Self-care and social ties can help, says the University of British Columbia.
Everyone is allowed to have a bad day. Actually, even two.
I hear this same deeply unsettling story again and again from women who experience loss. Women who are left with a profound sense of loneliness and isolation. So, let's talk. If you know someone who has experienced a miscarriage, later pregnancy or infant loss, here are three things you should do.
For anyone who's lost a pet, the heartache is significant and can last a long time. Feelings of grief can cause mental distraction, loss of appetite, bouts of extreme sadness and even lasting depression. Why, then, are we expected to get back to work after the loss of a pet without being allowed to take time off?
This is death. This is the heartbreak that inevitably comes for all of us when we open our hearts to receive love from another sentient being. From someone we showered with affection from the moment we first met. From someone who shared so much of our joys, sorrows, and laughter, and was ever supportive of us, unconditionally. From someone who we will miss with every fibre of our being from this moment on.
The past 11 and a half years have taught me more than my life PM (pre-mommy). I have learnt to nurture and raise my children without my own mother to come care for us when we're sick, watch the kids if we want to go out, or simply call to ask the most mundane of parenting question.
In 2013, my mother died. The moment when the doctors asked me to "pull the plug," I knew my life would never again be the same. Her death hasn't addressed any questions or fears I had about dying, but it's given me new insights on how to move forward with life.
I've learned that when you want to support someone who's critically ill, loving them isn't enough; you have to meet them where they are. That means letting go of your wishful thinking, your denial, or your selfish need to put a positive spin on things and allowing the other person -- the one who's dying -- to set the tone.
Recently, a friend asked me if I could help a neighbor whose life had fallen apart. I have the bittersweet reputation of being someone who's lived through some soul-shattering events and has managed to stay vertical, so she thought I might be able to offer some comfort and advice.
When I was 25-years-old and early on in my medical training, I got a phone call from my mom one day. With no preamble, she blurted out, "She's gone!" At first, I didn't know who mom was talking about. Then she said the name. It was Esther, my infant niece.