Grieving isn't new for me, and it's been a long, long road -- this journey of saying goodbye to my father. Ronald Reagan called his Alzheimers the "long goodbye", and he was right. Since the day my mom called to tell me the news six years ago, it's been an incredibly difficult, painful but often beautiful experience.
I no longer took for granted the waking up every morning of myself, my husband, my children. If my sister could die, so could one of them.
If Shakespeare were alive today, it's likely that he would be writing very differently about the experience of aging, time, and death. People live longer and, at least in developed countries, are in far better mental and physical health than they were in Elizabethan England.
One of the greatest lessons in life is that everything is impermanent. All things come and go. We live in such a structured society, where everything is broken down into steps or organized in a rational way. But there is no rationalizing grief.
Going back to school is a tough time for bereaved parents and siblings. Leaving the familiar and going to a new experience or even going back to a setting or school one has already attended can be tough.
Death, dying, and grieving brings up fear and anxiety for many children and adults. Sometimes adults aren't sure how to talk about death, or, in this case, suicide with their children and the children in their lives.
I think we can all agree that none of us have managed to uncover the secrets of life and death here on the earthly plane. We really don't know, on thi...
She was born Betty Joan Perske in the Bronx in 1924 to two Jewish immigrants. She was immortalized as "Lauren Bacall" for her smoky voice, come-hither looks, flirtatious wit.
e can complain, we can grieve, we can mourn, we can avoid. We will sustain loss nonetheless. If we can take anything away from loss, it is that loss, like all of life, presents us with choices.
Like so many others, I have struggled this week with the many stories of death and human tragedy that have been flooding my social media feeds.
We feel pain when a celebrity dies, not because of their celebrity, but because we feel like we know them through their work. It's like a friend has died, or multiple friends. In the case of Robin Williams, some of our very best friends.
None of my own experiences combined with what I know of my father's life make me think any less of a person who chooses suicide. In this week of unhappy reflection, I've found myself repeating that phrase a lot. Who are any of us to understand what pain another is going through, or to what depths?
Professional and material rewards blind society to those who need help. We equate a great resume and large bank account with happiness. Casual observers don't register anything wrong; sufferers are too conflicted about the emptiness they feel.
The world is in shock over Robin Williams' death. It's hard to believe he committed suicide. Or, is it? The brilliant actor and comedian candidly disc...
I will never understand death. I will never know the intricacies of how it works. I don't know who will die next, and whether it will be someone who I'm close with or someone I barely know or have never met.
Before I was diagnosed with an eating disorder and spent time in treatment with people facing all sorts of affliction, I, too, was one of those people who thought mental illness only happened to those people.