More About Grief. Part II.

What I have learned over the past several years is that grief is as different as snowflakes. No one experiences it the same. And grief may strike the same person differently depending on who it is they’re grieving.

 

I know when my dad died in 2016, I felt overwhelmed and it took me a long while to start the grieving process. Dad’s heavy burden of being my mom’s caretaker and advocate suddenly fell to me. And I didn’t even have to take care of her daily needs – we entrusted the staff at Parkside Village to handle that responsibility. 

 

I had to clean out their house to get it ready to sell. Getting rid of fifty years (or more) of “things” and memories is one monumental task. And I kept more things than I might otherwise have because I didn’t want to “erase” my parents or our history of living in that house.

 

So losing a parent is hard. 

 

But losing the other parent is even harder. I’ve heard people say that they suddenly feel like an orphan – even if they’re middle-aged. 

 

The first person who ever said that to me was my mom after my grandmother died. Mom was in her 60s by then and she said it at her mother’s funeral. I thought it was a strange comment. But it was also a comment that resonated with me through the years. 

 

Because it made me realize that my mom, too, would get old and die some day – and I didn’t want to miss making memories with her. So I let go of the friction that sometimes happens between mothers and daughters. My mom was, after all, pretty opinionated. And I didn’t always agree with her opinions. 

 

It's a popular thing these days for mothers and daughters to say that the other is their best friend.

 

My mom was never of that mindset. She was the mother and I was the daughter – and “best friends” didn’t enter into it. 

 

But we grew pretty close. Whenever she’d state some opinion (that I didn’t agree with), and then say, “Don’t you agree, Jane?” I’d sometimes reply, “Yes, mom.” 

 

Because in that particular instance, I knew that an argument wasn’t worth it. I certainly wasn’t going to change her opinion – and she wasn’t going to change mine.

 

Sometimes I’d look over at dad and he’d have this wry little smile on his face. And I realized that he’d long ago learned that trick himself.

 

When Mom died in 2020, her words about feeling like an orphan came back to me. Oh, mom. I thought. Now I know what you meant.

 

Because now there is no one alive who knew what it felt like the first time I was placed in their arms as an infant. The person who dealt with my spit-up and fevers and who cheered me on as I took my first steps or won the grade school spelling bee or graduated from college.

 

So now I miss her – and dad – every time something happens to me that I want to share with them.

 

Like losing Vince so suddenly less than a year after mom passed.

 

Losing a spouse is even more devastating. For me, it was especially unbearable as I felt like Vince and I had only started on our journey together in this life. 

 

We didn’t marry until days before my 50^th birthday. I never thought I’d get married, but once I met Vince, I couldn’t imagine my life without him. I had never felt so loved. We were incredibly happy together. And we had so many more things we wanted to do together in this life. 

 

So I know firsthand that there are different kinds of grief, some of which I haven’t experienced.

 

I can’t imagine losing a sibling. Or a best friend. But if we live long enough, we’re likely to experience that kind of grief as well.

 

The type of grief I can’t even begin to comprehend is the loss of a child. I didn’t have children, so I’m not qualified to talk about it. But having known friends and family who have, I can only believe that it is a grief beyond description.

 

Since COVID, it seems as if so many people are grieving. And so many people are trying to comfort friends and family. They write, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

 

I’ve said it before myself. Mostly because I didn’t know what to say. 

 

But as a friend who lost her husband recently said, “It got to the point where I couldn’t stand hearing, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’” 

 

I guess because that phrase has gotten so overused it’s like fingernails on a chalkboard to some people.

 

I get it now.

 

I just wish I had a magic phrase or – better yet – a magic potion that could make us all feel better. Make us not hurt as much. And make us come to the stage where talking or thinking about our loved one brings a smile to our face rather than a tear.

 

But I, for one, am not magical and I can’t take the pain away – for me or for anyone else. So I believe we just all try our best. And I try not to be too critical of whatever expression of condolence someone makes.

 

I have to take things day by day. And I understand that some days will be good and other days won’t be so good. But that’s okay. I know I have to give myself the time and the space to accept my grief and let it wash over me as it comes. Because denying it won’t make it go away.

 

I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I have been that friends and family continue to stay in touch with me and ask how I’m doing – and let me talk. About Vince. Or about nothing and everything. Just having that connection matters.

 

If I could share one hint to folks who want to show support for someone who has lost a loved one, it would be this: don’t tell them to call you if they need anything. They probably don’t have a clue what they need. So you make the call. It means much more than you can imagine. Sometimes a person grieving has a hard time asking for help. Or a shoulder to cry on. Or a willing ear to listen.

 

So to all those people in my life who have given me such support, I thank you. And I thank you for reading this – you help me more than you know. 

 

I can’t always promise my blogs from now on will be about the ditzy goings on in Jane’s Domain. Sometimes they may be a little more serious. Because life happens. And death happens. And we have to try to go on.

 

One step forward…