Thoughts on Loss and Grief

 

Loss is a companion through life. In the hopeful scheme of things, the losses of our youth are less significant; the breaking of a favorite toy, a stolen bicycle or a friend moves away. As we grow older the losses can be more significant to us; the loss of a job or home or a relationship, and then worst of all losses, those of the ones we love. 

Usually it begins with the generation before us like grandparents; occasionally one or two of our own generation, and hopefully never, one of the generation following us. Gradually, as a result these losses, grief becomes a familiar, though unwelcome, presence.

Now that I am a little ways north of 60, I know what it is like to bury my grandparents, aunts and uncles, and sadly, two siblings in my own family. This past month, just a week apart, my husband's twin passed unexpectedly and then my dear mother-in-law. We were waiting for the end of the painful treatments that my husband's brother was suffering  for cancer, and were very hopeful for his recovery. We were upset to hear of his hospitalization for an infection, yet not worried. That this was not the outcome was beyond shocking. No last words, no goodbye, no reassurance of love could be given.

My mother-in-law was 99. When people hear this they say, "Well she had a good, long life" or Aren't you fortunate to have had her for so long". Clearly both these things are true. Yet she was indomitable. She was going to live to be 100. We thought that she would just always be there. It seems though that the death of yet another son was just more than she had stamina for. We watched her disappear before our very eyes. I never imagined that I would be at her side when she took that last breath. We live in Ontario and she has always lived in Quebec. We always dreaded that one day we would get that phone call. Who could imagine that the death of one dear one would place us in Quebec to be present at the death of another dear one and how can one be grateful for such a circumstance. 

These feelings, this grief, so overwhelming that sometimes your mind just repels its presence so strongly that you feel absolutely nothing for moments at a time. Then, like the ocean shoreline, you feel the waves pound against you, unending, inexorable. Sometimes like a tsunami, so huge and engulfing that you feel you will never breath again, then sometimes a more gentle lap against the sand, not so destroying but you you still feel its presence. You realize the myriad of ways that you were connected to those who are no longer here because every thing now reminds you in some way of them; a song, a photo, a place, a tiny habit. And each of those things emphasizes painfully the fact that you will no longer be able to share any of those things together ever again. 

And sometimes... you wonder if you can survive it.

But you do.

I thought there was more than a touch of irony in the fact that my husband had a checkup with his cardiac specialist just days after we returned home. I said, 'Could the doctor see that your heart was broken?". It's not always something that you can see unless you look really closely.

But just as the relentless ocean waves change the shoreline, so are we are buffeted and changed by loss. Forever. We are no longer that same person. Pieces of us are missing; pieces are rearranged. But slowly, over time and each at our own pace, we find a new way forward. I have not lost my life mate; my mind utterly balks at that thought. My sister-in-law will not easily accept this new life empty of her most precious person. I have now lost another mother and feel orphaned in a profound way. My husband has lost his twin and his mother at once. Grief is a desperately lonely and solitary road even when we walk it with along side others. You have to make your own peace with it.

There is however some comfort in the expression of grief; in the sharing of memories, tears, a hug. Many times there are no words to express how we feel or that can comfort; only the touch of another hand in companionship can do that.

And perhaps that is the only way we can survive.

Tending to grief

This week the bubble on my personal level was way off centre. Now granted there are many occasions where that does not take much, but this was more an accumulation of  a lot of emotional things. 

Overshadowing everyone and everything for what seems like forever now, is the pandemic. So that is always lurking. 

Then a family closet door opened and out popped a skeleton of huge proportions. This directly affects the past, present and future of several cherished family members, so needed careful thought and action. This same situation required me to examine many of the things that I had been brought up to think; things that formed much of my personal frame of reference. 

Wrapped up in this package was the news that a  close family member may have a serious diagnosis. 

Then came concerns about my 97 yr. old mom-in-law. 

Then came news of several deaths in our small circle of family and friends. 

...then I found our favorite chipmunk floating in a bucket at my neighbour's when I went next door to water her plants.

He was a little furry pal, a pet in a way, and we were attached, so I mourned him sincerely. But I think that was the straw; the catalyst to release all of the pain and grief that had been accumulating.

Grief for...

 things that happened that should not have

people and places of trust weren't trustworthy

burdens carried for so long

the immeasurable damage

silence imposed and held

innocence lost

future losses

being in ignorance.

So many things.

Is there a remedy for this grief?

Not especially, but there are some strategies for coping.

I cried out my sorrow.

I deliberately put away active thoughts on all of those things causing my pain for a day.

I pulled out a book by a favorite author and let it draw me in.

I went to the path with my camera and focused it on the things that I could see and hear and smell.

I looked at the small wonders and marveled.

I looked at the vast sky to remember my small place under it.

Then I summoned gratitude for...

my husband who does not flinch when I greet him at the door with tears

my children who listen, who shake me firmly and gently when I need it and who help me work out a new way to understand the world

for skeletons and secrets no longer hidden

for those who though deeply scarred have survived and are working on a way of continuing to do so in a healthier way

that I am privileged to be able to take a day away from pain as so many are unable to do.

that's just grief...

sneakin' up on you, to paraphrase a Bonnie Raitt song title. Kind of like a ninja whose identity is hidden and appears out of nowhere to attack. There are many times that we can anticipate the presence of grief; for example, my brother Alan's birthday is in several days. I do, and expected to, mourn his absence this year to celebrate it. These moments we anticipate and expect to again feel loss and grief. 

It is the 'heart-attacks' that catch us unawares; those instants of sudden, emotional, re-realization that we cannot see or talk to our special people, that send us for a spiral. The older I get, the more 'loaded' some moments become..my great-niece is having her first baby..so wonderful..Alan will never meet his first great-grandchild..so heartbreaking. Everything seems to have that wrenching flip-side.

Recently my youngest began a new job; a great job and he is so happy. This means that our wee man must take that first step out of the nest and into daycare. Normal in these days when both parents need to be employed in order to survive right?! I immediately felt like I should take care of him instead of anyone else. This was not realistic but I felt so guilty. My children did not have this expectation and when I cried all over my daughter-in-law and apologized that in reality I could not take this on, she, sweet girl, had to ask my son why his mother was weeping on her shoulder. 

I am still teary as I write this, but now, several weeks after baby has settled beautifully into a wonderful daycare, I realized that the underlying emotional was really grief. I realized that this beloved little blond head on my shoulder was so much like the blond head of his father 30 some years ago. My boy is a man, and now our baby was on his way, growing up, not a baby any more. Grief, or perhaps mourning..time passing, changes.

So I exchanged guilt for grief and allowed the tears to flow for a bit, and they cleansed instead of hurt so intensely. Then I bought a car-seat so I could be available if needed, and maybe I will become a visiting Grandma at the daycare at some point. It is not easier, the facts remain the same, but at least I know it for what it is, grief that will sneak up on me when I expect it, and when I don't. 

We bump into the fact of mortality unexpectedly sometimes; those birthdays with an '0' or illness or an accident. Those things that remind us that we are not, nor are those we love, infallible or permanent. We don't like those reminders because they are frightening and unwelcome. For those who are of an optimistic nature or are more pragmatic, this is the stuff of life. For those of us who are pessimistic, this is also the stuff of life, but with no up side.

This is my challenge; to find balance in life and work to savor each moment when I can. It is difficult to avoid the those ninja 'heart attacks' of life, but I am learning that there is nothing wrong with acknowledging those moments of grief. And the more able that I become to recognize it for what it is, the more those moments can become moments of remembrance and celebration of people we love.

 

Closure....

I bumped into my age the other day. It used to be called 'the generation gap', those differences that exist between parents and children because they are growing up in a different time. I told my son that I had watched the digital version of my brother's funeral service*, and he looked alarmed and asked 'why?'. I looked puzzled and thought 'why would I not?'. 'Oh', he said. 'Did you need closure?' (*refer to blog of 3 Nov 2018)

Sons, especially grown ones, do not like their mother to be upset, which is endearing and thoughtful protection but not always realistic. Painful things happen, and often, without notice and invitation. He did however understand that there might be a purpose for my action, this being 'closure'.

I have thought about this a lot since that conversation. I do not remember that word being used in this context for most of my lifetime. According to the dictionary the original word 'closure' apparently came from 'enclosure', the means of keeping something enclosed. Computer and mathematical fields use the word with this same implication, like a number set or an operation that is closed. For most of my life 'closure' was when something closed, like a business closure, or 'something that closes', like a skirt with a zipper closure. 

Now, as with many other words, the meaning has morphed into something different. The Urban Dictionary defines 'closure' solely in terms of relationships, as in being able to 'move on' after the termination of an unsuccessful relationship. It is more broadly used as the sense of bringing something to an ending, or something that facilitates that process, as in a victim finding closure to a painful experience and perhaps a trial, aiding that process. 

The generation that raised me was not one to display, or encourage a display or discussion of feelings; there was more a 'Keep Calm and Carry On' attitude to emotion. While I do not think this is necessarily a healthy view, it seems as though the generations coming along feel that happiness is somehow a right, therefore one must find 'closure' on unpleasant things in order to return to the desired happy place. 

So what does this word even mean? Are we to forget the painful things? What place are to put them? Do we not continue to mourn the loved ones who are no longer here with us? 

Well, two months have now passed since I began this blog. It is like a tap turned off in me and I went into an internal hibernation, a kind of silence. During this time I read that when the Druids celebrated the autumn equinox, they acknowledged that it was not just a time of harvest, but, recognizing the ebb and flow of the seasons, saw it as a time for regaining internal balance and so spent time in preparing themselves for the coming dark time. 

Because they followed the sun and the seasonal changes, they knew that they would be entering a time when the hours of light would grow increasingly shorter and so the time of sunshine and activity would now change to a time of increasing darkness and rest. This was a normal, natural, and accepted cycle of the seasons. 

The work of the garden was finishing, the harvest was secured and the garden prepared to withstand the coming winter. The work of the plants and trees moved from producing above ground to sustaining deep in the ground in their root systems. The leaves dropped and became nourishing compost for the soil. Just so, the Druids recognized that similar work for physical and spiritual balance must be done. The 'composting' took the form of discarding those things which are not used or no longer serve a useful purpose. 

Time for reflection and rest is no longer built into our society; we are to work and strive all the time, ignoring the fact that the body and mind, like the earth, need to rest and replenish, and in an equal amount of time in order to be most productive.

By the winter solstice, the garden was composted and replenishing, and the time of rest with its longest periods of darkness was ending. Sleep was repairing the body and quieter, more creative pursuits were restoring balance to the mind and spirit. 

So where does this leave us, in our world, at this time? I watch my children working all hours of the day and night, shifts that upset our bodies natural rhythms and allow insufficient time for rest, never mind creativity or time to feed important relationships. And the weather has been so variable and unpredictable; it has also been unrelentingly grey and gloomy for the past months. Ironically, I read the other day of a word, coined by an Australian philosopher, to describe the distress people feel about the very real changes in our environment made by global warming; it is 'Solastalgia'.  

Obviously there are many things that we have no control over, which may be why they cause us such anxiety. I realized though, that not only did I not prepare myself for the 'dark time' of winter, or 'dark times' of life, I did not accept them as part of the calendar year, or the calendar of my life. The Druids accepted, prepared and celebrated each part of the year, including the dark time, which they considered to be a full half of it. 

I realized that 'composting' as a process is needful and helpful for emotional balance and well-being. If you do not identify those things, emotional or physical, which are not helpful to you, those things that clutter and cause upset,  and attempt to discard them, your body and mind cannot find rest.

Rest is vital for the body and the spirit and must be given priority even against the societal norm of busyness and productivity and I realized that if I did not have sufficient rest I soon lost perspective on every aspect of my life.

So...I finally realized that over these months I had unwittingly been following some these ancient practices. I moved my inner life to a place of quiet where I could think. I read a lot and tried to be creative in those quiet spaces. I tried to identify those thoughts, feelings and even physical things that caused me disquiet in an effort to 'compost' them and find more positive thoughts and pursuits. I walked often, immersing in the beauty of the forest and the joy of the birds. I allowed myself to nap when weary. I am of an age when I have that luxury and am grateful for it for I remember the freneticism of younger years.

And I came to decide after months of mulling, that 'closure' was more preferably defined as 'acceptance'. I deplore its common usage which implies that the person finding closure has been clearly wronged or misused and the closure involves an action of revenge or justified abuse. I do not think it necessarily means that a resolution has been reached either. There is no resolution to death, loss and dark times. I also do not think that 'enclosure' describes it completely, as that to me implies drawing a circle around an event and putting it away. 

In order to find a 'closure' to my brother's death, I needed to accept all the circumstances of his passing. I needed to take part in the funeral that commemorated his life. I needed to examine all the feelings of pain as well as guilt that I had over things not said or done. Then I just needed to 'be' for a while. Then, after a while, I found a feeling of closure. I found it more slowly than my sister-in-law, as her experience had the intensity of daily inexorable loss and grief.  But, what I found  miraculously, was that the process had given me back my brother. I was free in a way to have Al back in a whole form; my big brother, his grin and his voice. It is wonderful and unexpected and welcome. I will always feel his loss, yet I feel a renewed presence with me.

Have I now become more accepting of the dark times? Am I more prepared? Probably not. Sometimes the pall of winter grey is overwhelming. But as the seasons inexorably change, the dark time is growing shorter and the blessing of spring does thankfully approach.

A Final Message

I attended my brother's funeral today..alone..sitting on my couch.

I wasn't there in person along side of my brothers, saying goodbye. My sisters-in-law and I were only present in our thoughts and hearts. The reasons were of necessity but still deeply unsatisfying emotionally.  The only thing that helped at all, was knowing that Barbara was already booked to visit Ontario in the following weeks. 

We anticipated Barb's visit as a beloved sister, not as our brother's widow bearing copies of his funeral service on USB sticks for us. We had planned a family gathering so we could see and touch her, hear her voice and her news. We had not known that Alan would leave us in the interim. 

I anticipated her arrival with, mostly, equal parts joy and trepidation. I wanted to be a support, to listen, to hug and offer love. I did not want to be weeping and needy requiring her consolation. 

It was a gift, that little bit of time. We were finally able to weep in one anothers arms and to talk about the pain of Alan's final journey. It had felt, to me, that the geographical distance made it almost impossible to walk along side of them, but Barb told me that she had always felt loved and supported along the way. The tears were healing. A precious gift of time and proximity. A treasure.

Robert did not want me to watch the service alone; ever the loving and protective big brother. Schedules interfered and I decided to watch it alone.  I saw my brothers file in and sit together. The natural selection that chose our faces from different ancestral mixes, made us all the same height and shape, and now time has painted our heads varying degrees of grey. I know they missed my presence but maybe it was good to just be brothers together mourning the loss of one that was dear.

The service was in a sense familiar, the patterns and music of my youth and my upbringing. The pastor read from my brother's own Bible. My niece told the story of my brother's life so beautifully. My great-nephew sang and my sweet great-nieces gave their own remembrances of their 'Papa'. 

Then there was a video..my heart cracked and a deep well of grief erupted. I had cried many times for my brother along the way, as I realized that he was suffering and at each new evidence that was he was leaving us. But this, this I hadn't know was even there. It occurred to me finally, that perhaps I had not really  admitted to myself that he was gone, really and finally gone from us. I have lived most of my life far from my brother. I was used to picturing him in the garden or at the table for tea with Barbara, or hundreds of other little mental photos that I had.  Even in the care home, I could picture the ebb and flow of his days because I had been a health care aide as well as cared for my parents. Perhaps I needed the reality of these final pictures.

I phoned my husband just to hear his voice, and he who knows me well, advised a quiet walk. It was drizzling, which was okay because I was too. In the process of calming down, and breathing in, and looking up, I guess I had processed something about the service more completely.

Alan had prepared the framework of his own service. His Bible was read from, his words to us all were spoken, the hymns he loved were sung, and the verses that were of special meaning to him were read. This was his voice. This was his final words of love to us all. He wanted us to know that his faith reassured him and carried him through even this. He believed he was loved and would be at peace and at rest. He had a deep and assured joy for his future. All of this underneath the painful and fearful process of arriving there, was this calm knowledge, this 'blessed assurance'.

So, while the tears are still close, it is okay because I received Al's last love letter to me.

I love you. It's ok.