A Grief Like No Other was written for a specific audience: those who’ve lost loved ones to violent death. Yet the principles and practices articulated by author and therapist Kathleen O’Hara are universal. These are tools for survivors, as well as for those who seek to understand.
Ms. O’Hara’s son, Aaron, was murdered in 1999 along with his roommate. He was a student at Franciscan University of Steubenville (Ohio), probably the sweetest campus I’ve ever visited. The physical beauty of the place is reflected in its students. They don’t seem to take themselves too seriously, though they are serious about their faith.
I originally purchased this book in 2015 and sent it to my aunt. She had discovered my grandmother’s body after she was murdered at age 94 by a 15-year-old neighbor. I wonder how my life might have been different had I bought a copy for myself. It’s that good, not just for those of us in the unique club of people who’ve lost loved ones to violence. The book contains exercises and tools for overcoming loss that anyone can use.
In March, I was reminded of A Grief Like No Other by Chris Becker, the hero who successfully prosecuted my grandmother’s killer and also helped prosecute the murderers of Kathleen’s son. Chris referenced the book as an example of someone who relied on her faith and found the meaning in her suffering, an idea best articulated by Dr. Viktor Frankl, psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor.
Since getting a new copy (this time, the Kindle version), I’ve been highlighting voraciously, wondering why I hadn’t read this a decade ago. Maybe I wasn’t ready?
Chances are good that the murder of a loved one is not something you’ll experience. But perhaps you’re in a caring profession, want to be a better listener, or struggle with what to say to someone who has experienced unexpected loss?
Ms. O’Hara handles these questions like a true professional, never diminishing her own deeply held faith, while also sharing stories from people of other beliefs, or none at all.
Meaningful books take me longer to read, longer to digest, longer to process. I still have my copy of John Locke’s Second Treatise on Civil Government from college, painstakingly read and highlighted, but not nearly as practical as O’Hara’s masterpiece.
She writes not only from the gut-wrenching experience of her own loss, but with a timeless philosophical and metaphysical thread. Her writing feels inspired, reminiscent of the great contemplative thinkers of her Catholic faith (think Thomas Merton).
The challenges she addresses, grief, pain, anger, PTSD, and general suffering, are met with tools like faith, humor, forgiveness, and acceptance. She also addresses the legacy our loved ones leave behind and how to navigate the practicalities of life post-loss.
In the immediate aftermath of my grandmother’s murder, I was in shock. But I also experienced the very best of people, prayers, encouragement, and hugs. O’Hara writes, “We seemed to exist in a kind of floating world, holding onto whatever was left of our lives.” That was true for me. I felt as though I were high, laughs came easier, compassion and patience seemed to ooze out of me.
It was a combination of shock, Jesus, and Red Bull that got me through those first weeks. At the funeral, the spirit of peace and compassion felt so real and thick it could have been cut with a knife.
O’Hara beautifully writes of our loved ones’ deaths:
“Eventually, the story will become like the clouds on the horizon-sometimes distant, sometimes full of thunder and rain, and on some days, a soft white snow will fall.”
Her tenderness in writing about her son reminds the reader that there’s a much larger story unfolding, one of which we know very little on this side of Heaven.
Among her philosophical foundations are “One Day at a Time” and “Even if you think you don’t have it, you must act as though you do!” As someone in AA, this resonates deeply with me. O’Hara writes:
“I needed to find the courage to live for them [her other children]. I found a part of me that I didn’t know I had.”
She reminds us that we share brave genes from generations past who endured unimaginable hardship:
“You are in limbo between your old, pre-trauma world and the new one you have yet to discover.”
These are the kinds of insights that often take years of therapy or 12-step meetings to fully absorb.
She encourages us to change how we think about what happened, not through tricks, but through the hard work of writing, introspection, meditation, and prayer.
“In our world, there are many ways to find the breath of life,” she writes, disarming words to saints and seekers alike.
She urges us to remember who we are, “not as the shell left over from one horrific experience.” Paraphrasing Dr. Frankl, she writes:
“The last of the human freedoms is to choose how we will suffer. That surely means having the courage to change ourselves.”
One of the most unexpected hardships I faced after my grandmother’s murder was that some lawyer friends in Ohio ignored my calls for assistance when the State rescinded the killer’s life-without-parole sentence. I was willing to pay market rates! I might’ve been better prepared for those betrayals had I already read this line:
“You will hear things you won’t believe and be wounded in ways from which you will not soon recover.”
More “O’Hara Nuggets,” Free of Charge:
“Trauma forces us to face our inner selves and discover our true mettle.”
“It is important to remember who you were the day before the event happened.”
“Can we, despite our tragedies… still believe [the world] is a good place?”
“You may feel abandoned by both the living and the dead.”
“Trauma can also bring people together. You may be surprised by who will help when you least expect it.”
Channel your rage, even if it’s by hitting your bed with a tennis racket.
“You could be the one person to turn someone else’s life around… even while seeking resolution for your own grief.”
“Peace is more important than our obsession with taking back control.”
“Barn burnt down; now I can see the moon.”
“The second and third years can be more difficult than the first…”
“Sometimes it is suffering that makes us love more.”
“Joy follows the long labor of childbirth; it is springtime after the harsh winter and eternity after the brief breath of life.”
Regarding faith, O’Hara writes:
“When tragedy strikes, faith becomes something real, something they actually believe in rather than something they give lip service to.”
On grieving:
“The remarkable thing was that, as I allowed the torturers to find me, I discovered that these feelings wouldn’t destroy me. And so, I allowed grief to do its work.”
Forgiveness
Forgiveness is central to faith. For me, it came rather easily. When I first heard the news of my grandmother’s murder, I dropped to my knees. I prayed for my family. I prayed for my gram. Then I prayed for her killer, whoever he may be.
I reasoned that he is either so evil or so sick, or both, that he needs the love of God. That’s something my gram would’ve done, too. But I also prayed he’d face the earthly consequences of his act. I wrote him an anonymous letter while he awaited trial, telling him that God loves him just as he is, not as he should be, because none of us are as we should be.
Still, I’d never even considered what O’Hara writes about her son’s killers:
“While I may be able to forgive something done to me, I am not sure I can forgive something done to someone else. I question whether it is my right to forgive a harm done to someone else.”
Exercises relating to art, music, nature, and writing are detailed in the book as creative outlets. These have also been tremendously healing for me.
Help for the Hurting
O’Hara offers excellent guidance for those supporting the grieving:
At the wake or over the phone, share a cherished memory or express how much the deceased cared for the person grieving.
Don’t wait to be contacted. Call. Grieving people feel isolated, especially after the initial shock passes.
Avoid platitudes like “Time heals all wounds” or “It was God’s will.” Instead, say, “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here if you want to talk.”
Really listen. Don’t hijack the conversation. Just be there.
The world can be an ugly place. A Grief Like No Other points us toward the source of beauty and gives us tools to ride out the storm, until we, too, are called home.
