Put on Your Own Oxygen Mask Before Assisting Others

In anticipation for a trip I took recently I employed a technique I often use when packing. Visualization. As a self confessed over packer, I have been trying to bring only that which I will actually use. In this process, as I was imagining all the things I’d need to pack for the kids on the plane, I heard these familiar words in my head:

“Put on your own oxygen mask before assisting others.”

Then POW, a realization hit me…

After your child dies, your first responsibility is your own grief. Work through it, cry it out, mourn in the way that is authentic to you, read books, go on long walks, scream into a pillow, talk with a friend – whatever you need for however long feels right. Then, and only you will know when, you will be ready to support others in their grief.

I remember wasting so much energy after Zachary died worrying about how my husband was grieving. It was frustrating because I didn’t understand his behaviour. ‘It would be much easier if men and women grieved in the same way,’ I had reasoned, ‘then I would know how to help Aaron.’ But just like me, he needed the space and freedom to process our new life in his own way and at his own pace.

In the particularly difficult year after Zachary died many times Aaron and I would end up arguing because I wanted to help him but he seemed closed off – which only caused me to try harder to pry my way in so we could commiserate together. But that was not what he needed. I love Aaron so much and that is why I wanted to share our sorrow and be there for him in his struggle, but he had his own needs at that time that were unique from mine.

We all grieve differently and need the time and space to figure out what that looks like and how to move forward. Some people figure out these things in isolation, others through talking. There is no one way or one right way. Yet from my experience, a helpful guiding principle is to focus first on your own grief and then assist others.  

As our family took the trip I had packed for not long ago, I looked out the window to the world below. The dividing lines between farmers’ fields grew faintly visible until the plane carried us into the clouds and then up into a brilliant blue sky. Looking down on the world, everything seemed small, quiet and simple.

While in the midst of life things rarely seem small, quiet and simple. It’s helpful to rise above our circumstances every so often to appreciate a change in vantage point on our own unique experience of loss.