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Archive for Loss and Mourning

Parenting is a Journey, Not a Destination

Posted on November 15, 2018
by Lisa Marchiano, LCSW
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As my previously delightful daughter became sullen, surly, and withdrawn as she approached adolescence, I asked an older and wiser friend if the fun part of parenting lasted only a scant dozen years, and then was all downhill. Her response was elucidating. “It’s hard for a few years when they’re teens,” she said. “And then they start doing things that make you proud of them.”

Thankfully, my own kids are passing through the difficult teen years, and they are indeed beginning to do things that amaze me and make me proud. I can imagine how delightful it will be to see them spread their wings in young adulthood and begin to live their own lives.

Yet I know there is no guarantee that I will continue to feel pride or pleasure in my kids once they are adults.

Although we rarely speak about such things in our culture, it can’t be taken for granted that a relationship with our adult children will be mutually satisfying. Indeed, research suggests that tensions between adult children and their parents are the norm. This research corroborates my own experience as a therapist.

In some cases, adult children and their parents become estranged. Estrangement is often initiated by the adult child. This can be a bewildering experience for a parent. In other cases, adult children may struggle with addiction or serious mental health issues. In many cases, such struggles may extend the caretaking period, as parents help adult children navigate these difficulties. Both estrangement and mental health issues are extreme cases where the relationship with the adult child may be a difficult or fraught one.

In addition to these more serious concerns, many relationships with adult children may suffer for more mundane reasons. Our child marries someone whom we don’t respect, or have difficulty getting along with. Or perhaps he espouses values that are inimical to ours, and we find ourselves feeling disappointed or distant. Perhaps our adult daughter makes one poor decision after another, and then inconsiderately expects us to bail her out.

It can be lonely and confusing to find ourselves disappointed, frustrated, or angry with our adult children on a regular basis. And yet it isn’t uncommon. Some parents of adult children take these vicissitudes in stride, accepting what is good in the relationship, without burdening their children with their disappointments. For others though, learning to let go of bright expectations for that relationship can be more difficult. Some parents have a hard time releasing their children to their own fate, allowing them to live their life even though it is not the one they would have wanted for them.

Stan and his wife Alison had adopted Meghan at birth after finding that they were unable to conceive. Meghan seemed like the answer to their prayers when she arrived, and Stan tells me that she was always an easy-going and pleasant child. But as Meghan finished college and set out on her own, tensions increased. Stan and Alison are highly educated, and value scholarship and knowledge. Meghan was not particularly studious, and struggled throughout high school and college. Stan and Alison had always hoped that Meghan would go on for a PhD or at least a master’s, but that was not a goal that made sense to her. When Meghan became a nursery school teacher, Stan had to manage his disappointment that his daughter’s career trajectory would be very different than the one he imagined for her.

Stan did eventually come to terms with this disappointment, but as he and his wife aged, a new unmet expectation surfaced. In my work with Stan, it became clear that there had always been an unconscious assumption that Meghan would bring meaning to his and Alison’s life. They were quite demanding of her, expecting her to spend much time visiting them, and hoping to see their own worth and value reflected back to them in Meghan’s choices as well as her loving care of them. Meghan, of course, could not live up to these super human expectations. As Stan and Alison put increasing pressure on her, she began to try to distance herself from them.

In his work with me, Stan was able eventually to identify the unrealistic hopes he had pinned on his daughter. He came to see how he had unconsciously assumed that being a parent would assuage all kinds of desires, and make up for many previous hurts and disappointments. A turning point in our work occurred when Stan was able to identify that parenting Meghan had indeed been the most meaningful thing he had ever done, even though Meghan herself could not be the source of all meaning and purpose in his life.

Together we arrived at the image of a sand mandala, a beautiful, intricate creation that takes hours and hours of work, only to be swept away upon completion. He arrived at a new sense of satisfaction when he began to appreciate that he had been the very best father he could have been. With me, he reviewed the parts of parenting Meghan that had been most meaningful and pleasurable to him. Knowing that he had shared these moments with her, and given the best of himself to this important project became enough for him. He no longer needed the adult Meghan to be the ongoing source of meaning in his life.

In time, the new attitude he brought to relationship allowed father and daughter to find new footing together. The new relationship did not live up to the picture that Stan had once had, but it had its own unique pleasures.

Stan’s reappraisal of his parenting experience and his relationship with his adult daughter calls to mind for me the poem Ithaka by Constantin Cavafy. The poem encourages us to find joy in the journey, rather than the goal – advice parents would be wise to take to heart.

Have Ithaka always in your mind.
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But don't in the least hurry the journey.
Better it last for years,
so that when you reach the island you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.
Ithaka gave you a splendid journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She hasn't anything else to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka hasn't deceived you.
So wise you have become, of such experience,
that already you'll have understood what these Ithakas mean.

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Article

When Motherhood Defeats Us

Posted on August 3, 2017
by Lisa Marchiano, LCSW
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It is a human need to experience ourselves as competent. When we are mothering children, whether we feel competent can play a significant role in determining how satisfying we find this role. While some women come by a sense of competence easily after becoming a mother, others may have a more difficult time. Some women find the infant and baby stage easy, but feel at a loss when their child becomes a toddler. Others may not feel as though they hit their stride until their child is older.

Whatever our initial experience of motherhood may be, it is undeniably true that we will face defeat again and again as we parent our children. Some defeats are small – we throw up our hands and give up on trying to switch from white to whole wheat pasta. Other defeats carry grave and permanent consequences that alter the shape of our lives.

An Algonquin tale illustrates how we are defeated by motherhood, and gives us an idea of how we might grow from this experience

Glooscap and the Baby

Glooscap was the mighty hero of the Algonquin people. He had conquered a race of giants, and cunning sorcerers, wicked spirits, fiends, cannibals, and witches. He boasted that there was nothing left for him to defeat.

But an old woman laughed. “Are you so sure, oh Great One? There is one adversary who remains unsubdued, and no one can conquer him.”

Dismayed, Glooscap asked the name of this foe.

“His name is Wasis, but I advise you not to have any dealings with him!”

Wasis was a little baby who sat on the floor sucking a piece of maple candy and cooing to himself as he slobbered. Glooscap had never married, and had no idea how children were to be managed, but he was very confident that, if he could handle a race of giants, and a pack of witches, and some cannibals, he would make out just fine with one small baby.

He smiled at the child. “Come here, Wasis!” said the great Glooscap.

The baby smiled back, but didn’t move. Glooscap tried to coax the child by imitating a beautiful birdsong. Then he motioned again for the baby to come to him. Wasis laughed in delight, but still did not do as he was commanded. He just went on sucking on his candy.

Now Glooscap worked himself in a terrible rage. He was not used to being defied in this way! He shouted angrily at Wasis, demanding that he okay, but this only made the child erupt in deafening wails that were so loud and distracting, Glooscap could barely hear himself.

Then the mighty warrior summoned all his great powers. He recited all the magical incantations he knew, and recited all of the most powerful prayers. But Wasis just sat and sniffled a little.

Finally, Glooscap rushed from the hut in utter defeat, while Wasis the baby went back to cooing. 

For women who may have lived heroically before becoming having kids, motherhood can pose special challenges. If we have defeated the giants and witches of academic or professional challenges, we may be very used to feeling competent. For some women who fit this description, having a baby can indeed mean finally meeting their match.

Defeat

My client Aimee was a successful attorney. When she became pregnant with her first child, she was excited to become a mom. She shared that she wasn’t particularly worried about juggling parenting and work, because she had identified a trustworthy nanny, and her husband had a flexible schedule.  She first came to see me a few months after her daughter was born.

Aimee had a difficult birth, and healing from it took many weeks. She hadn’t expected that labor would carry such lingering physical difficulties. She was also unprepared for how all-engrossing caring for a newborn would be. Her physical difficulties, sleeplessness, and postpartum hormonal soup left her profoundly disoriented. Though she had hoped to go back to work after six weeks, she found that wasn’t possible. This significant defeat caused her to re-evaluate assumptions about herself and her life she had long taken for granted.

For Aimee, the reality of motherhood and birth was a significant defeat for that part of her determined that life should go on as before. She had to admit that things would never be the same for her. This admission opened her up to question values previously taken for granted. It gave her a chance to re-evaluate her priorities and engage with aspects of herself that had long been neglected.

Aimee did return to work eventually, though she admits she is a different person now than before her daughter was born. Though she did lose aspects of herself, she gained others.

“I have a broader perspective now. I think I am more accepting and understanding of the people I manage. Overall, I think I’m a better lawyer now because of this.”

Photo by Tim Bish on Unsplash

Originally published on PsychCentral.com.

Article

Childhood’s Impermanence

Posted on April 29, 2017
by Lisa Marchiano, LCSW
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I was doing some spring cleaning in the yard last week, when I found a small plastic T. Rex. He was somewhat muddied, but otherwise showed no signs of significant wear from his decade long exile from the toy box, and even retained his fearsome posture.

Finding him immediately swept me back to the days when dinosaurs regularly roamed the backyard, and a little knot of pain grew in my chest.

Every year in April, the Japanese mark the blossoming of the cherry trees. Many American cities now host cherry blossom festivals of their own. The blossoms peak for a brief few days before falling to the ground in a rain of petals. The ephemeral nature of the cherry blossom’s beauty is symbolic of the Japanese concept of mono no aware, which roughly means an awareness of life’s impermanence.

If you are a parent, you don’t need cherry blossoms to remind you of life’s impermanence.

There are many fairy tales that capture the gentle sadness we feel as we watch our children’s fleeting childhoods speed past. The European tale “Snowflake” tells the story of a childless couple who craft for themselves a child out of snow. To their surprise, she comes to life. She grows quickly until she looks to be about 12 or 13, and of course she is extraordinarily beautiful. As the days lengthen and summer comes, Snowflake grows sad and wistful. On Mid Summer’s Eve, a group of girls from the village ask Snowflake to join them in their revels. They take turns leaping over a bonfire. When Snowflake’s turn comes, she disappears with a slight hiss just at the moment she leaps over the fire.

Buddhism teaches that impermanence is an essential feature of existence. Everything about our lives is in a constant state of coming into being, growing, and then declining, decaying, and dying. If we have been able to avoid direct knowledge of this before becoming parents, motherhood will certainly show us this truth.

Like the muddy T. Rex, material objects can take on significance as if they embody the essence of the moments with which they are associated. I remember sorting through my baby daughter’s clothes every few months, removing the tiny outfits that no longer fit to make room for larger things. Little baby outfits outgrown, like so many cherry blossom petals falling. It was always wrenching.

Sitting with the melancholy of impermanence can be hard. Most of us have an impulse to hold onto those sweet, transient moments. A Japanese fairy tale called “Princess Moonbeam” is another that features a child magically given to a barren couple. As her name implies, Princess Moonbeam is really the daughter of the moon mother, and must return there one day. Moonbeam’s parents beg her to stay, and the emperor threatens to shoot the moon’s messengers who have come to take her home.

When they loose their arrows, they are turned to stone. We can’t hold on forever. Trying only results in life feeling deadened and stultified.

Originally published on PsychCentral.com.

Article

Mothering’s Hidden Masterpiece

Posted on March 16, 2017
by Lisa Marchiano, LCSW
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In the car on the way to her music lesson, my fourteen-year-old daughter is surly, withdrawn, and irritable. When she is like this, I am careful not to fill the space with anxious chatter, and so these car rides are often silent.

On a recent such drive, I searched out a memory of a similar mother daughter car ride to dance class when I was fourteen. (“You Light up My Life” was often on the FM car radio that year.) Was I surly and irritable with my mother? I probably was, but what I recollect is that my mother was often angry during these trips, and frequently spent them complaining bitterly to me about how inconvenienced and downtrodden she was.

My daughter has it way better than I did!  I found myself thinking. Doesn’t she realize this?

But then I reached further back into time and recalled what I knew about my mother’s adolescence. She had a childhood had been marked by poverty and abuse. She may have fussed about having to drive me to dance class, but she was also consistently warm and loving. Clearly, she had grappled with demons and did a much better job of parenting me than her own parents had done parenting her. And I couldn’t fully appreciate that at the time.

Back to the present-day car ride to my daughter’s music lesson. (Marina and the Diamonds is being played via her iphone.) She can’t know that I too have worked to heal the relatively minor wounds I sustained during childhood so that I could be an even better parent than my mom. She sits in the passenger seat, sighing audibly, exuding dissatisfaction and contempt.

There is a legend about a master sculptor working on one of the great cathedrals in medieval France. He spent hours and hours carefully carving the intricate folds of a gown on the back of a statue of Mary. Someone asked him why he bothered to take such care, when no one would ever see the back of the carving. The sculptor replied that God would see it.

My mother’s psychological work was unseen and unappreciated by me, and yet it had a tremendous effect on my life. Her efforts allowed me to have a richer, more solid foundation from which to live and parent. In other words, in some sense, her work was invisible, but by no means unimportant.

I like to imagine a car ride 30 years or so from now with yet another mother daughter pair. If that fourteen-year-old is huffy and peevish, will my daughter remember our car rides? Will she remember with gratitude my patient silence in the face of her prickliness?

Maybe she will, but it doesn’t matter. My careful attention to our imperfect relationship will likely be good enough to set her upon her own path. Whether she ever acknowledges this or not, I can feel satisfaction in the work I’ve done.

Originally published on PsychCentral.com.

Article

The Last Baby

Posted on March 10, 2017
by Lisa Marchiano, LCSW
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I wanted a third baby. My youngest was just graduating from baby to toddler. My oldest was fast approaching school age. They were beautiful, funny, adorable, consuming, exasperating, and exhausting. For great chunks of every day, I wondered how I would survive until bedtime. I hungered for sleep and time to myself. Just as fiercely, I wanted those days to last. Their childhoods seemed like a swiftly flowing river that rushed away from me toward the future too quickly.

Having a third child didn’t make practical sense. I was anxious to finish my training as a Jungian analyst and build my practice. My husband and I were both on the far side of 35. A third child would have meant more years devoted to childcare, more money to be saved for college, more expenses generally. If my husband had been game, I would have rushed to create a new life. I would have done so impulsively, recklessly, pushing aside the practical concerns. I wanted another little one to hold and nurse. I wanted to extend my years parenting. I wanted a larger family.

I wasn’t ready to be done. If there was a new baby on the horizon, there was more life ahead. Never mind that I was nearing midlife. A third child would allow to suspend myself for a few brief years in the extended youth that pregnancy and nursing bring. It was as if the baby’s newness would rub off on me, rejuvenating me for a year or two before leaving me even further aged. On the other hand, to declare myself done was to round life’s corner and see ahead the long home stretch. I would be conceding to life’s inexorable onward rush toward my own aging and eventual death.

The matter came to a head both symbolically and concretely when we were cleaning. What should we do with all those precious baby outfits now folded and stored away? When we took them out, they surprised me by their impossible smallness. Each one brought back a cascade of memories, painful and bright. I remembered her in that outfit. I could see him again as he was when he wore that shirt. The promise of another little one wearing these precious little clothes meant that I could put off saying goodbye to them. I wouldn’t have to decide which to give away, and which to pack carefully like ephemeral treasures, guarding against the ravages of dry rot. At least, not yet.

There is a curious part of the myth of Demeter and Persephone that says something about our reluctance to let go. Demeter had searched in grief for her daughter. At last, disguised as an old woman, she took a job as nurse maid to a royal family in Eleusis that had a small son, Demophoon. Demeter decided that she would render him immortal by burning him in the fire each night. She was most of the way through the procedure when the child’s mother Metanira walked in on her one evening, and saw her son banked like a log in the fire. Of course, she screamed, interrupting the goddess, who became angry and suddenly revealed herself in all her glory. Demophoon remained an ordinary mortal.

Demeter was inconsolable over the loss of her daughter. (Was Persephone really abducted? Or did it just seem that way to a mom who wasn’t ever going to be ready for her daughter to leave her and start her own family?) She ccouldn’t quite bring herself to accept and mourn her loss, and so distracted herself by caring for another baby. She planned to make sure the same thing didn’t happen a second time. She wanted to make sure time couldn’t take this second child away from her.

Metanira’s interruption was of course a happy accident. We all must accept the ordinary human fate – for ourselves and our children. Refusing to do so results in stagnation.

Eventually, there is always a last baby, whether it is the first or the fifth. With a heave of primal sorrow, we turn to see that part of our lives receding swiftly into the past. The mourning cannot be deferred any longer. Whether we let ourselves feel it as the infant toys go out to the curb, or whether we steel ourselves against it until the day they leave for college, grief is present from the very beginning, and never really leaves us.

Originally published on PsychCentral.com.

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