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Anticipatory grief — mourning before the loss

You're sitting across from your parent at dinner, and you feel tears coming. They're telling you about their afternoon, or asking you about something, or they're just sitting there being alive, and you're grieving. You're mourning them while they're still here. You're crying for someone who isn't dead yet. And then you feel like a monster for crying, because they're still breathing, they're still talking, and here you are already mourning them like they're gone.

This is anticipatory grief. And almost everyone who sits with dying feels it, and almost everyone who feels it thinks they're the only one, and almost everyone is ashamed of it.

Grief before death

Anticipatory grief is mourning what's being lost now, while it's being lost. You're grieving the version of your parent that's disappearing. The capacity they had. The role they played. The future that won't happen now. You're grieving that you'll never see them grow old. You're grieving that they won't meet your children's children. You're grieving that they won't see what you become. You're grieving the time you thought you had.

It's different from grief after death, because your parent is right there. You can still reach out and touch them. You can still talk to them. You can still ask them questions. But the future is gone. The time is gone. What was supposed to come next is erased.

Some people grieve who their parent was. The strength, the capability, the person who always had the answers. Now that person is smaller, weaker, less certain. You're grieving the loss of that person before the body dies. You're watching them become something else, something diminished, and you're mourning the person they were before the diminishment.

Some people grieve all the things that will never happen. The wedding they won't attend. The birth of grandchildren they won't meet. The conversations you'll never have. The advice they'll never give. You'll be living your life, and your parent will be dead, and there's a hole where they should have been. You're grieving that hole before it opens.

This feels selfish until you understand

When you're sitting with a dying person and you're grieving, it can feel selfish. You can feel like you're making their death about you. Like you're being self-centered, crying about your loss while they're the one actually dying. Like you should be focusing on them, comforting them, being strong for them.

But anticipatory grief isn't selfish. It's love looking ahead. It's saying: you matter so much to me that I can't imagine a world without you, and I'm already imagining it, and it hurts. That's not about you. That's about them. That's about the magnitude of what you'll lose.

Anticipatory grief also isn't weakness. It's not you falling apart. It's you loving someone so much that you're already in pain about losing them. It's your heart breaking before the breaking is complete. It's appropriate. It's honest.

And you're not alone in it. Everyone who sits with a dying parent, a dying partner, a dying child, experiences it. Everyone feels what you feel. Everyone cries before the death and then cries again after, and realizes the grief is different but continuous. Everyone knows that they're mourning someone while the person is still alive.

Different from grief after death, but real

One strange thing about anticipatory grief is that it happens while you can still reach the person. You can grieve them and talk to them at the same time. You can mourn who they were and appreciate who they are now. You can cry and then laugh at something they say. You can hold both the grief and the love at once.

Regular grief, the grief after someone dies, is different. You can't call them up and say, "I miss you." You can't have new conversations. You can't get new information. You can't be surprised by them anymore. But with anticipatory grief, you still can. You're mourning someone you can still reach.

This means you get something after their death that you might not otherwise get: closure in stages. You've already said some things. You've already cried. You've already let yourself imagine the world without them. When they die, it's tragic, but it's not entirely surprising. You've already begun the process of letting go.

Some people find this helpful. It means they don't have the shock that comes with sudden death. It means they've had time to prepare their heart. It means they've already done some of the work of mourning.

But it also means the grief can be complicated, because you've been grieving for months. When they finally die, you might feel relieved, and then guilty about the relief, and then sad, and then numb. All at once. Anticipatory grief doesn't make grief after death easier. It just spreads the grief out. It changes the shape of it.

Permission to cry now

The hardest thing about anticipatory grief is that no one gives you permission. No one says, "Yes, cry. Yes, mourn. Yes, this is appropriate." Instead, people often say, "Don't think about the future. Think about the present. Be grateful for the time you have."

But you can be grateful and mourning at the same time. You can be present and grieving. You can enjoy the time you have and be devastated that it's ending. These things are not contradictory. This is just what it feels like to love someone and watch them die.

So give yourself permission. Permission to cry. Permission to be sad about what's coming, even while you're making memories with the person in front of you. Permission to grieve the future that won't happen. Permission to mourn who they were before the sickness. Permission to feel the magnitude of the loss that's coming.

This is not weakness. This is love doing what love does when it's faced with ending. This is your heart responding appropriately to the most painful thing: the end of someone you cannot live without.

Some people will judge your grief. They'll think you should be stronger, more positive, more present. Let them think that. They're not sitting with dying. They don't know what this feels like. You know. You know that you're mourning while alive, and that's the hardest thing, and it's also the most honest thing, and it means you loved someone so much that the thought of them dying broke you before they even did.

How To Help Your Elders is an informational resource for families working through aging and elder care. We are not medical professionals, attorneys, or financial advisors. The information provided here is for educational purposes and should not replace professional consultation. Every family's situation is unique, and rules, costs, and availability vary by location and circumstance.