years. Any possibility of happiness was overshadowed by the fear of losing it, while any hope of attachment was tainted by the expectation of loss. Attempts by others to get close to me were often met with distance and indifference.
Beneath it all, I carried a crushing sense of guilt and shame. I believed that I had failed to save my father and that I had not been important enough for him to stay alive.
Life moved forward, but I did not move forward with it. I moved alongside it reluctantly and suspiciously, more a spectator than a willing participant.
After two years, five years, even seventeen years, I still had no understanding of the concept of lifelong grief or the permanent imprint traumatic loss can leave on a life. Like many grieving people, I convinced myself that I had “handled it all just fine, thank you very much.”
I had not.
My Mother’s Death Reopened Everything
In 1993, my mother was diagnosed with tracheal cancer. I became her sole caregiver and put my own life on hold to care for her throughout her illness. She died seven and a half months later, on March 17, 1994.
After almost eight months of living at the hospital with my mother, I emerged exhausted, isolated, and profoundly changed. And suddenly, as if pulled into a time warp, my father’s suicide and all the trauma that followed became vividly present once again.
Along with my mother’s death came a despair so overwhelming that it felt impossible to imagine life ever being meaningful again.
Although friends and family cared, few were able — or willing — to sit with the depth of my grief. I was met with discomfort, silence, and well-intentioned platitudes. There was no one with whom I could safely share my fear, confusion, frustration, and despair.
I was very much alone.
I wondered whether anyone else had ever experienced losses like mine and felt what I was feeling. I found it extraordinarily difficult to return to any semblance of a normal life. The landscape had changed forever, and so had I.
The Help That Changed My Life
Some time later, I met Dawn Cruchet, a grief specialist in Montreal. Dawn helped me understand what had happened to me. She showed me how to make meaning of my losses and how to live successfully with grief.
Her guidance changed my life.
For the first time, I understood that grief is not something we “get over.” It is something we learn to carry.
I decided then that I wanted to help others in the same way Dawn had helped me. I had found my calling.
Turning Grief Into Purpose
With renewed focus and motivation, I returned to school and earned two degrees and several professional certifications.
I went on to work with patients, families, and healthcare professionals as Cancer Patient Education Coordinator at the Oncology Day Centre of the Royal Victoria Hospital and on the oncology floor of the Montreal General Hospital.
I also volunteered in Palliative Care at Mount Sinai Hospital, facilitated grief, bereavement, and coping skills groups for Hope & Cope at the Jewish General Hospital and Wellness Centre, and maintained a private psychotherapy practice at the Queen Elizabeth Health Complex.
Through my work as a clinician, educator, and volunteer, one truth became unmistakably clear:
There is a profound need for compassionate, knowledgeable grief support.
Far too many grieving people are left to navigate the most painful experiences of their lives alone.
Christina’s Death
Years later, I sat beside my best friend of nearly 45 years as she was dying.
Her father turned to me and said:
“I guess this isn’t such a big deal to you. As a grief counsellor, and having worked in oncology, you must be used to it.”
His words stunned me.
I could barely breathe as I answered:
“No.”
There Is No “Getting Used to It”
I am a lifelong griever
My grief journey began at 16. It began again at 23, 34, 48, 55, and most recently on January 18, 2019, at age 58.
Each time someone we love dies, we begin again.
There is no “getting used to it.”
There is no immunity to loss. There is no professional training that protects us from heartbreak.
I belong to a club I never asked to join, and whose membership never expires.
And still, there is no “getting used to it.”
There is only the painful task of accepting a reality we never wanted and learning, once again, how to live without the person we love and still desperately need.
How do we get used to the absence of the person who shared and safeguarded our memories? Who loved and accepted us even when we could not love and accept ourselves? Who guarded our secrets, made us laugh, and brought adventure and meaning into our lives?
How do we ever get used to knowing we will never again tell them how important they are to us, or how deeply we love and need them?
The truth is that we do not.
What we can do is learn to live with grief with greater understanding, compassion, and meaning. That is the work to which I have devoted my life.
And if you are grieving, please know this:
You do not have to walk this path alone.