When Tragedy Isn't Trauma

My dad, a genuinely kind and wonderful man, died recently at the age of 78 after a long battle with a neurological disease. When I tell people he died, they often offer a sympathetic gaze, preparing to comfort a deep, sudden shock. But the truth is, while his death was profoundly tragic - a massive, painful loss - it wasn’t traumatic. And there's a huge difference between those two words.

Tragedy is the inevitability of human suffering; it’s the heartache that comes when a beautiful life ends. Trauma, on the other hand, is the violation of your sense of safety, the shock that leaves you feeling fragmented and alone. Because my dad lived a full, beautiful life, and because his decline, though agonizing, was slow and managed with care, his passing, while devastating, felt like an incredibly sad, expected conclusion to a final chapter.

This distinction was made possible by the quiet, powerful strength of my family, particularly during the traditional Jewish mourning period of Shiva. Sitting in low chairs, beside my grieving mother, we sat for seven days. Her home, a revolving door of people bringing food, sharing stories, and simply showing up. We were blessed with visits from old friends, new friends and unexpected visitors. It wasn't just about religious observance; it was about support. Practical. Unconditional. Loving and necessary. Grief did not isolate us, it cradled us. The logistics of life - cooking, cleaning, managing basic tasks - disappeared under the deluge of collective care.

My father was blessed with a wonderful wife (may she live up to 120!) and a family who loved him. He had 2 children, and four grandchildren, and lived out his final years in Israel. Sitting Shiva showed me that tragedy, when met by community, can be processed as deep grief rather than scarring trauma. Visitors to our home provided the structure, the humor, and the love we needed to be sad together, not broken alone. Forever appreciative to our community that came to daily prayers, brought and served meals, we are forever grateful.

We may have lost our guiding light, but we gained an unforgettable understanding of what it means to be truly supported.

Lisa