Grief Culture

The first few weeks after Rick died, sleep was difficult. It was both the longest part of the day and the loneliest. While everyone else was asleep, snuggled in their beds, I laid there, eyes wide, heart hammering in my chest, unable to breathe. I was hoping God would put me out of my misery. I was awake with the painful images playing repeatedly in my head. It was as if I was there in his shop again. The smells of the garage – oil and gas mixing with the strong odor of mothballs left behind by the previous owners. I could hear the cicadas, a dark omen encircling us that night, happily clicking away that my life would be forever changed.

That is when the two AM thoughts haunt me. The excruciating pain has not subsided much. His dead eyes are the only thing I see, it is impossible for me to remember what he looked like when he was alive unless I look at a picture. What I do see are his eyes half open, no longer the sky-blue eyes sparkling with love for me, now staring blankly into nothingness. I squeeze my eyes shut to erase them, but it’s all in vain. Those images have been scalded into my mind's eye, as if my brain has decided it is something I should never forget, mental torment for my failure to bring him back. No matter what, they always find their way back into my head to invade my thoughts. To remind me. As if I could ever forget that horrific night, as his heart stopped beating and mine shattered into a million pieces all around me. I have yet to figure out how to pick them up.

I realize I am no match for grief. This unwanted dark companion follows me everywhere. Lurking, waiting. This week, I almost felt hopeful. Just maybe it was getting a tiny bit easier, and a familiar optimistic beacon of hope rose into my chest. Then just as quickly I am blindsided. It slams into me and that feeling of disappointment consumes me as I saw him laying there and knew he was already gone. Yet I was confident our love was so strong that he would find his way back to me.

Suddenly, my breath comes in gasps. The tears fall and I am transported back into his shop begging, pleading for him to come back to me. Cursing God for being so cruel. And the painful cycle starts all over again. I squeeze my injured right hand hard, until I feel the pain shoot up into my elbow. It is my way of feeling something else, even for a minute. I fear if I continue feeling the pain of his death it will certainly make me go mad.

Monday is coming. The day I have grown to hate with every fiber of my being. The day our lives were changed forever. The day Rick was cheated, and his life was cut short. Worse yet, our family was left behind to endure life without him. I am still waiting for the day I can say I will be OK and know it to be true. I was once the luckiest  woman alive. I thought our life was perfect and every day was a beautiful gift that I got to share with him. We built a life, a family most envied. When he died, I was shocked at how many people wrote or came up to me during his service to tell me that Rick and I set the bar for them. That we were their relationship goals! I never considered we were impacting those around us while we simply lived life! We worked hard, played hard, laughed at our mistakes, had our life planned out, and we were so excited to get him to retirement. Now I am left behind trying to figure out what life looks like without him in it. To say it is disconcerting would be an understatement. I am still taking it one minute, one hour, one day at a time. And for those watching and waiting, that will have to be enough. For now.

I wrote that a few months after Rick died, and I am reflecting on how things are the same and how they have changed in the three years since he left us behind. I used to be a private person, sharing my pain only with those within  my trusted, inner circle. I did not like to be vulnerable, even with them. Rick was the only one I trusted my vulnerability with, and he was gone. After Rick died something shifted within me and I did not know how to be anything BUT vulnerable. Pouring my grief onto Facebook land was terrifying, and cathartic. It helped to get those thoughts out of my head, instead of leaving them untold free to bounce around as long as they wanted. When I held my pain inside, I would feel myself slipping into the dark abyss of grief. It was a scary place to be. I found that once I shared how I was feeling, I felt less afraid, and I was working with the grief instead of fighting it.

Secondly, I came to realize that I knew nothing about grief! I had seen my great grandmother lose her husband of sixty years and my mother-in-law lose her husband of thirty-six years. While we went on with our lives a few weeks later as if nothing happened, they were grieving in lonely silence. I have never felt guilty over a single moment in time before in my life. They never reached out and said, “help me” and we didn’t think to ask. Their mourning period seemed to last until the funeral service was over and they magically went on with their lives. I cringe as I realize how wrong I was. Forty years ago, it was a societal expectation that they would bounce back quickly and that hasn’t really changed. Familiarity provides comfort, even if it’s misguided. On the other hand, it’s uncomfortable to lean into grief with our loved ones, so we take the easier path.

We all grieve differently. For me personally, there is no way I could grieve in silence or suffer in this darkness alone. Holding my emotions in was horrible for my mental health and I recognized that right away. I could not stand to be left alone in my house surrounded by pictures and memories of Rick and our kids living our lives out loud. It tormented me, until one day it didn’t. It was agonizingly slow and took me two years before I could smile at those pictures of my beautiful family.

 I realized I had no idea what was normal and what was not because no one had modeled it for me. I remember being four when my great, great-grandmother died. I cried and worried about her being cold when they lowered the coffin into the ground. My mom told me to “stop because I was upsetting my great grandma Todd.”  I kept crying, after being admonished by my mom  several times, I was told to go wait in the car for the rest of the service. That was my first experience with death and learning the proper way to behave. That thought angered me after Rick died. I realized that it was a need, not a want to be completely congruent in my grief. I wanted people to see all that is wrapped up in grief and how it is a roller coaster of complex emotions and sensations. We are not meant to do this alone. I know had I not had all of those surrounding me like I did, I would have died. Dramatic? Perhaps. Fact? Absolutely! It took me two and a half years before I didn’t mind being alone. Before that, if I got too much into my head and the house got too quiet the darkness of grief enveloped me like a heavy cloak.

Why do those of us grieving and mourning the loss of someone feel the need to say we are ok when we aren’t purely because we are worried about someone else’s discomfort? Or a friend or family member we rarely see gets to feel relief that “we are doing so good considering.” Like it is a badge of honor that we “moved on so quickly.” It certainly was one of those things that would set me on my soap box with anger. Why is their comfort more important than mine? I am the one who got their heart ripped from their chest, yet I am obligated to smile and say I am okay to prevent someone else from feeling any sort of discomfort? When is the grieving person’s comfort level as important? Why do we have to suffer in silence so others may continue to be misguided about the realities of grief? The main reality being that it typically lasts years and not a few weeks or months.

I realized that it was layers that made grieving more complex. One lacks exposure and understanding of how grief works. Most grieve in silence and keep their pain private, doing so gives society a misguided impression that grief IS quick, and it IS over within a few months. We as a culture are uncomfortable watching someone emote and talk about the person they lost because we simply are not exposed to it enough. We do not know what to say or do to help, so we repeat the unhelpful platitudes we have heard passed down from family to family that only serve to make people feel badly for grieving aloud or too long. If we were more exposed to the reality of  healthy grief and mourning on a regular basis, we as a culture would eventually be more comfortable with it and in turn be able to provide better support for those that desperately need it.

This is particularly relevant for those secondary losses, like friends who avoid us because it is too painful to watch, and they simply do not know what to do or say. So, they do the absolute worst thing possible that only serves to wound us more: they do nothing and say nothing. When my secondary losses initially happened, I was devastated but I was too emotionally exhausted to confront them and try to work it out. They didn’t understand how much I was suffering, if they did, they never would have abandoned me in my time of greatest need. They are not uncaring women; they simply didn’t know how to support me in my grief. I was once like them, so I understood it, but that fact didn’t make it sting any less.

The second is that some people are not transparent in their grief. This could be due to feelings of shame and judgement and for some it’s simply that they are private people. This is the category I fell into before Rick died. I had no real understanding of what grief was like and when I saw people devastated over their loss or still talking about their loss years later, I could not understand it. I am incredulous when I think of the thoughts and judgements that I had, when I had absolutely no idea. I thought I did, and clearly, I was wrong. I used to think: It’s mind over matter, think of the good times, and if you have to: suck it up! I am embarrassed to say it aloud, but that is my ugly truth. Transparency is crucial if we want to learn from one another. Even admitting the ugly parts.

I had no idea, until Rick died. At first, I was sure something was wrong with me because I assumed most folks didn’t grieve like I did. I was stunned how I could be fine one minute and then on the floor, clutching my heart in agony as I pleaded for my sweet husband to come back to me. It certainly surprised me I wasn’t ashamed of my grieving out loud. It was overshadowed by the terror of what was happening to me. I was sure I was going mad and that weighed heavily on my mind when I wasn’t overwhelmed by the loss of Rick.

Imagine how humbling it was to find out that strength has nothing to do with how long your grief and mourning lasts or the ways in which you cope with it. I considered myself strong and imagined that I would be able to manage grief and be back to “normal” in a few months. If someone were to tell me that three years later, most days I hurt the same as that first night. That I would have a never-ending ache deep within my soul; I would roll my eyes. They don’t know that I am a tough cookie.”  

While I feel guilty for my assumptions about grief and loss, I give myself grace. We cannot know until we are in the thick of it. But we can learn how to sit with someone in their brokenness. We can do hard things. We can change our grief culture. But it will take time.

I want to leave you with one last nugget for those new to grief. There were hundreds of occasions when I thought I couldn’t live a second more without Rick. The first night, the first week, the first month, and the first year; each of those times I was sure I couldn’t make it. Each milestone was proof I could do it! As time went on, my hope grew that I would be ok. As I pass the two-year mark and move towards the third year, those little victories combined make one triumphant victory! I would hear widows speak of the years it took them to feel “normal” again. I made myself a promise that I would do my best to work through this pain. I’d dig deep and find my strength within to keep going, without Rick. I’m glad I’m still here, as hard as it’s been I didn’t give up.

I have days when I feel happy instead of hollow. My foreboding and anxiety are gone. Last week, I noticed fleeting  glimmers of joy! There is no life without joy – and those glimmers give me so much hope. I am sometimes afraid of what life has in store for me and the hurdles I have to go through alone, without Rick. I can finally say, “Look at those times you were sure you couldn’t, and you did!”

I will be okay! And this time, I know it to be true.