When the Casseroles Stop

      Six Costco rotisserie chickens* lined the counter, waiting to be nestled alongside the bounty of casseroles in the refrigerator. The volume of food that poured into our house during the first few weeks after my late husband passed away was a tremendous demonstration of love and support. Phone calls, cards of condolence, and beautifully arranged flowers served as tangible testaments to the pain of our unexpected loss. The world took a pause to acknowledge Bob.

    As is typical, the calendar’s pages continued to advance and the abundance of support faded. Naturally, other people’s experiences with the loss of my husband did not impact their lives as directly as it did mine and those of my four little ones. As they returned to their work and vacations, the devastation around me began to slowly settle into the shape of “what life was going to be like without Bob forever.” Finding support had to turn from passive receiving to active reaching out. For me, this was a monumental effort while I was overwhelmed with shock and grief, simply trying to get through the day.

Onboarding

    The first few months after Bob’s passing felt very strange. I distinctly remember being in Target one day and observing the hustle and bustle of all the other people. It was as if I was an apparition spectating another world that did not make sense. They were happy and goal oriented, exuding energy and purpose. I was immobilized in shock and disbelief, functioning in a slow zombie mode, as if the beating of my heart was eighty times slower than theirs. It was surreal. Clinically, we call this derealization, the brain’s way of buffering a reality that is too sharp to process all at once. 

    A few weeks after Bob passed, it was time for my girls to go back to school. Trying to resume a normal life was like entering a river with a very swift current. I was being pulled along at a pace much quicker than my mind and body needed to go. Life was back to normal, but I was not. I had to find a way to reintegrate with it on its own terms.
 

    Our social support drifted during this time. Friends and family members were not indifferent, they just had their own lives to manage. I knew it was not abandonment. I realized that I had to figure things out on my own. Even if people listened, I was the ultimate decision maker for all the decisions and responsibilities to keep my ship from sinking.  Giving myself permission to not show up in the ways I had before Bob’s passing was honoring grief and the massive adjustment our lives needed to make.  Although it hurt, I dropped all my volunteer commitments, reduced my expectations for all the daily to-do’s, and focused on the basics of survival.

Finding Support in Therapy
 

    During the days when the world went back to its routine, I was left with an invisible, gaping emotional wound. About six months after Bob passed, I began therapy. It was a much needed vent for the turmoil inside of me. Allowing myself to be authentic about my experience with an unrelated third party helped me process the ways that my husband’s death was affecting me. Witnessing the devastating impact of the loss in the safety of therapy was vital. I could not exhaust my therapist.

    My therapist did not judge me or have unrealistic expectations for what my life should look like. She sat with me in my reality and helped me integrate coping structures that built a scaffolding for my life. She gave me permission to call my situation what it was and not minimize my needs or feelings to make other people feel better about my progress. There were no silver linings that could wedge me out of my reality.

Grief Support Group
 

    Being widowed in my thirties, no one in my circle of friends and family knew firsthand how such a loss impacted me. Thankfully, no one had gone through a similar experience. Although I knew they loved me, it was very difficult for those closest to me to empathize or understand how ferociously my entire life had been torn apart. Oftentimes they did not know what to say and did not understand how long the process of adjusting and recalibrating would take. It was difficult on both sides.

    Attending a weekly widow support group with people who understood gave me a grip on the handlebars of my wild ride of grief. Hearing their stories provided me with objective hope that someday, just like them, I would get the hang of things and function again. Instead of feeling like I was losing my mind, I learned that all the discomfort and adjustments were temporary, universal, necessary, and normal. In spite of how I felt, I was not irreparably broken in the wobbly walk of grief.

    It becomes exhausting sometimes to be the only person in a room who is actively mourning. You observe the levity that others are experiencing while you are silently trying not to be a burden. Your mind is not altogether present, although no one sees behind the brave mask you put on. It takes a lot of emotional energy to integrate into an unfazed world as best as you can. Being in a support group among others who understand your loss (child loss support group, cancer loss support group, spousal loss, etc.), and having a community with those whom you do not have to explain your experiences can feel very supportive and validating. There is a silent understanding because they walk with that weight every day, too. I felt relieved.

Building Supports

    Even if they cannot fully empathize, if you’re fortunate, there will be a handful of people in your life who say that you can call them anytime. Even if I did not call them, just knowing that there were genuine people in my life who cared enough to be there if I needed them made me feel less isolated. They may not be able to give answers or provide practical support, but they cared. I imagined it was like engaging in open water swimming. They were the spotters in the kayaks paddling nearby on my journey. They could not swim the event for me, but they could encourage and listen, which helped me sustain my efforts.

When the World Feels Too Much
 

    Tell your friends and family very specifically how they can help you. For example, let them know that the evening hours are difficult and you would appreciate being able to talk for a few minutes to get through it. Sometimes you think you are burdening others, but if they have offered support, do not overthink it. Just open yourself up to their helping hands, even if it’s only with something small. Isolation does not help with prolonged grief disorder.  It can feel like a shield, but it often makes the burden harder over time.
 

    When you’re ready to return to the office, verbalize to your coworkers that you find it difficult to focus sometimes so they understand why you are not your typical self. They can write things down or know that you need to because half of your brain is literally offline. Even though you are grieving, they do not know what is going on inside your very occupied mind. Clear communication acts as a sturdy bridge over the widening chasm between your experience and their perception.
 

    The reality is that most people are not equipped to support you for the marathon of prolonged grief. Their withdrawal is natural and a predictable part of the social cycle of loss, not a personal slight. By acknowledging this shift as a standard turning point, you can prevent yourself from spiraling into a narrative of being unloved or forgotten. It is simply the moment the world returns to its axis while yours is still spinning.
 

    You might start to wonder why you are not farther along in your grief journey than you think you should be. A sense of deep shame deceptively tells you that you are failing or are not strong. Prolonged grief disorder is a complex response and when the social support dwindles, your inner dialogue must become louder and kinder to compensate for the silence outside. You must become your own compassionate advocate and witness. Remind yourself that a calendar is not a measuring tool for healing. Allow yourself the grace to be unproductive, sad and angry that the world kept spinning when yours stopped entirely. If you’re the kind of person who “does” and “fixes,” being unproductive may feel like a threat, but survival is the highest form of productivity there is.
 

    Especially in the cases of traumatic loss, the world ceases to feel safe. The sudden death of a loved one rips the fabric that held our lives together. By taking control of parts of your life, you can increase your sense of agency, safety, and predictability. Scheduling helps you to realize that while the world has changed, you still have some control over your immediate environment. This is a must for your nervous system as it will be hyperactive in the fight or flight position for some time.
 

    In addition, lowering the bar for your expectations is a form of radical self-compassion.  If the only things you accomplished today were staying hydrated and changing the laundry, let that be good enough. The pressure to perform wellness in front of others is gone now that the support has faded, so, in your privacy, you can be as messy as you need to be. Success is measured by survival and small acts of self care rather than productivity or social reengagement. A win looks more like brushing your teeth and eating something with protein rather than attending a family reunion with gusto.
 

    Loss can be all consuming at times, and what feels like five minutes can actually be forty five. Intentionally creating small and manageable rituals can help you provide a sense of structure and ensure the necessary things get done. Pick a specific time to do something small, such as sitting on the porch at the same time every morning, getting the mail, or watering your plants. Without a bit of framework, days can blend into an indistinguishable mass of unending sorrowful hours.
  

  When other people are around you, they remind you to eat and drink. Grief is a physical experience, not just purely emotional, affecting everything from your sleep patterns and immune system to your gastrointestinal system and your heart. Negotiating life during this time requires a disciplined approach to wellness to ensure you are on top of basic maintenance. Hydration, nutrition, movement, and rest are essential because without this foundation, the emotional weight becomes almost impossible to carry. Treat your body like a small child or a wounded animal that needs gentle and consistent care. Self-care is compassionate care.
    

     Social media can be a very toxic environment. When you are grieving and everyone else is posting reels of their fun vacations and family moments, it can be very provoking. It is perfectly acceptable to mute or unfollow social media accounts that trigger feelings of isolation. Your digital world should be a sanctuary rather than a source of comparison. It is also okay to take a break or disengage from social media altogether.

It Is A Lot
 

    The cumulative layers of loss and change that come with prolonged grief disorder are overwhelming. You do not have to have all the answers right now. You only have to make it through today. Tomorrow will have its own matters to attend to, and you will be a little more experienced then. 

    Trust in your ability to adapt, even if the adaptation feels like breaking. From the breaks, something new and resilient is growing. This is the slow, quiet, and often lonely unfolding of the heart. Grief is not a task to be finished, but a new world to orient to. In time, long after the casseroles have stopped, you will gain coping skills and new belief systems that allow you to negotiate a world with this tremendous loss.

*In case you need some more ideas of what to do with all that chicken, I have a really great recipe for Italian Wedding Soup that I'd be happy to share with you. 😊

Disclaimer:  This article is not intended to be a substitute for therapy.  It’s for informational purposes only.  If you or a loved one are struggling with Prolonged Grief Disorder, please reach out.  You are not alone.