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Grieving With Gusto

Years ago, after my elderly father-in-law died of natural causes, I often took my beloved mother-in-law to visit his grave. Each time she broke down in tears and cried, “Why did this have to happen? Why? Why?” I felt terrible for her loss, and was more than happy to stand by her side, rub her back and give her slippers to help ease the pain. But as the months passed I noticed that my patience was wearing thin. One Sunday afternoon, about six months after his death, we stood by his tombstone while she cried again, “Why? Why?” It took every ounce of self-control not to grab her and say, “BECAUSE HE WAS NINETY-TWO YEARS OLD FOR CHRIST’S SAKE. WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?”

I mean, everyone and everything dies, right? I couldn’t imagine why it was still a shock. Why couldn’t she just move on?

As karma would have it, my compassion was healed soon after when my husband died, followed two months later by his then doubly bereaved mother. This time I was the one left on the sidelines of the family plot crying, “why, why, why?” No doubt I did my fair share of worrying and worrying my friends and family when – two, three, four years later – I was still struggling with the grief, arranging lasting memorials, keeping posters of him photos in the house and trying. a novel about our life together, trying to make sense of it all.

That’s why when a friend of mine recently confided that she was worried about her cousin because the woman tattooed a photo of her dead daughter across her belly five years after the child’s death, I insisted that it wasn’t weird. Unusual? Yes. But what is our obsession with judging how other people grieve? Leave her alone, I said. She is fine.

Furthermore, it is pointless to advise people how to express grief. Not long after my husband died I had a heart shaped locket made from the gold of our wedding rings and filled it with bits of his cremated ashes. I wore it proudly around my neck, thinking it was a nice way to carry him with me, close to my heart, while leaving my bare fingers free to entice suitors. When I later suggested to another widow that – fully two years after her husband’s death – she remove his voice from the answering machine, she said: “At least I don’t have him chained around my neck.”

That is the day I decided to withdraw my opinion about what is normal and what is not with the grieving process.

We are expected to take a year, at least in this culture, to successfully move on from a loss. After that, our support people may become worried or even bored by our continued attachment to what is gone. But I wonder if part of the reason grief is pushed aside, influenced, or prolonged is that our culture is repelled by the raw displays of pain necessary to move it through, and eventually out of, our systems. And I’m not just referring to grief over the loss of a loved one. This extends to all the people, places, dreams and ideas we fall in love with, get attached to, and then have to let go of.

Perhaps if our unpredictably timed bouts of grief were accepted with the same tolerance as a common cold, they wouldn’t take unhealthy turns into guilt, anger, depression, pills, booze or bitterness. We might just recognize them for what they are—dramatic but temporary flashes of raw pain that need to be expressed. Why not indulge ourselves and others in some good old-fashioned rolling, knowing that – like a simple virus – if we let it run its course, it too will pass.

Maybe it’s the exhibitionist in me, but I’m a huge proponent of public displays of grief. That’s why I love the annual Mexican Day of the Dead holiday. Loss is a given, why not accept it? When my husband died, I had a funeral for him, which one friend referred to as “the party.” I followed this up with a Love Fest in his name to benefit a local hospice. Then there was a bench installed in his honor near the Golden Gate Bridge. Sometimes my mother warned me that I should stop celebrating and start mourning. But for me, those events were all part of the sadness.

We celebrate the increasing joys of life in community with baptisms, barmitzvas, weddings and anniversaries. Why not make more room to honor our incremental losses – the end of relationships, businesses, political campaigns or dreams that just never took off? Why carry that sadness and disappointment around when you have friends who can share it, even help you let it go?

Given my penchant for public displays of grief, I am now planning a funeral for the book I wrote about my husband’s family, which I hoped would one day become a bestseller. But the publishers rejected it; so I bury that dream and move on to find another way. At this funeral, I also invite others to bring any dead dreams they are willing to release to place in the coffin with my book. We can lighten our burdens together and make room for the next big thing.

After coming up with so many creative ways to accept loss, I feel like a cheerleader for the practice of grieving with joy. If we let ourselves cry, scream, complain, curl up in a ball for a few days, and even do crazy rituals to help in the process, something miraculous happens. Regular and healthy grieving allows our pain to transform into heartfelt emotional compost that becomes useful for growth in the next phase of our lives.

If we become good at grieving, we will become a more compassionate crowd. This will also prevent us from being offended when someone, in an innocent attempt to connect with our pain, compares the loss we are facing to something we judge to be of lesser impact. After my husband died I got all kinds of comments, including, “I know how awful you feel, I lost my dog ​​last year.” When I looked into the eyes of the man who said that to me, it was so clear to me how much he really, really missed that dog. Later when a divorced woman said, “You’re lucky your husband is dead. I’ve yet to see mine,” I realized she didn’t mean to be insensitive; it’s just that she was still struggling with her fury over the loss.

Yes, people do and say strange things when processing the loss of loved ones. Sir Walter Raleigh’s widow kept his head in a leather bag for twenty-nine years after he was executed. Perhaps we could spare people the need to make these extreme gestures by offering more frequent and socially acceptable outlets to fully express pain, which ultimately leads to strengthening our abilities to let go.

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