Grief

“This Ragged Heart” by Julie Cassin

“There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep and still be counted as warriors.”

— Adrienne Rich, "Sources"

A few months after my mom died in 1998, I remember feeling paralyzed on the couch with soul-crushing grief and exhaustion. I had strategically scattered ten different toys on the living room floor for my son to crawl between. When he would get squirrely, I would toss him a Cheerio from my robe pocket, hoping to keep him distracted until I got ready for work. At his nap time, I did not have the energy to walk upstairs to his crib, so I would place him in his playpen while I lay on the couch and prayed-to-God-and-Mom-and-Buddha-and-all-the-saints that he would fall asleep.

Looking back, I am impressed by my innovative ways of keeping my son busy while I experienced this period of exhaustion, but I remember feeling like a bad mother. I remember being angry at myself for being lazy when I distracted my son with TV for hours at a time. I was grief-stricken and desperately wanted to not feel broken. People would ask how I was doing and I would ridiculously say, “I’m good.” I was So. Not. Good. Anger, fatigue, loneliness, brokenheartedness leveled me as I resisted feeling every one of these emotions. I lost my mother, my baby’s grandmother, and each and every future event would be marred by this loss: birthdays, graduations, Tuesdays.

Francis Weller’s line “Grief is subversive, undermining our society’s quiet agreement that we will behave and control our emotions” makes me want to hug him and offer him a large glass of whiskey and some rocks to throw. If our culture accepted this notion of grief, when an innocent friend asks us at the grocery store, “How are you really doing? I haven't seen you since the funeral,” we would be able to lose our shit and toss each and every orange toward the tampon aisle and then land in a puddle of our tears and snot near the eggplant, wondering how the cave people ever figured out how to cook this beautiful vegetable. And then our friend and the clerk would squat beside us with a fresh box of fluffy PUFF tissues from aisle 12 whispering, “There, there.”

“A Quiet Communion” by Julie Cassin

Unfortunately, grief is not an emotion that many people are comfortable with, and our culture has this flawed, bizarre framework that suggests–no, insists–that people move on, get over it, find the meaning, the reason, etc. According to Megan Devine, in her lovely book, It’s OK That You’re NOT OK: Meeting Grief and Loss in a Culture That Doesn't Understand, she explains the normal pain of grief and the avoidable suffering of grief. “Pain is a healthy, normal response when someone you love is torn from your life. The suffering comes when we feel dismissed or unsupported in our pain and when we thrash around inside our pain, questioning our choices, our normalcy, our actions and reactions. Suffering comes when you don't eat enough or sleep too much and this is where things can be changed, the suffering can be reduced. The pain of your loss is still there, but the layers of suffering soften.”

Had I known that my own self-criticism during my grief contributed to some avoidable suffering, perhaps I would have practiced more self-compassion and self-love during this time. 

Francis Weller states, “There is something feral about grief, something essentially outside the ordained and sanctioned behaviors of our culture. Because of that, grief is necessary to the vitality of the soul. Contrary to our fears, grief is suffused with life-force.”

Whew.

Had I known that grief was “suffused with life-force,” perhaps I would have approached my deflated heart with curiosity and courage, knowing there was actually some good that would come out of breathing into my pain rather than resisting my pain. Had I known that letting my tears fall rather than swallowing them could possibly create more space in my heart, perhaps I would have surrendered to my body’s wisdom as it released these uncomfortable emotions. 

If you are an external processor, someone who likes to talk things out, find a friend who is not afraid of these emotions and practice with them or find a grief counselor who is highly skilled in the uncomfortable feelings that arise when one has suffered an enormous loss. Hospice generally has some type of bereavement offering for the primary caregiver–either group grief offerings or private counseling.

Grief is a definitive reality of the human experience, and because many people do not know how to show up for this, we “diminish our pain so others can feel comfortable around us.” Thank you, Megan Devine. Important note here: we (you) are not responsible for managing another’s ability (or inability) to self-regulate when they are squirming around the discomfort of your grief.

If you cannot find someone you trust to confide in, who will bear witness to your pain, or if this is not a comfortable route for you to process, Devine recommends finding another way. “Journal, paint...or go out into the woods and tell the trees. It is an immense relief to be able to tell your story without someone trying to fix it.” 

My dear friend Julie is a prolific artist. Her studio is crammed with bits of her beautiful soul propped up against the walls in the form of stunning clouds and soothing landscapes. After the sudden death of her sister Annie, her exhaustion was overwhelming. She feared she would never have the desire to paint again. Julie tended to her heart and gave herself the space she needed. After many months, she eventually regained the energy to walk up the stairs to her studio and paint. Her studio became her refuge, a quiet, uninhabited space to explore, wonder, and question with her heart rather than her head. There she was allowed a sacred place to tell her story without any words.

“Solitude” by Julie Cassin

Elisabeth Kubler Ross writes, “The reality is that you will grieve forever.”

Okay, let’s pause for a minute. I know this line is like a gut punch or maybe a punch in the heart. When you are in the depths of your grief, say the first year after your loved one has died,  it does feel paralyzing and you wonder if the darkness will ever  lift.

Kubler-Ross continues, “You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it.” 

My word for learning to live with grief is integration. I have integrated the loss of my mother into my life in a meaningful way. Her photo is on my altar to honor my lost family and friends. Some days, I chat with her as though she is in the passenger seat in my Subaru sedan. I pray to her for spiritual counsel and guidance. I live with the notion that I too could die at 58 and center my values around this reality. Francis Weller describes this as living with the “tension between the two sisters, grief and gratitude.”

Kubler-Ross continues, “You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same.” 

“Nor should you be the same.” 

“Nor would you want to.” 

I agree. I like that I am permanently altered by my devastation. Not in a victim sense, poor me. Although I do have those days. But in a more expansive way. I can sit at the bedside with daughters who are losing their mamas. My orphan friends and I get each other. I understand the depths of sadness and am not afraid to be in it because I know in my bones…that deep devastating darkness will eventually be less deep and less cutting.

It has been 25 years since my mother died. I am now 54. I still miss her. I long to have a face-to-face conversation with her. What would she be like at 84? And there it is. That is all. I am acknowledging this ever-present loss in my life. I don’t feel bad about my sadness. I don’t struggle to make it different. It is simply there. Still. Resting in my more tender heart. Which is who I want to become eventually. A more tenderhearted individual who can sit in the discomfort of my own pain and another’s pain.

In The Wild Edge of Sorrow, Francis Weller writes, “Grief is not a problem to be solved, it is a mystery to be honored.” 

Amen.

Blessings.