Worrying and the Baader-Meinhof Effect
And the comfort of my ancestors
I’m a worrier, and I’ve probably thought about death a lot more than most people do, with a husband who has had some scary and serious health issues since soon after we first got together nearly 30 years ago, and especially over the past few years when Covid led to me being surrounded by loved ones who were in the highest category of vulnerability due to age and medical conditions. Years ago, I read the quote “Worrying is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do, but it gets you nowhere.” I presume this is supposed to make us worriers realise that worrying is a waste of time, but for me there was some comfort in worrying as something to do, when there felt like there was little else I could do to keep people safe. Maybe worrying about people was my superpower, and if I worried about them enough it would somehow keep them safe. It’s no surprise then, that when my daughter died the worrier part of me felt guilty, because not once had I thought to worry about my children dying, and if I had, would that have magically saved her and stopped it happening? Now, of course, the rational part of me knows this is ridiculous, but there’s nothing rational about a grieving worrier with insomnia at 3.00 o’clock in the morning.
We don’t think about our children dying young, because thankfully it happens so rarely that it’s not something most of us have to worry about. The presumption we’ll all live to old age and our children will outlive us makes the death of a child in this day and age shocking and unimaginable. It is even referred to as an “out of order loss” as if we’re queued up in age order and will all neatly and predictably die in turn when we’re supposed to.
And yet, my daughter’s death is not as unique as it seems. My first indication of this was when we spoke to her school. At a time when we, and our friends and family, were walking around in a shocked daze, it was so clear, even at the time, that the school knew what to say and how to support us and her friends, not just because they were professionals, not just because they had been on a grief support course, but because this wasn’t the first time they had dealt with the death of a pupil. This provided us with some comfort, not just that we could be reassured our son would be in safe hands when he returned to school, but also, I think now on reflection, because any indication that we’re not the only ones this has happened to helped me feel less alone.
When you’re trying to make sense of something that will never make sense, there is something weirdly reassuring in knowing that something equally tragic and unexpected happens to other people too, that it wasn’t your fault and you haven’t been singled out for some reason. This is where the Baader-Meinhof effect is extremely helpful in grief. Otherwise known as frequency illusion, this is when your brain ignores information that doesn’t seem important because it’s not possible to retain everything, so when something new becomes front and centre of your attention, your brain knows not to filter it out anymore and takes notice. For example, you decide to buy a red car, and suddenly see red cars everywhere even though before you thought they were quite rare. Your brain had previously been filtering them out as they weren’t important to you and now they are, or you start to learn to drive and now see learner drivers everywhere.
This selective attention means that I now have a grief radar. Suddenly child loss is all around me and articles on losing a child from famous people including Michael Rosen, Nick Cave, Rob Delaney and Jason Watkins were everywhere. Strangely the most comfort has come from my ancestors. I’ve been researching my family tree for a few years, but it was only after my daughter’s death that it struck me that all four of my grandparents, who were all born around one hundred years ago, had a sibling who had died young, which meant all of my great-grandparents had experienced the death of one of their children. I think I craved proof, for my son as well as ourselves, that it was possible to lose a daughter or sister and still be ok, that life wasn’t over and there could still be happiness and the possibility to lead a “normal” life, even if that life was one that would previously have been unimaginable. I knew all four of my grandparents, and my Gran was still alive when my daughter was born, so I had a relationship with her when I was an adult and remember her talking about her sister who died. I had evidence then, through my relationship with my grandparents, that my future could still be ok after child loss, because theirs had been.
Tom Zuba writes in his blog dated the 8th June 2015;
“We’ve told ourselves over and over again that the death of a child is unnatural. Our mantra now is “no parent should have to bury their child” we’ve conveniently forgotten that up until the beginning of the last century, due to advances in medicine, almost every family buried ….children….and half of all children born died before they were 12 years old.”
I now often think about my Grandad Leslie, and his brother Sidney who died before he was born, my Granny Doris, and her sister Rose who died aged 19, when she was 17 years old, my Grandad William, whose sister Nelllie died age six, when he was two years old and my Gran Kathleen, whose sister Lilian died age three, when she was eight years old. I feel more connected now somehow to my great grandparents, who I never knew, but who share with me the knowing of what it is like to lose a child, and that provides some bizarre comfort.
Photo of my Gran’s Sister Lilian in 1932
I realise this topic is a bit heavier than some I have written previously. For new subscribers, I promise it’s not always like this, and I recommend you read my post of the 25th March about Glimmers and Microjoys for something a little more uplifting.
