My biggest takeaway is that mourning is an action fixed in time, but grief is a condition of living. Grief is always with us—it’s not self-indulgence we have to “get over,” not a sore that will “heal with time,” not a challenge some Puckish deity gives us because he/she/it knows we’re “strong enough” to handle it, not a shameful feeling we need to suppress in our messy Jungian basements. It’s simply a normal part of the beautiful range of human emotions.
Grief lives with us all the time. It’s our reaction to many kinds of loss, not just physical death; abandonment, betrayal, divorce, retirement, aging, moving, physical limitations or illnesses, etc., can all result in grief. Anything that challenges or threatens the identities we spend our lives creating can result in grief. (The Buddhists would say these identities aren’t real, but that’s another post….)
I’ve also decided that grief is a stew made of sorrow, fear, and guilt, especially when someone dies: how will I go on without you? is it my fault? will I ever see you again? did I do enough for you? was I unkind? who can I ask about Aunt Elma running away with a barnstormer now? are we all disappearing? was the Morphine too much or not enough?
Like I said, I think grief is normal, but I also think it isn’t productive, helpful, or healing to live in it, just like it wouldn’t be good to live in a constant state of sadness, anger, or euphoria. In fact, there’s a condition called “Prolonged Grief Disorder”—just know that if you get stuck in grief, it’s time to get help. Speaking of conditions, if you want to know more about the science-y side of grief, read The Grieving Brain: The Surprising Science of How We Learn from Love and Loss.
Here’s a BIG ONE, especially for me, since I tend to overanalyze absolutely EVERYTHING: Grief doesn’t have to “make sense.” I don’t need to “explore” why I feel like weeping in the line at Ace Hardware, or why I have a sudden knot in my gut halfway around the track at the Wellness Center. Waves of grief come and go, and whatever they do, it’s okay.
This one’s a little more subtle, and a little trickier, since well-meaning friends and family often want to help and don’t really know how: I don’t have to talk about my grief to anyone (the irony of blogging about it doesn’t escape me). I don’t have to “let it out.” I don’t have to cry in public (though I have) as though it’s a performative requirement. Stoicism ≠ indifference, denial, or unhealthy repression. We each need to process grief in our own way. We can make safe spaces where friends and family and others can grieve, but we don’t need to tell them how to do it or try to fix them.
Two interesting “woo-woo” things have happened since Mom died. She and I were very close and lived together for the last 8 years of her life. I was her primary caretaker when she got sick enough to need help. She died here at home, with me beside her. Anyway, one morning during Christmas break, I was having coffee in the kitchen. Twenty feet away, on the dining room buffet, a canning jar of twinkly lights blinked on next to Mom’s portrait. The odd thing was that the lights are on a switch that hadn’t been turned on.
Then, a week or two ago, I sent a text to a friend. She answered. When my phone dinged again, I looked and apparently, my phone (not me) had sent her another text which read, “Are you okay?” which she answered. My phone had been in my pocket the whole time, so I’m not sure who/what sent that last text to my friend.
I’m not saying Mom is still hanging about, trying to cheer me up or make sure I’m okay (or make sure my friend is okay), but I wouldn’t put it past her—she was a powerhouse presence. Or maybe grief plays havoc with our internal electrical system, and I’m making these things happen through my own short-circuits.
It doesn’t matter either way, and though these things make me smile (and maybe shiver a little), they don’t take away the grief. I expect to live with grief—who I now call Gordon, just to be able to name it—for the rest of my life. Gordy and I are learning to be friends.
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