Is There a Hierarchy to Grief?

In the years before my mother died, I would have answered such a question with an unequivocal yes—losing a child would be much harder than losing a parent; losing a spouse would be way worse than losing a friend.

But during the final weeks of my mother's life, I began to question that assumption. In fact, I found myself growing irrationally angry when people—with the best of intentions—would say things like “Well, she lived a full life,” or, “You’re lucky you had her as long as you did.”

I’d nod my head in agreement, but inside I was screaming: “F you! I’m not grateful! I’m sad! This is horrible!”

I was ashamed that I had offered the same senseless commiserations to friends who’d lost their aging parents and promised myself I never, ever, would again.

The following excerpt from my memoir, Losing Mom, captures the moment I realized that grief is not something that can be benchmarked:

We head toward the sunroom down the hall—a little hospice oasis where family members and friends can sit and chat, maybe have a bite to eat, or talk on the phone so as not to disturb whoever they’re visiting. It’s a pretty space, warm and inviting, with scattered seating areas and leafy, green potted plants dotted throughout. Light streams through the glass walls, brightening up even the dreariest of Ohio winter days, like this one.

Turning the corner to go in, we stop short when we see another family already there, talking among themselves in subdued voices. Not wanting to intrude, we start to back out, when a woman, about our age, separates herself from the others and comes toward us.

“Are you Kay’s daughters?” she asks, and when we nod that we are, offers us a bright smile. “I love your mother so much! I was heartbroken when I heard she might be here.” Sticking out her hand, she introduces herself. “I’m Bridget D…maybe we’ve met before? Kay and I were in the Garden Club for years together. She’s always been such an inspiration to me!”

One by one we shake her hand, murmuring our names. We’re used to hearing things like this about Mom—especially from our friends who still live in Perrysburg. There’s something about her no-nonsense approach to getting things done, mixed in with her enthusiasm for whatever it is she might be working on—the Garden Club, her church, the museum, her social clubs—that younger women admire and want to emulate.

“My husband's in Room 101,” Bridget explains, gesturing to the room next to Mom’s. “My daughters and I are just having a little break.”

Oh dear. Looking over at the women behind her, my heart constricts when I see how young they are—early thirties, I guess, the same age I was when my dad died. I feel sorry for them—it’s hard to lose your father so young—and for a minute their impending loss puts my impending loss in perspective.

After all, Mom is about to turn eighty-nine. She’s lived a long, happy life. Her death will be sad, but certainly not tragic. Not like losing your sixty-something-year-old father.

Except, no, that’s not true at all. Losing my mom is tragic, and I don’t want to put it in perspective, not for one second. In fact, standing there on the perimeter of the sunroom, listening to my sisters make small talk with Bridget, I resent these strangers for making me feel, even if unintentionally, that their loss somehow eclipses mine. I’m losing my mom, my last parent. Without her physical presence in the world to ground me, how will I ever find my way around it? She’s never not been there.

It’s been years now since my mom died, yet that moment has stayed with me.

Rationally, of course, I knew that family was facing a devastating loss—I’d been through it myself.

But standing in that hospice sunroom, I didn't care. I didn’t want perspective. I didn't want comparisons. I didn't want to be reminded that my mother had lived a long life or that I was "lucky" to have had her for eighty-nine years.

What I wanted was my mother. What I wanted was for her not to die.

Looking back, I realize I had stumbled into something many grieving adult children may experience but rarely talk about: the hierarchy of grief. The underlying belief that some losses count more than others.

And there may be truth in some of those distinctions, at least on the surface. But the thing is, grief doesn't always follow logic.

The death of an aging parent can shake us to our core. It can leave us feeling untethered, regardless of how old we are when it happens.

For me, losing my mother wasn't just the loss of someone I loved. It was the loss of the one person who had been there my whole life. The witness to my childhood. The person whose existence had always anchored me in the world.

And after she was gone, I discovered that grief isn’t less simply because a life was long. In fact, when we start ranking grief, we often start diminishing our own—whether we’re thirty-something losing a father or sixty-something losing a mom.

If you've ever felt guilty for the intensity of your grief after losing an elderly parent, believe me—you're not alone.

I understand.