TEN TRUTHS: Things I'm Learning Through Grief

It has been nearly seven months since Bill's terminal cancer diagnosis shook our lives, and it has now been almost four months since he died at age 57. It has also been seventeen months since my mother died of a terminal illness at age 69, and two months since Bill's mom died in a tragic house fire at age 85. Like it or not, I'm earning a personal Ph.D. in handling terminal illness, sudden tragedy, loss, grief, and life after the death of a loved one. As the Nationwide Insurance TV commercial says, "Sometimes life comes at you." Ready or not, here it comes, fast, furious, and out of control.

The seven month time period is vital to me because that's when I mark the beginning of my grieving process, and his. My grief didn't start when Bill died; it began at the moment they found the golf-ball sized tumor on his pancreas. Although we didn't know at that time that he would die as quickly as he did, we both knew he would die, probably within the year.

One of my most important jobs as his caregiver was to help him grieve as well. After all, he was the one robbed of his health and life. He was the one hurting, suffering, and eventually, leaving the life and the people he loved. Helping him meant lots of different things, and I learned as I went along. It meant listening, talking, and crying together. Sometimes it meant giving him tough love, and other times it meant biting my tongue. It meant giving him space to process his feelings without ever letting him feel alone. It meant doing my best to make sure he had closure with everyone he loved and allowing his friends and family to spend precious time with him and to say their goodbyes. And, honestly, it meant sharing him with the whole world when I knew I was losing him. With his days numbered, all I wanted to do was hold him close and keep him all to myself. For us it meant visitors every week and weekend, big music and birthday parties, and a house full of people at every moment because that's what comforted him most. It meant setting my own needs aside so that I could help make his final months and weeks as beautiful as possible. It meant giving him unconditional love, to the very end. I loved him so very much. I had to be willing to let him go when all I wanted to do was hold on to him with all my might.

Every day people ask me some version of the same questions. "How are you?" I always answer with, "Today, I feel ______." That way I can be honest in the moment. Because feelings during grief can change moment to moment, that's the best way I know to respond. The second question is more of an observation. "I don't know how you do it. You're dealing with so much right now." I never quite know how to respond to this. I always acknowledge their statement, but what does a person say to this? I usually remark that I'm just surviving like everyone else, trying to deal with each crisis as it comes, feeling my way through it all. And that's the truth.

Grief is messy. It hurts. It's like surgery with no anesthesia. There may be five stages of grief, but they are far from a linear journey. They bounce around like a ping-pong ball in your heart and soul, and like the weather in Ohio, you might experience all five stages in a single day. No two days are alike, emotionally. It's the most unpredictable ride I've ever been on, and most days I wonder whether I'm moving forward, or going in circles. There is a blindfold over my eyes that doesn't allow me to see the other side, so I keep going.

I am learning a lot, though. I'm learning lessons I could only learn on this specific journey. Bill and I decided very early on in this process that we would be as open and transparent with our experience as possible, for several reasons. Firstly, if we publicly shared our experience, we wouldn't have as many private inquiries. There was no way we could keep up with the lovely calls, emails, and texts from friends and family. Secondly, we wanted to document our experience, in all its raw pain and exposure, on the outside chance that it might resonate with someone else going through the same thing. Never in our wildest dreams did we imagine we would receive the outpouring of response that we have.

And it's still happening. I have people I've never met approach me every time I travel for birding, work, or personal time, who thank me profusely for sharing my experience so openly. Because I've opened my heart like a fishbowl, other people willingly share stories of their grief and loss, many with tears in their eyes and overwhelming empathy in their hearts. I've becoming aware of this unnamed "Band of Grievers" - soul friends who are bonded by an experience like brothers and sisters who have experienced the nightmare of combat together. I suppose this is a sort of battle, too, as we fight our way through the days, months, and years of uncharted emotional waters. The greatest gift in all of this is knowing I'm not alone in my experience. I'm often tempted to isolate myself entirely, but I keep making myself connect with people. The right people. The soul people.

To continue sharing my unpredictable grief journey, I'm sharing ten things today that I'm learning. These are not things I've mastered, but truths that are awakening in me. I'm sure I'll have ten different things to share months down the road, but this is where I am today, and these are the lessons I'm learning.

When someone dies, people always say, "At least they're not suffering anymore." or "At least they're at peace." or "At least it happened quickly." "At least they didn't suffer.", as if this somehow offers those left behind a glimpse of a silver lining around the Hell that is death and loss. I realize people are trying to be kind and reveal a bright side to loss, but there's nothing good about cancer, loss, tragedy, or death. There's nothing good about terminal illness, or older people dying in house fires. There's nothing good about our loved ones being gone from our lives forever. It's all terrifying, a living nightmare of the first order. But I believe that there can be a purpose in the pain if we open ourselves and allow it to change us. It can smooth out our rough edges, firm up the weak places in us, sharpen our focus and perspective, and open our souls to a depth of love, forgiveness, and healing we've never known.

That is my greatest wish - for you, for me, for all of us. May we be brave enough to embrace the pain and to let it shape us, making us better, not bitter.


TEN TRUTHS: Things I'm Learning Through Grief

1. Everyone grieves differently, but not every grieving behavior is healthy. It's essential to identify "healthy healing habits" and stick to those, rather than allowing destructive, emotionally-numbing patterns to form during our grief.

2. Nobody knows what to say to you when someone you love has died. Even the most socially adept among us feel awkward offering their condolences. Listen openly to anyone who wants to share in your sorrow, especially when the words are clumsy. (I've had some pretty funny experiences with this that I'll share at another time).

3. Death, loss, and grief are now part of my story, but these things don't define me completely. My story is still being written. They're gone, but I'm still here.

4. The only predictable thing about grief is its unpredictability.

5. It's okay to feel happy. It sounds like a quote from Captain Obvious, but it's incredible how guilty grieving people can feel when they realize they're experiencing positive emotions. We know it's okay to be sad, but it seems like we're betraying the one we've lost if we feel happy. We're not. We're just living and healing.

6. Identify your safe people and allow them to be your companions on this part of the journey. No one should ever have to die alone, and no one should ever have to grieve alone.

7. Grief changes us. There's no way around it. We will never be the same after this experience, nor would we want to be. And although grief is hard, change is good.

8. Self-care, even at the most surface level, is not only important right now, but it's also critical.

9. Find good things to do, and do them. Volunteer. Take a friend to dinner. Make a meal for someone sick. The only way through grief is to grieve, and the only path to wholeness is to live, love, and give unconditionally. As much as we're tempted to wallow in our self-pity, the path to healing is showing unconditional love to others.

10. Grief can become either a hole in our hearts or a doorway. We get to choose whether grief will become a giant void that swallows us up or a door that leads us to a more profound relationship with ourselves and others. How we use the space that loss creates in our lives is up to us. We can hide in the hole, or we can walk through the doorway into a new and different life experience.

THE GIFT OF GRIEF.

In the not-so-wonderful world of grief, there exists a fine line. It’s an invisible divide that separates the shallow waters near the shore from the deep ocean. It’s where the bottom drops off, the cold, rough seas begin, and the dangerous currents live. Most of us cross it without realizing we’ve journeyed from safe, shallow waters into deep, hazardous currents.

Picture yourself standing on the beach at the ocean. You step into the waves, feel the cold water smacking against your shins, and you begin to physically and mentally adjust to the temperature and feel of the water. You step farther in, feeling the water slap your belly, your chest, rising to your shoulders. The water is cold, but not unbearable because the sun has warmed the shallow water near the shore. This shallow region near the beach represents "good grief" - grief in its natural, healthy state.

The water itself represents the feelings we have when we are grieving. They are always changing, being pulled by the moon, pushed by the wind, moved by the currents. Grieving is a part of loving. And like the depth of the water, it has different levels. Grief happens when things we love and need are removed from our lives making us sad, angry, lonely, and fearful. Things die, break, are taken from us, or get lost – things like people, hopes and dreams, cars, pregnancies, homes, jobs, even favorite items like your grandmother’s ring or your favorite sweater.

Losing a loved one causes the most intense kind of grief, and that puts us right into the ocean. Sometimes we’re warned in advance that we’re going into the grief-waters. We have a little time to put our bathing suits on, to make sure there’s a lifeguard present, and to have our towel, fins, goggles, and sunscreen ready. Other times life gives us a strong push out of nowhere, and we’re shoved from behind into the cold, dark water wearing our clothes, shoes, cell phones, and all.

Now, imagine a riptide grabbing you by the legs. You feel it gently tugging at first, but the pull gets stronger taking your legs out from under you forcibly. You intuitively understand that you could easily drown, and you enter fight-or-flight mode. As you struggle to keep your head above water, you look back to the shore and notice you’ve been pulled 25 feet from the place where you first stepped in! But wait... you suddenly remember you’re in shallow water. You stretch your legs beneath you and reach for the sand. As your feet take root and your legs straighten causing your body to rise, you’re instantly able to withstand the violent current. Grief is a strong riptide, but if you’re in shallow water, you can resist it. The forceful water left you cold, exhausted and soaked to the skin, but you survive. Now that you’re standing, you can clearly see your original tracks on the beach, the place where you started, and you can work your way back to shore.

If the rip current hits us without our feet firmly planted, it can easily drag us to deep water before we realize it. We start swimming with no point of reference, panicked and afraid. We find ourselves flailing in the deep, our feet desperately reaching for the bottom but not feeling it, waves dragging us under. This is what self-pity and "wallowing" does. These deep, cold waters are where waves and currents of emotion turn deadly. Self-pity and wallowing drown us quickly, and we will likely sink without a rescue effort.

So, how do we know when we’ve moved from grief to self-pity, from the safe shallow to the dangerous deep? Where is that fine line that separates the two?

The fine line is within each of us, and only those who are self-aware can detect it.

Grief happens naturally if we don’t resist it. When we’re standing in that shallow water, we feel it, experience it, embrace it, but it doesn’t wash us away. Self-pity, however, is something we allow and indulge that eventually controls us. It pulls at our heartstrings and whispers, “LIFE IS NOT FAIR. You don’t deserve this. Everyone else’s life is easier than yours. You’re stuck. You're a victim.” Before we can stop ourselves, the healthy sadness, anger, and fear we feel with “good grief” turn to bitterness, despair, and resentment. We move from self-aware-sadness to self-centered-bitterness. 

Healthy grief, or “good grief” falls in the self-compassion category.

SELF-COMPASSION:

-    Empathy toward self and others

-    Our hearts are expanded and compassionate

-    Acknowledgment of my pain and suffering but it doesn’t define me

-    Still moving forward, even with pauses and setbacks

-    Element of vulnerability

-    Allowing feelings to flow freely, not forcing or denying feelings

Self-pity or “wallowing” falls in the self-destruction category.

SELF DESTRUCTION:

-    The pain I feel becomes my identity. I move from “I have pain” to “I am my pain.”

-    Our hearts are contracted by comparison to others and their situations.

-    Feeling stuck with no options

-    Element of control, escape, and self-protection from pain

-    Forcing or denying feelings, not allowing them to flow freely

Okay, so what does healthy, “good grief” look like? It’s messy, unpredictable, and even a little chaotic. Every day - even every hour - can be different during seasons of pain. We often don’t know how to make room for it as we’re trying to carry on with our “normal” lives. Nothing feels normal when you’re grieving. There’s no right or wrong way to do it. But if you can sit with your own grief or sit with a friend in his or her trouble, the wondrous gift is that it passes like a rainstorm… it’s like the contractions before birth… on the other side of the tremendous pain is a deep joy – a profound, lasting sense of being held by the earth or by some great force of love. That’s part of the gift of grief.

There is no positive outcome to self-pity or wallowing. The lie is that the grief will kill you. It WON’T. Believe it or not, it's a gift. Feel the pain. It hurts. Notice how and where your body is expressing itself. Sit with it some more. Invite grief to be your companion, not the enemy you’re running from. Breathe, be mindful, be present, be loving to yourself and others. Be a friend to yourself when a friend is not available.

Most importantly, plan time and space for it. Free your schedule. Grief may show up at the worst times and surprise you, but if you start to give emotions the space they need, they have the freedom to rise and to clear.

What you’ll notice if you can sit with anger, sadness, or fear (all parts of grief), is that it grows and becomes almost unbearable, and then it passes… like a thunderstorm… and, in its place, the gift of strength and joy expands. The release is a relief for your body, your soul and your mind.

Someone once said, “Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.” Today, as I watch my sweet Bill suffer another day with painful, terminal cancer, I have a choice. I can grieve, or I can wallow. I can acknowledge and feel my pain, or I can command it to sit in the corner and obey me. I can have an expanding, compassionate heart, or one that is closed-off and protected from both love and pain.

Everyone who truly loves will eventually experience grief.

That's because grief is part of love. Both are part of the same gift.

Today I choose love, even if it hurts.

Be Still

Cannot sleep this summer’s night
Breezes bathing deep repose
Mother’s goodnight lullaby
Drifting, lifting, rhythm slow
Crickets keep time with my soul

Winter’s Summer, Solstice sun
Afrikaans sing midnight blue
Colors real here, they began here
Other shades are Deja vu
Whispers of the thing that’s true

January’s diamond stars
Patterns traced in waking dreams
All misunderstandings pause
Southern Cross and Pleiades
Meditation flows from these

Lost in sadness lingering
Faith and feelings yet defined
Though I try I cannot sing
Lost love letters left unsigned
Hopes like shadows cast behind

What is man but sand and clay
Stained glass windows erudite
Decorating walls by day
Shining glorious by night
Beauty born from inner light

When I sleep I dare not dream
When I dream I dare not breathe
Frightened by the powers unseen
Demons chant with no reprieve
Devils dare me to believe

I hear deep call unto deep
Waterfall and whip por will
Pray the Lord my soul to keep
In this season dark and shrill
Speaking silently, Be still

Today

Today

I don’t feel brave.

I don’t want to read the words

That people with good intentions write

To try and help me make sense

Of senseless pain and despair.

Today

I don’t want to be told

That it will be okay

Because nothing will ever be okay again.

Nothing about this is okay.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

Today

I don’t want to hear

About how your loved one was healed

By miracle methods that saved his life

By prayer and power that defied all logic

About websites and wizards who can surely fix this.

Today

I’m so very tired

Of watching the one I love most in the world

Hurting, fading, fighting, holding on

And there’s nothing I can do

But say, “I love you. I’m here.”

Today

I don't need thoughts and prayers

Cakes and casseroles

"If there's anything I can do...".

What I need is to have him back

Whole, healthy, full of life and love.

Today

I want to wake up

To find this was all just a bad dream.

That it’s not really happening.

But it is happening.

My worst fears are my reality.

Today

I’m aching for what was.

I’m grieving for what will never be.

I’m afraid of the loneliness I feel now

And the loneliness that is sure to come.

I’m terrified of facing life without him.