Experiencing the 5 Stages of Grief (After the Unexpected Death of My D&D Character)

Hi. So, We're Both Grieving...

Since you were interested in enough to open this post, I hope it isn't too presumptuous of me to say, I am so sorry for your loss. I'm serious; grief sucks. They say it's impossible to compare grief--and maybe this is my grief talking--but I am utterly embarrassed by the fact that I'm constantly thinking about losing a person who wasn't even real. (I'm sure your loss is much less fictional than mine.) The thing that gets me is that my feelings of hurt are still very real. But then I saw this TED talk by Jennifer Barnes, and it made me feel less silly.

Whom I Lost

I recently lost my first character, Faroughm DeBelltols—a level 3 (almost 4) Aasimar Bloodhunter—just over 2 months ago and I'm still processing my grief. (Thus, this blogpost).

Denial & Isolation

When my DM first told me that my character had died, I was in shock for the remainder of the session. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening!" I thought my character was immortal. He had been up until the moment he died! (In fact, I thought we all were since, up until that moment, our party had not yet experienced the death of one of its members.)

I don't think I said a word the rest of the night. But I just kept smiling. In my mind, I knew that my character had died. But the reality hadn't hit me yet. I hoped to talk to my DM afterward and clarify that something else had happened. That I wasn't really dead.

Bargaining

"If only I hadn't been so foolhardy and had turned back earlier," I told my DM, "Faroughm would still be alive."

My DM was really cool about the whole thing. The night Faroughm died, he pulled me aside for a decision-making chat. He gave me the option of allowing my character to survive or die. I appreciated his compassion, especially because I didn't feel like I deserved it. (Guilt is often bargaining’s companion.) And even though my DM didn't know my entire rationale for the actions that lead to my character's death, he knew that PC death is always hard. And he counseled me respectfully.

In giving me a choice, my DM facilitated the bargaining stage of the grieving process for me. In hindsight, I wasn't ready for it. I was still processing residual feelings of anger and denial. (Not that those emotions are a prerequisite to bargaining). Nevertheless, I felt somewhat pressured to make a decision on the spot for three reasons. 1) The DM was being kind to me, I wanted to give him what he was asking for. 2) I felt stupid for how I had essentially committed suicide and wanted to distance myself from the event to avoid guilt and shame. 3) I assumed that my response would impact the immediate storyline for the rest of the party.

Still intoxicated by guilt, I decided to punish myself by asking him to kill off my character. I felt I needed to learn a lesson. Had I chosen to keep Faroughm alive, it would have been awesome too. The DM had already proposed a storyline filled with intrigue that would advance the narrative in an exciting way. I almost accepted the mulligan. But I didn't.

Anger

I was able to shake off the numbness of the fact that my character was actually dead about a week or two after the fact. I was starting to be able to see Faroughm's death with greater perspective and clarity. And I wasn't very self-compassionate about it. I felt the need to blame someone, and there was no one else to blame, so I blamed myself—hard. It was obvious to me that my own actions lead directly to my demise.

I was angry that I had separated from the rest of the party. I'm sure that if anyone else (PC or NPC) had been around me at the time of my character's death, I'm sure they would have helped to steer me away from my suicidal course.

And I was angry at myself for being such a foolhardy, inexperienced player. In the weeks after the fact, I attempted to show myself compassion by telling myself that I was being true to Faroughm's character. That I had done nothing wrong. But then I just got more mad at myself for trying to excuse my mistakes.

Depression

About six weeks after Faroughm's death, I was ready to talk about it. Before then, I just wasn't ready. I was gripped by limiting beliefs, like all-or-nothing thinking. I hoped that no one in my party would bring up his death. I wished that my character's entire existence would have been forgotten. I viewed Faroughm's entire participation in the campaign through a negative lens. Memories of all the dumb things he had done bombarded me. I could only think of how little he contributed and how selfish he was. (Granted, selfishness and conceit were part of Faroughm's character background.) I began to believe that the party would have been better had Faroughm never joined them at all. That was the thought that broke the spell for me. I recognized that my thoughts about this were getting extreme. So I bounced these private thoughts off of some of the other party members whom I carpooled with. They assured me that Faroughm was a valued member of the party and that his absence is noticed.

I wanted to continue talking about Faroughm's death. But since I didn't want to metagame with party members, I unloaded my catharsis on my wonderful wife. I focused on letting out my honest feelings my feelings about Faroughm's death. (This was especially hard for me because I wasn't sure if she'd be sympathetic. I was afraid that my wife wouldn't understand why I would emotionally invest in a video game or role-playing fantasy world other than Hallmark movies.) I told her how stupid I felt. I told her how angry I was that Faroughm's nature was so power-hungry, yet carefree. I told her that I missed having all of his abilities in combat. And I told her that I miss seeing him grow and develop as a character, and would probably feel that way for a long, long time.

My DM also did something to help me not despair. He let me create a new character at the same level as the rest of the party. I didn't have to start from square one. He even let me pick from a selection of starter magical items.

Acceptance

Acceptance doesn't mean feeling "all right" or "okay" about what happened. It just means that I have accepted the reality that Faroughm is gone and recognize that this new reality is what is.

I still think about Faroughm on the regular. Occasionally, when I'm in a battle, I think of how cool it would be to still have Faroughm's abilities. When my current character levels up, I ponder which new skills Faroughm would acquire if I were still playing as him? Every once in a while, someone will recall something about a previous session or simply reference water and I feel pangs of shame regarding my actions that led to his watery death. I remember how I've changed as a player. How, I'm a wiser and more careful party member now.

I will likely always look back to Faroughm's death with regret, but I am starting to find meaning in his death. I can now begin to see how I wouldn't be who I am—as a player—without having had that experience.

Conclusion

Grief is a totally normal response to the death of a fictional character. And why not?! I've spent hours carefully researching and building my character, and creatively crafting his extensive backstory. I then spent countless more hours getting inside my character's head as I developed real relationships with other PCs and meaningfully interacted with a complex world. And all the while, emotionally investing and dreaming about my character's future. And then—suddenly—he's gone. Just gone.

I feel like I have honestly addressed my feelings about Faroughm's death, which has been great for me. And I have accepted the current reality of the campaign—a reality without Faroughm. And I'm ready to move forward.

RIP, Faroughm. You will be missed. But not forgotten.

Bonus Story: Faroughm's Demise

Faroughm possessed an awesome magical item—The Cloak of the Manta—which he stole off the corpse of a swamp hag he defeated as a level 1 bloodhunter. He hadn't used it until he found himself in an underground system of water chutes located deep in (what he didn't realize was) the Underdark. He initially jumped in a river to fish out a party member who had been swept away. She resisted Faroughm's help, however, and Athletic-ed her way to shore. A bit miffed, my character continued to explore the mysterious underwater chutes (only accessible to him)—just for a minute. But in the heat of storytelling, one minute turned into five. He would have turned back to report his status to the party, but he reasoned that they couldn't have gone far and a few more minutes of adventuring wouldn't hurt. He could always catch up later. Besides, he wanted some alone time; he was growing tired of spectating while others went off to have their own one-off adventures. It was his turn now; just for a short while longer anyway.

As Faroughm made his way deeper into the cave system, he couldn't believe how vast it was! He reasoned that there must be legendary treasures (or at least some extremely valuable information) he could bring back to the party if he only kept going a bit further. He would be a hero! After about 20-30 minutes of navigating the water chute at 30mph, he exited the waterways and found himself in a carved-out tunnel that had been heavily trafficked by short creatures. Intrigued, and not wanting to return empty-handed, Faroughm's greed and sense of adventure drove him forward until he arrived at a precipice.

Now at this point, a wise adventurer would have recognized his limits and made his way back to the group. But Faroughm was not wise. 

He felt almost a psychic pull from the watery, dark abyss below. Faroughm pulled out his grappling hook and rope and climbed down 50'. (He was sure he would be safe since one of the other party members described having been to the bottom of that cliff and had made it back up alive.) Anyway, at the end of the rope, like a dauntless buffoon, Faroughm simply let go, fell, and hit a watery sandbank below losing all but one hit point.

Now at this point, a prudent adventurer would realize the peril he was in and simply try to survive until he could be rescued. But Faroughm was not prudent.

Faroughm investigated the shoreline but found no treasure. He then naturally assumed that the treasure must lie beyond the great sea before him (probably at the bottom of it). So, donning the Cloak of the Manta which enabled him to breathe underwater, Faroughm followed the sea floor down 50', 100', 200' for about a mile out to sea—finding nothing. It was there he experienced his first psychic attack. Fortunately, Faroughm rolled well on his Wisdom Saving throw and defended himself against the attack.

Now. At this point, a sane adventurer would turn tale and swim a break-neck speed back to shore. But, Faroughm was not entirely sane.

Faroughm naively believed that if he could survive one measly psychic attack, he could survive another. So he sped upward (60mph) and majestically breached the surface like a humpback whale. But at that very moment, as his body returned to the water's surface, a second psychic attack rung inside Faroughm's head, but this time, he was unable to defend against it. Like thunder, he heard a clear, deep voice echo in his mind, "WHO DARES TO DISTURB MY SLUMBER?" And that's when the lights went out.

Bonus Grief Resources

• D&D-specific articles
• Talking about PC death with a DM
• Understanding degrees of PC death
• How DMs and PCs can avoid PC death
• Bargaining Options for DMs
• Positive perspective on PC death
• Non-D&D-related guidance
• The 5 traditional stages of grief
• Finding meaning (The 6th Stage of Grief)