Relief, Loss, and Guilt: A Caregiver's Quarrel

Everyone tells you how hard it will be, or they try. People, myself included, try to warn and prepare others for how it will be to lose a loved one. The grief is immense, and the process is exhausting. The heartbreak is so real. You can’t really explain it to someone who has never been there, but generally, everyone knows it’s such a horrible thing.

Getting used to the absence of a loved one is tough in itself. I remember running the dusty trail toward the hill that leads to my grandmother’s house as a ten-year-old kid. It was part of my daily routine.

One day, shortly after her death, I got to the hilltop before I remembered she wasn’t there. I had held it together really well before then, but in that moment, I broke down. My tears hit the soft, fine dust of our well-worn path sending up the tiniest of smoke signals that no one else would see. The moment was mine alone.

Dealing with grief & guilt

Some people may talk about guilt. People inevitably wish they had done more. Children wish they had never quarreled with their hot-headed parents. They regret arguments and disagreements, and really wish they had always found a way to keep peace. They wish they could have handled everything on their own or kept an ailing parent in their home.

Spouses may wish they had planned better or saved more even though it’s far too late. It’s a very human thing to replay every shared scenario aimlessly looking for solutions that could have made the lives of their loved ones just a bit easier.

Survivors may make it a mission to tell others to let things go or plan ahead. I know I’ve said those things myself.

I deal with a different kind of guilt

What I haven’t spoken of much is a different kind of guilt I have. Daddy fought his hardest battles with his mind and body during the year he lived after his massive brain hemorrhage.

When I was awakened on the night of September 29, 2016 by a phone call from his nursing facility, I knew what it was before they spoke. I knew what the nurse was going to say. I knew he was gone, and I felt the tiniest bit of relief. Of course, I wasn’t relieved he was gone. I was devastated. Devastation and relief aren’t things we think about feeling together, but it happened.

With the first loud exhale, the guilt came. I immediately felt guilty, but the relief was still there. I was relieved he wasn’t hurting anymore. I was relieved he was no longer a prisoner of his own rerouted mind that he didn’t have a map for. I was relieved that he didn’t have to wake up another day away from home. I was relieved that he wouldn’t be upset anymore. I was relieved not to have to worry about him every second of every day.

It sounds selfish. I know. I also know I’m not alone in this one. Consider this a tiny smoke signal. This moment isn’t mine alone, and you’re ok if you feel the same way.