On Grief And Loss
and the ways humans respond
Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant.
~ Joan Didion
In an essay I penned on a similar topic a few years ago, I likened the non linear, displaced feeling that is so often an experience of grief, to something I know well; surfing a wave.
An initial rise on the crest, followed by a single moment of profound, intense silence through the curl. But it’s only after the brief, momentary hover, silence ends, and everything comes crashing down.
My friend Alexainie recently experienced something we‘ll all eventually need to face, if we haven’t already; the death of a father. The deeply considered, often achingly poignant prose it‘s generated from her has been on my mind a lot. And while it’s always difficult to see a friend go through loss, for me a large chunk of the reflection it inspired has been around my own recent, and not recent, experiences of death and the resultant grief that accompanies it. Or, in times when loss is not our own, how might we best respond to someone in grief while not compounding what they are going through? I know I felt at a loss when responding and communicating with Alexainie. Would my intent be clear, my method helpful, or would I say the wrong thing only serving to add another complicated layer to the slush she‘s already trudging through. Because, even though this is a topic that, for better or worse, I‘ve become increasingly well versed in, it can be a decidedly different experience when offering needed support to someone else.
So, a word about intention. The following are my own random and somewhat disjointed considerations on the rituals of grieving and supporting those who grieve. They are in no way are meant as a how to guide on grief, loss, or death. Instead, they’re ideas and insights garnered from having walked a lengthy trek on similar footing. Given that easy answers and quick fixes are nowhere to be found, I think the best approach for anyone that may be unsure stems from sincerity, errs on the side of respectful, and understands the timeless value of “less is more”.
A Personal Glimpse
Losing my own father this past August was the most recent event in a disturbingly lengthy death tally of people close to me. In 2007, my partner of 7 years died unexpectedly after a brief illness, the suicide of a close friend followed just over a year later. My mother, who had waged a lengthy, and until the fall of 2010, successful battle with cancer, passed away following a brief but aggressive recurrence. Being an only child, and having had an exceptionally close relationship with Mom for most of my life, her loss was brutal, nor prepared for. Then, just as I began to work through that process, came the impossible decision of having to end my 14 year old dogs suffering from hip dysplasia. My take away from those events? That a sense of being profoundly untethered, connected to no one had be come a familiar mainstay in my life. With quite the awkward fit. Two short years later, it was my father who suffered a serious stroke; his subsequent rapid decline culminated in his death this past August.
Until 2007, my experience of losing someone extremely close to me had been minimal. That all changed in a Toronto ER the day my partner was administered a drug he was allergic to. What began as a serious, but definitely treatable systemic reaction to a hospital drug error, ended almost a year later with a rapidly escalating series of complications that found him in end stage liver failure. His death came quick, offering little time to prepare.
Losing my partner of almost eight years was to experience pain I had not thought possible. It is in many ways unfathomable to those who have never experienced the loss of a mate. The worst, at least for me, was the feeling of being completely without tether, grounded to nothing and no one. With him, I had experienced love and grounding in every manner possible. In our seven years together we had grown as close as two people were able.
David understood me on a fundamental level. Aware of my contradictions, my obsessions, my deftly hidden secrets no one was allowed to see, he “got” my sometimes tedious need for introspection. Like me, imagination and the navigation of uncharted terrain fascinated him. He would forever be losing his keys or searching for a pen. He lived through his senses, soothingly confident with the the delicate skin of intense relationships; it was with David where I could be me.
No words were ever required.
Going cold turkey on that level of connection was akin to being launched into a brick wall at lightning speed. One that you are convinced you will never step away from. But, you do. You just do. As un-sexy as it sounds, time does heal. And you do move through it. I realize that’s not a particularly edifying answer, especially for a catharsis junky such as myself, but, it’s the truth.
Years pass, memories fade, occasional visceral snaps of it will trigger in a random, unrelated nexus. But you go on, complex, whole and flawed, never quite the same, keeping your center of gravity low and using momentum to minimize harm, content in the knowledge that you are a person capable of joy, of rage, of passion, who less and less fights battles with the past.
That one death would have been enough. Certainly no one expected, least of all me, that four more deaths would follow pretty much one after the other. So it should surprise no one that by the time my father died, I no doubt ranked among the most highly skilled avoidance and deflection experts around, when it came to actually working through my grief. But like it or not, eventually I had no choice but to face the inevitable realizations over what death and its effects have meant for me. Today, almost seven months later, those are the things I am still working through, and will be for a while.
What have I learned?
A few things, actually.
I’ve learned hat breathing and patience help, a lot. That rigid expectations are both largely unhelpful and unnecessary, as they usually involve others needs, yet rarely our own. There has also been a growing awareness, and perhaps a slower growing acceptance, that we can’t, nor are we meant to, do this shit alone. What that suggestion ultimately looks like varies, but it does mean that asking for help will sometimes be required. That will never be an easy fit for me, but I’m actively pushing the comfort limits on it.
I’ve also learned, and become absolutely certain of the fact that responses to grief, above all, are highly individual. In other words, fuck the pre determined templates of appropriate grief. And short of going ragingly postal, seriously abusing substances, or directly and intentionally harming ourselves or those close to us, the responses each of us will manifest to loss are most often normal, healthy, and required. Above all, they need to be taken at their own pace.
Sometimes therapy and / or medication can and does help. Once again, that is such an individual decision based on a host of factors no one but the person going through it can evaluate. I know for myself, a Type A with control issues, therapy has always been a tough sell, and although psychotropic meds are a hard line no for me, for some, they are a required key to a door through which they find a sense of normality. I have utilized therapy on a situational basis, as a type of check in to make sure I am responding appropriately (whatever that is). The dangerous part with people like myself, is that often no one else will recognize the need. We cover well.
I know that it is often a bad cliche, but something else I realized going through my experience of multiple loss, is that the little things really do matter. Often, those small gestures form much of the glue that cements our ability to get through what we never believed we could. Trust me, taking the time and offering a supportive thought seems like a small thing, but I can say with assurance, it is never forgotten. Letting another know you care and appreciate their current fuckedupedness, and you’ll be there if needed, can sometimes be the lifeline that ultimately matters.
The ironic element here, is that when offering support, human beings can and do fuck it up in some gloriously cringe inducing ways. Not knowing what to say is expected, and it’s okay. Because really, what is there to say beyond a sincere expression of sorrow and / or support? We often try in vain, searching endlessly for that one inspirational, yet poorly constructed Hallmark quote that we assume will be the magic balm. However, there is no magic balm, and there never will be, and attempts that suggest otherwise are usually cheesy, annoying, insensitive, and amusingly tone deaf. Platitudes such as “she’s gone to a better place”, “he’s with the angels now”, or describing the rain as God’s tears, not only require a heck of a lot of assumptions, their authoritative sentiment is usually not appreciated.
So don’t attempt to be positive, as you will fail. There is no positive part of this. Someone is dead and that means they are going and others are hurting. This is really not rocket science. The key here is deal with what has occurred, don’t deny it. And when you do, remember less is more.
Assumptions and stereotypes are another easy avenue to having ones foot firmly lodged in ones mouth. When my partner died of liver failure secondary to an allergic reaction from a hospital drug error, having to deal with more than one well meaning comment at the funeral, akin to something like, “What a sad, tragic disease. It’s taken so many of our best, most creative men. I hope they find a cure soon.”
The assumption underlying that statement couldn’t be more clear. He must have died of AIDS. Because, all gay men do. To which I responded, snark in high gear, “Yes, AIDS is certainly a tragic disease, one that I’ve lost more than my share of friends to. David, however, died of medical incompetence. Sorry to break your narrative, but we “creative” types do occasionally die of other things.”
I’m guessing I don’t need to indicate the lengthy and uncomfortable silence that retort generated. I’m sure some will disagree, but polite and respectful does not require a rocket science manual. There is never anything wrong with simple and to the point.
I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.
Is there anything I can do? Please call if you need anything.
Do you need help with x, y, or z are all honest, gentle to hear, and are often action based.
In considering this theme of death, etiquette around loss, etc. I found myself pondering the historical contributions writers have made in this area. As a writer myself, I often look to personal narrative and the documented experience of others for knowledge and insight. What I realized early on was that some of the most “inspirational” and popular quotes on grief, loss, and death, are frequently overly sentimental, trite, with many venturing into cliche. At worst, there is no shortage of barely coherent soundbites chalk full of hokey, sentimental bullshit, the core themes of which are often untrue.
A Few Choice Examples
This seems like an obviously well intended little ditty, however it comes complete with a sweetness that is almost diabetic inducing, simply through reading it.
If tears could build a stairway,
And memories a lane,
I’d walk right on up there to Heaven
And bring your blissful self home again.
You know, the more I read that, the more it sounds like some twangy country song belted out by a big haired blond, complete with perma smile and Wranglers.
Then there is this rather schizophrenic little piece of repetitive, strangely cadenced, poorly constructed word vomit. And am I the only one who picked up on the hint of lyrics from The Sound Of Music in the first and last lines?
Good-night! good-night! so long and farewell, as we so oft have said beneath this roof at garden of midnight, in the days we played.
That are no more, and shall no more return, and will never come again. Though the lamp is dead and gone to bed;
I stay a little longer, as one of those that stays to cover up the embers that still burn, after the sun has gone to bed, and so must they. Goodbye, goodbye.
Whoever told that idiot they could write needs to cease giving advice.
Speaking of word vomit, I’m calling this one lost in translation. A hopscotch of manic, unrelated ideas, it speaks to its own merit so exactingly, that besides a strangely puzzled head scratch, there is nothing left to be said.
Loss, like love and rape, is a big deal. Common thought is: is worth it? Maybe the more important question is how they all cause pain. Especially when death is violent.
A Few Of The Better Ones
Thankfully, though, not all of my discoveries were that pathetic. Since every so often there was a gem or two to be found; an unanticipated phrase, poignantly framed. Maybe a unique idea, one yet to be considered, or perhaps it’s that richly poetic verse, the truth of which is so resounding, it lays us out flat. It can be as simple as …
Man, when he does not grieve, hardly exists.
~Antonio Porchia
Or, as lyrically poetic as this insightful offering from good old Bill himself …
Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.
~William Shakespeare
The quote below has long been a favorite. And in one of those uniquely coincidental experiences, it turned out to be the last gift I received from my mother; framed in antique letterpress, it hangs on the wall above my desk.
Life is not measured by the amount of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
A quote from a master storyteller, the talented John Irving …
“In the end, it’s the details and simple offerings, however small or inconsequential that will matter the most.”
I have used this example before, but it has to be one of the best and most spot on descriptions of grief I have ever read. In a scene from the movie Rabbit Hole, there is a beautifully understated moment between Dianne Wiest and Nicole Kidman. Kidman’s character has recently lost her toddler son in a tragic car accident. Both women are silently doing laundry and packing up the Kidman’s sons belongings. Still wracked with obvious grief she asks her mother, who also lost a son years prior, if the pain of losing someone ever goes away.
Kidman: Does it ever go away?
Wiest: No, I don’t think it does. Not for me, it hasn’t — it has gone on for eleven years. But it changes though.
Kidman: How?
Wiest: I don’t know … the weight of it, I guess. At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and … carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you … you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason and — there it is. Oh right, that.
Kidman: Is it enough?
Wiest: No, of course not. But it’s something you can live with, because it’s what you have instead of your son.
I have found that passage to be a strangely accurate description of what my own grief has become, over time.
Finally, one of the most beautiful examples of quotable insight came to me via a classmate and friend from my MFA. In her letter responding to David’s death, Birdie showed herself to be a wise, intuitive woman. Someone who knew with exacting assurance what it was to support a friend. Her own death from breast cancer this past year had me revisit her words below. They are words I will never forget, both for the blunt truth they impart, and the genuine concern they reflect.
“…when grief hits, mourn deeply and thoroughly, in your own way, as long as it takes. But allow and celebrate the glimpses of joy that come with it. If the loss was great, expect the winds of memory to bring it back. So mourn again. Celebrate once more. With time, it will become easier but it will never truly end.”
So very true.
In 2006 Allan left a career as a flight paramedic to obtain his MFA in creative nonfiction. Today he is a qualitative public health researcher exploring intersections of HIV, PTSD, and stigma using a narrative focused model of inquiry. He is also the founder and editorial director of Crossin(G)enres. Starbucks, satire, and stray dogs do not displease him.
