Permission To Grieve

A man was shot 50 times by the police in
New York two hours before he was going to get married.  The community is enraged and the family is in shock.  When I close my eyes, I see the disbelief in the face of the bride to be. I feel that look.  All I can think about is that for some period of time, she will have someone to hate.  In this case, many people to hate.   

Kyron and I were talking about the murder when I bought my coffee at Starbucks.  He told me his brother was shot by four wannabe gang members.  They killed his beloved brother to be initiated into the gang.  Kyron’s brother died when his carotid artery burst.  It’s been many years since he died and still this gentle soul’s eyes turned hard.  He said if he saw one of those thugs he would pinch their carotid artery.   

I nodded in agreement because I understood.  The rage can come back at any time.  I know the name of the man who killed my sister and I could have spit it out.  His name is Murderer.  Many of us know that name.  We’ve shaken our fists and cried out, “You stole my brother, my sister, my fiancé.  You stole my family, my life, my hopes, and my sanity.  You must suffer.  You must pay.”  But, there is no justice.  The life cannot be replaced.   

Kyron and I know what she doesn’t yet know.  Having someone to hate focuses your energy and fills the body and spirit with rage and determination.  But it you don’t let it go, it will kill you slowly and with certainty.  It will eat you alive bit by bit, day by day. 

There is no way to measure losses.  Is one type of loss worse than another? Does it hurt less now?  Is someone worse off or better than me?  Does someone handle their loss better? 

Our losses are ours.  They become part of us and we live with them and sometimes they drive our life.  Usually it changes us irrevocably.  To measure our loss would be like measuring the change in us.  Are we a better person because we have grown? Is our heart closed or open?

 There is no purpose served to measure whether it is harder in the first year or the fifth year.  There is no point in grading a natural death versus a shocking death.  The measurement leads to judgment about how we handle our loss and inevitably how we feel about ourselves.

Our grief journey is a solo journey.  One we walk alone but hopefully supported along the way by others.  Yet, it is ourselves we must face and how our life will never be the same again.  This journey has no timetable, markers, or finish line.  We just walk.

The topography changes, the climate changes, and the seasons change.  And along the way, we change.  And we only change within ourselves when we are ready, not because we can will it or measure up to a standard.

There is no level, no grade, no right, no wrong, no clock, no calendar, no good, no bad.  There is the exploration of pain and joy that takes courage and strength. 

Let’s help each other through our journey by sharing our stories.

I had a root canal recently and the hardest part was not having my Mom alive to provide me with comfort.  It doesn’t matter that i am a successful and self sufficient woman–I was in pain.  I was in excrutiating pain for a few days and I wanted my Mom.

It didn’t matter how sick Mom was, she still mothered me and comforted me in a way that only a mother could.  I had that unconditional love and her emotional availability that allowed me to complain over and over without her shutting me up.

Even if we talked long distance, I could feel her stroking my head to soothe me to sleep and to help soften the pain. 

It was in the middle of the night and the painkillers weren’t working and I had to wait a few more hours until I could take the next one.  If Mom were alive, I would have called her.  We had that understanding that we called each other any time whenever we needed each other. 

If she were alive, she would have talked to me to distract me.  She would hold on while I did a warm water salt rinse and would ask if I rinsed long enough.  She would ask me if I wrote down the time I took my medication so I wouldn’t forget when my next dose was due.  She would ask if I was putting ice on my face.

She would change the subject and talk to me about an article she read, probably about an author.  We would not talk politics late at night when I was in pain.  She would tell me how to cook something and remind me how important it is to make sure I am eating and drinking to keep my strength up.  She would tell me to take my temperature to make sure I didn’t have a fever.

It doesn’t matter that I know how to do all these things, and, have already done them for myself a few times since she died.  I miss my Mom when I don’t feel well. 

Still, Mom taught me well because even when I didn’t feel like it, I took out a pad of paper and did what Mom taught me.  I had a column for my medication, a column for my temperature, and a column for my ice packs.  I diligently followed her advice and kept track.  She taught me well and I am so grateful for that. 

Despite missing her, each time I wrote in a column, I could feel Mom smiling that I was following her good and solid advice.   

I didn’t know how to pray.  I knew how to say prayers but I didn’t know how to turn to G-d.  It began as a conversation I had outloud that sometimes turned into an argument.

One time I simply said, “okay, now what?  how are you going to help me?” 

Other times in anger I shouted, “why did you do this? what do you expect me to do now?  Why are you putting me through so much agony?  Hey, are you there? Are you listening to me?”

 Other times, with a soft voice I said, “Help me.  Show me.  Guide me”. 

The response was slow and sometimes there was no response, but eventually I would feel a comforting presence and a source of strength.

I didn’t know if that presence was G-d, my family, or from within me.  I did know what when I surrendered I asked for help.  And when I asked for help, I never felt

I didn’t know how to pray.  I knew how to say prayers but I didn’t know how to turn to G-d.  It began as a conversation I had outloud that sometimes turned into an argument. One time I simply said, “okay, now what?  how are you going to help me?”  Other times in anger I shouted, “why did you do this? what do you expect me to do now?  Why are you putting me through so much agony?  Hey, are you there? Are you listening to me?”  Other times, with a soft voice I said, “Help me.  Show me.  Guide me”.  The response was slow and sometimes there was no response, but eventually I would feel a comforting presence and a source of strength. I didn’t know if that presence was G-d, my family, or from within me.  I did know what when I surrendered I asked for help.  And when I surrendered, I never felt alone.

Last night I asked C. where he is spending thanksgiving.  He is a gay man in his mid 30’s who relocated in the past year and his immediate family is scattered around so Iwas wondering where he would be.

He told me that since his Dad died 6 years ago, his family is gone as he knew it.  His Mom remarried and lives in Fla and they have involvements with his step-father’s children.

His brother is in San Francisco and is married with kids and they are involved with his wife’s family.

he really didn’t feel welcome or embraced in Fla or San Francisco, although no one would turn him away if he went there.

Instead, he is going to Atlanta to stay with his cousins.  He is travelling across the country to be with people who feel like he does.  His cousins recently lost their mother and this will be the first Thanksgiving without her.  They share with him the feeling of loss of their immediate family.

The loss isn’t as fresh for C. as his cousins but what resonates is that so often, when we lose a member of our immediate family, we end up losing the family that we knew. 

We lose the family we came from.  Some people go on and create a new family or family of choice.  Some tag along with another family, grateful to be there but knowing it is not family for them.

The holidays can be a trigger for feeling our loss despite how many years have passed.  All we can do is the best we can.

There was a moment tonight when i was so proud of myself.  Proud because of an accomplishment I achieved; proud because I handled it with humility and grace.  In a split second, I thought of my parents.I knew they would be proud of me today.  That moment is momentous because at a different time, i might have burst into tears and felt the sadness of their not being alive to witness my achievement.  Instead, I grew silent within.I listened closely and heard the whisper “I’m so proud of you, darling.”  I felt the presence of my parents with me and like the wind caressing my face, it was soft and sweet.In a flash it was over.  Instead of feeling empty I felt embraced and loved.Why would I burst into tears on one occasion and feel at peace on another?  It is not that time has passed and healed my wound.  No, because perhaps a different day and a different circumstance would create a deep loneliness.We live with this.  We understand this. We know that our grief does not have an expiration date.  But still, we change.  Each day we are different and are affected differently.  The same circumstance could happen tomorrow and I may react differently.  I embrace all facets of my grief.  I don’t need to judge it or understand it.  I just need to love it, as I love myself. 

Grief is not an emotion or experience that is readily accepted in our society.  We haven’t really been taught how to grieve.  We speak in hushed tones and alternative between not speaking ill of the dead or seeing movies with ghastly images.

The experience of death and dying is a part of our grief. but grief is what we are left wtih when our loved one leaves us. 

Every day, we sweep a little bit more of our grief under the carpet.  At work, we cannot show our pain nor express even the smallest emotion for fear of being labelled as unproductive.  At home, often our family members don’t want to talk because they are afraid of triggering their own grief.

what happens is we sweep bits of pain and sorrow and memories under the carpet and they become dusty and moldy.  Smelly.  They are dirty.  They are hidden.

All our feelings need is to be given the light of day and the chance for some air.  A breath of air for our pain is very healing. 

One of the most plaintive things about time going by is that I cannot remember my family’s voices.  I remember what they sound and how they said it, and once in a while a special phrase.

 but hearing a voice is so penetrating and intimate.  and i don’t remember their voices.