Does grief always end in divorce?

"Many couples divorce after losing a child," offered one well-meaning friend after another in the months following our daughter's death in a car accident. I can't help but wonder why people feel compelled to share this with newly grieving parents. Meant to be comforting, it is anything but. Yet hear it, we do. And repeatedly. 

So why is it that two people who love each other until death-do-us-part might find themselves, in the aftermath of a tragedy, in divorce court?  Is it possible for a marriage to survive such devastation? If so, how?

In the immediate days and months after losing a child, both parents are in "the fog." They cling to each other as shock fills their days, and terror fills their nights like a never ending nightmare. The only way to cope with the fog is by relying upon autopilot: our brain is frozen in shock and horror, but our body continues to instinctively go through the daily motions of making dinner, doing laundry, washing dishes. We have to "go on" for the sake of the family. 

Although our body is busy managing everyday tasks, our heart and spirit are in the intensive care unit of Grief United General. Physically, our body keeps functioning. But the simple truth is that on the inside, we're hanging by a thread. And some are very close to needing life support.

In the early days of a loss, family, friends, and neighbors help care for the bereaved. But, as those of us grieving know all too well, intense pain lasts long after the meals stop coming. Further, whether physical or emotional, intense pain is all-consuming, and exhausting. Our entire focus remains on getting through the worst until the next wave hits. 

Now imagine living like this day in and day out for months and months. Just getting through the day is exhausting, leaving very little reserves for anything else, including our marriage.

Add to this the biological fact that men and women are just wired different. As young girls, women learn from older female relatives to talk, share, and discuss. In contrast, boys are often taught to hold feelings in; to "toughen up.” So the coping mechanisms we use during great hardship are vastly different. 

Grieving mothers often seek comfort under the wings of other communicatively nurturing females. Grieving men tend to shut down, preferring instead to find solitary comfort in the garage or escaping in long hours at work. 

And when grief shatters both of us into unrecognizable versions of our former selves, it can be a challenge to find mutually familiar ground again, if ever. 

These conflicting styles can cause a couple to separate from what started out as parallel paths, sometimes leading to a complete and permanent disconnect. 

But grieving parents can find satisfaction, even happiness, in a marriage given time and the right tools. My husband and I are living proof. Since losing our daughter, and through my husband's disabling stroke, a neuropsychologist helped us piece our life back together, and our marriage is stronger than ever. 

I feel that if we can not only survive, but thrive, so can other couples. Is it easy? No. There is nothing easy about losing a child. But with hard work, dedication, and determination, the storm eventually calms down enough to allow the sun to break through.

Bill & Julie Downs

Consider Bill and Julie Downs, who lost their son Brad, their daughter-in-law Samantha, and their son's best friend Chris to a drunk/drugged driver in 2007. Bill and Julie lost not just one loved one, but three in a single moment. 

As many men do, Bill wanted to be strong for Julie. But, in trying to do so, he denied himself the right to process his own emotions until he snapped. One day out of the blue, he told Julie he didn't love her anymore. 

How did they find common ground to repair their once strong marriage? Where are they today? Check out this video of Julie sharing their story on YouTube. Julie's Story. 

Next week we'll interview Bill to hear his side of the journey. 

Once upon a time, it was public perception that a high rate of marriages crumble in the aftermath of losing a child. But this is simply not true. 

Marriage can not only survive in the wake of losing a child, it can thrive. True story.

So next time someone shares baseless divorce statistics with you, ignore the well-meaning comment. Walk the journey together as husband and wife, seek support for you both, and hang tightly to one another as you ride the waves of pain together. 

Mark Twain once said, "Facts are stubborn things, but statistics are pliable." In the face of tragedy, ignore public perception and allow patience, compassion, and tenderness to fill your marriage until solid footing once again takes hold.

Bill & Julie Downs are founders of AVIDD, and co-authors of Grief Diaries: Loss at the Hands of an Impaired Driver, coming out May 30, 2016.

A dream or a premonition?

One night in 2007, I had one of those dreams, the vivid kind you can’t shake. In the dream, I was the front passenger in a car and my daughter Aly was sitting behind the driver. Suddenly, the car missed a curve in the road and flew off into a lake. The driver and I managed to escape the submerged car as it sank, but Aly did not. Desperately flailing through the deep murky water to find my daughter, I failed. She was gone. Aly was gone. The only relic left behind was an open book floating on the water’s surface in the exact spot where my beloved daughter disappeared.

The dream shook me up so much I sought out a psychic to put my fear to rest. And she did, for she didn't see the dream as a premonition or a heads-up from God. To her credit, I believe that she wasn't supposed to see the truth, because I would have quit living right then and there. 

Come 2009, Aly knew something was about to happen. Over that spring and summer, she repeatedly asked me, "Mama, we're always going to be together, right?" I never told her about the dream, but she was very concerned that somehow we would become separated. "Yes, Lovey. We will always be together," I reassured her each time, reveling in the love from my teenage daughter.

On August 5, 2009, my daughter, my third born child, died at age fifteen as a backseat passenger in a car accident. Two years after having that terrible nightmare, it had become my reality.

This summer marks the seventh year without our beloved daughter. But I've never forgotten that dream. But now, because of the book floating on the water's surface over where Aly disappeared, I now believe the dream was a glimpse into a divine plan, something bigger than myself. 

For you see, one morning last summer I woke with the idea of creating a book series for people in need of comfort. Not inspiration. Not instructions. Comfort.  

Not one book, but an entire series sharing peoples stories. 

Not just any stories; their sacred stories sharing the hardest moments of their life. 

Because I need to know others are out there, even if I can't see them.

And thus, this is how the Grief Diaries book series began. 

My idea didn't begin because of an open book floating on the surface where my daughter sank. No. It began following a convention where the power of people sharing their heartfelt losses with one another left me wondering what to do with such sacred stories.

Each story was so powerful, so heartfelt. Imagine what an entire series exploring such journeys would do for those in search of others who wear the same shoes? Yes, that's how Grief Diaries began as a book series. 

But the dream will always stay rooted in my heart. For now I truly believe it was a divine glimpse into something bigger than myself. 

I would give anything to go back in time and hold my beautiful daughter once again, but I cannot. She left this realm and moved on to heaven in order for us to fulfill our part. 

Honestly, some days I still struggle mightily with my loss. But it comforts me greatly to be surrounded by all the Grief Diaries stories. And I find solace in knowing that there is a purpose. A divine plan.  

A plan linking together the hearts of the heartbroken. Including mine.

I Didn't Know

When you died, I didn’t know the pain could be this searing, like a hot blaze burning my soul.

That the depth of despair would be this jagged, like a razor sharp abyss or a bottomless hole.

That the sorrow would be this unspeakable, like an abandoned ballad void of all lyric.

That my family could recover from loss so unbearable, it was simply too hysteric.

I didn’t know that the sorrow would leave me exhausted, without any reserve.

That the world could be blind to my suffering, too uncomfortable to observe.

That it was capable of shattering my world so completely out of the blue.

That the fog was this thick, coating my life like dense viscous glue.

When you died, I didn’t know my heart would break open to bleed like a wound.

That the grief dance was this ugly, like two left feet cemented in gloom.

That I could survive a journey without purpose in view.

That my heart would know smiles and laughter not fake or askew.

I didn’t know that I would embrace a sunrise in all its glory every tomorrow.

Or that my heart would hold joy at the same time as sorrow.

When you died, I didn’t know that your death would propel me into a life full of gratitude and care.

That your death would be this heartbreaking, and compassion for others would be my repair.

Now I know.

-LYNDA CHELDELIN FELL

Just Yesterday

Tomorrow is your birthday.  But just yesterday I could hear your voice, smell your hair, touch your skin.  It's been five years, but the pain still runs deep. So very, very deep.  

They say the pain changes with time.  It hasn't. But I have.  My coping skills are stronger.  I am stronger. I like to think I'm a better person with more compassion, more awareness of the world outside my own.  

But the pain runs deep.  So very, very deep. And the tears still fall, and I need to retreat from time to time to The Wailing Tent where I'm among sisters.  I suppose I always will.  

But most days the sun shines bright, and I am grateful.  Today is not one of those days, though.  I want to tell you happy birthday, but the words just won't come.  I know I'm a few hours early anyway, so maybe the words will come tomorrow.

It feels like yesterday that I could hear your voice, smell your hair, and touch your skin.  I wish it were yesterday.   

The Anniversary

Here it is again.....August 5. That dreaded date on the calendar. As the hot days and warm summer nights of July lazily march forward, August 5 continues to advance on our family with as much foreboding as always. A date when, no matter how busy we force our bodies to be, our minds replay the painful events from that night over and over. Why is August 5 different from all the other painful dates we navigate through each year such as her birthday, Christmas, Mother’s day? For every person in our family, August 5 will forever be a permanent life marker of “before the accident” and “after the accident.” It also serves as a milestone, an unspoken anniversary of our own personal healing. Do I cry less? Smile more? Function better than this time last year? 

On this particular day, in addition to my own pain, I'm fraught with worry over how our remaining three children will cope through the day. I know DJ will seek solace in fishing, Natalie will focus on work and her young son Caleb, and Shaun, I pray, will focus on his next drum corps performance. But what if he falls apart and forgets the choreography in front of a stadium full of fans? What if DJ, too distracted by the grief, falls into the river and drowns? What if Natalie has a meltdown at work, or worse, in front of her young son? These are the additional worries my mind juggles on this day. 

The single most popular piece of advice we hear is that we must move forward, get on with our lives. But those very words grate on our exquisitely sensitive nerves like nails on a chalkboard. For you see, each and every day I work hard to help our family move on by attempting to put the pieces back together. But gluing it back together isn’t as easy, neat or tidy as repairing your favorite mug. Some days the glue is set hard as stone, the mug seemingly appearing whole and good-as-new to the outside world. On the inside however, the glue might inexplicably be wet in spots, soft to the touch, ever threatening to spring a leak without a moment's notice. Even if the glue carefully holds all the pieces in exact position, it will never truly again be a whole vessel, free of blemish or fracture scars, forevermore announcing to the world it once had shattered. 

So you see, August 5 will always remain the one glaring date every year when our family's smooth, colorful, comfortable mug suddenly and violently fractured beyond recognition in 2009. August 5 is, and always will be, our personal day of "before" and "after." 

Yes, I will always hate August 5. But I’m grateful that tomorrow is always just around the corner, bringing promise of a new day full of healing, another day of hope. And for that, I am thankful.