Good Grief
I am not a grief counselor. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, here’s a nice, tidy formula to help us identify the stages of grief, the acronym SARAH, which stands for shock, anger, rejection, acceptance, help. Use it wisely. A formula works for identifying and charting emotional responses to loss, but it is no substitute for allowing ourselves to fully experience emotions as they occur. It takes time to move through the stages of grief. How much time, depends on our experience. I have experience with grief and I can say for certain, it doesn’t follow a formula. Also, trying to chart our progress through the stages of grief is like stepping onto the scale with a beer in one hand and chocolate cake in the other, hoping to see that we’ve dropped 10 pounds. Focusing on a result without awareness of what we are holding on to is, quite frankly, a waste of good grief. Not to make light of the pain of loss, but if we don’t come through the grieving process with valuable insight, what good is it?
When you have absorbed the shock of witnessing insane behavior that you cannot comprehend, watching your house burn to the ground or being told that someone you love has committed suicide, when time passes and anger subsides, when you manage to function, thrive even, despite traumatic events, when you think you have reached a stage of acceptance, look out for an undercurrent of emotion you cannot identify that makes you angry all over again. It may seem like a setback, but it’s important not to discount the value of anger. Yes, anger. For all the well intended warnings about anger being one letter away from danger, getting good and pissed off when you feel yourself being dragged into cavernous depths may propel you upward toward a lifeboat. It’s true. Appropriately directed, anger can burn so hot it throws a bright light on the truth that you do not control a situation; you can only control your response to it. In that light, you may see your way to accepting whatever forgiveness, understanding, caring kindness is in front of you.
There’s a formula in there somewhere. I’m almost sure of it.
Knowing this became important to me in 2011 when my most cherished friend, Donna, lost her battle with cancer. She had celebrated her 50th birthday, her son had gotten married and she was moving into a new stage of life, but carrying with her into this new stage, some old habits. You see, my friend smoked. She had an unhealthy diet and a stressful job. So, it wasn’t really a shock that the prognosis wasn’t good. That may sound harsh. I assure you, it was devastating news and I gave my full support to my friend during her cancer treatment. At the one year mark, that’s when the shockwave hit. If you or someone you know has endured cancer treatment, then you are aware what chemo and radiation does to a body.
She accepted it. So, I accepted it.
Great, we were at the acceptance stage. Whoa, not so fast. Being supportive of someone who is courageously fighting for their life in the face of certain defeat is one thing, sucking it up when the going gets tough is quite another. I did my best. I traveled to her side whenever I got a call and took turns with her mother staying at her bedside around the clock. One year of treatment turned into two. Biopsies turned into prolonged hospital stays, pneumonia and all kinds of meds. She was living in misery. I was angry. This is where a decent person would say, “I was angry at the situation, not at her,” but I was angry at her. I rejected the idea that we had ever really been friends at all. I rejected the notion that I was doing any good by being there. Of course, that wasn’t the truth. Donna and I had known each other for 23 years that included mutual, affordable, dependable therapy. Our friendship was a bond stronger than family. She needed me to be there to help her when she couldn’t help herself and made me promise not to cry when it was her time to go. So, I held it together, sort of, channeling my anger fueled the writing of a story. A story I wasn’t even aware I’d been holding on to poured out of me in a flood of emotion. Reading pieces of what I’d written to Donna during her lucid moments and hearing her laugh purged my anger and propelled me toward what would turn out to be a lifeboat.
When Donna died, I’d had two years to accept it. I miss her still. Writing has helped me work through my sadness; it’s been my therapy. Just as affordable, not nearly as dependable, but it has brought new friends into my life and created opportunities to share what is in my heart. It’s true; the worst of circumstances can help us discover the best of ourselves, but for that, my friends, we need more than a formula. We need each other.
39 Comments on “Good Grief”
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Honie,
Your post made me teary. I lost my father in 1996 when he took his life, and I went through a gamut of emotions, the formula, and addiction. It was only last year that I first visited my father’s grave, and I found the courage through my wife, and the unconditional support she gives me. We do need each other.
Eric
Eric
It’s true that having someone who knows your strength, who will hold on to it and keep it safe for you when we just can’t is the greatest gift. We are both fortunate to have a beloved person willing to do that for us.
Honie
Honie, my friend, this is beautiful. And heartbreaking. And true. I’ve been very, very lucky in that nobody I truly love and care about has died yet (no humans, at least), but I’ve seen how other people respond to grief. Everyone does it differently, but you’re absolutely right in that we need each other. I don’t know that I could get through it alone, and I wouldn’t want anyone else to. You’ve told me about Donna, and I’m sure this wasn’t an easy post to write. But thank you for sharing your story and your thoughts. I learned a lot from this post and it touched me greatly. Big hug.
Dear Madame,
It is heartbreaking to witness someone in pain. Sometimes all we can do is listen and keep handing them tissues. Of course, it’s also helpful to know some jokes and have Tic Tacs in your purse at all times. That’s pretty much what makes me an indispensable friend. I very much appreciate your kind words.
Beautiful post Honie. I lost my mother to cancer, 10 years ago yesterday. A heavy smoker as well. I still think about her everyday. I’m so sorry for your loss. xo
I hope it brings you a smile when you do Wendy. I think of my friend every time I go the fridge and see the magnet she sent that says, “Remember to laugh every day.” The best part of friendship is what remains to remind us to laugh.
Basically I was about to say what your magnet had on it.
Cancer is brutal – even when it’s not a surprise. It’s just a monster.
But to have had someone so close – someone who shared laughter and tears – someone who left, but was insistent that you not weep for her, but go on with your life – she was a real treasure – and there’s no doubts she felt you were too.
Guess this is where the magnet saying is inserted.
Smiles and hugs to you, Honie. The world is better with you here.
True, she was a real treasure. I’d never met anyone like her and probably never will again. She knew it all, she made me laugh, she pissed me off, she laughed at me mercilessly, we did everything from getting fake tattoos to rescuing stray dogs. I was honored that she called me friend. Smiles & hugs to you as well.
Really special post Honie. I lost my mom suddenly when she was just 53. I found out that day that I had joined an exclusive club where no one but other members get you – sadly we all join sometime. I learned that you can’t understand until you’ve been there and that it’s always OK to let someone know you care. Those stages are all so real – I canonized, lionized, pined for, hated, and cherished my mom that year. Grief changes you – it opens you to a whole new level of love and caring and strength you never knew you had.
“Grief changes you – it opens you to a whole new level of love and caring and strength you never knew you had.” Well said Artsifrtsy. Exactly, it hurts like hell, and in that furnace is forged an amazing ability to carry ourselves, and sometimes others, through the hell that it is.
Damn – it is a furnace.
This. This. This. We do so need each other. Death is unfathomable. To me, that is why it is so hard.
We do Becca. We truly do.
Great analogies in there. Very accessible for any level of grief to “get.” Lovely post – if such a topic can be lovely.
Thank you. I left out most of the unlovely parts.
Honie,
You made me remember the days I was injecting morphine into my father and counting the injections up to his death. You also made me shed tears. And you also made me remember how strong I had to pretend to be in front of my not-senile, yet 87 year old pair of grandparents who were losing their only child and who wished it were them weighing 40 kilos, peeing in their pants and being most of the time unconscious.
mmkng
I’m disturbed that I stirred such painful remembrances for you. Please know that it was not my intention to cause you distress. Peace to you now and always.
Honie,
Remembering these kind of experiences makes us be more aware of their meaning.
Thank you!
mmkngh
That is a brilliant post about a hard subject. I’ve lost so many people over the years and you’re right about anger being good sometimes! Sometimes it is the only thing that will wake the part of us that wants to survive without them. Anger was the one thing that brought me out of the funk I was in while I grieved for my old life when I was diagnosed with a condition that changed it forever and even now I have accepted it sometimes it comes back out when things get tough again.
I’m so sorry you lost your friend but so glad you managed to find something positive to focus on after you did.
Mel xx
She wouldn’t have it any other way. If I wallowed in self-pity she would come back and kick my ass. She told me so and I believed her. That’s just the kind of thing she would do if there was anyway to do it. Thanks for your kind words.
I lost my mother over 20 yrs ago (to cancer) and know what you went through with your friend – except my mother’s was diagnosed too late for any treatment. : ( (Excuse the ‘unsmiley’ Eric, it’s needed right now for emphasis.) I also, at the time, needed the formula because I’d never been through anything as painful before and was so confused I could barely function: I needed the guidelines. You’re right – grieving doesn’t fit any formula – in some situations though, it’s useful to have.
The thing about grief is the usual ‘time heals everything’ that’s tossed out as a salve, isn’t entirely true. It heals bits of it, but it never goes completely. There is always a sense of loss. Maybe not all the time but when you least expect it, the feelings are back. Sadness, anger, all of it.
And after grieving come the fruits of the whole unpleasant journey – finding oneself again amongst it all, seeing the lost one in a new light.
Val you are so right, it never does go away completely. I lost a friend who was only 38 to breast cancer and another friend whose kids had just started college to leukemia. I loved each of those women and admired them for their strength.
Our family home burned to the ground when I was in high school, and that grief has resurrected itself in lots of ways. As has losing someone I loved who took their own life. We deal with it the best we can with the tools we have. I think because I have experienced grief in many different situations it wasn’t any easier, but it certainly didn’t throw me into a tailspin like it once did.
Honie, this was beautifully written and felt. So sorry for the loss of your friend, I wish I could merely sympathize with you. Instead I can empathize. Those holes do scar over, but we always know they’re there. And like a lost limb sometimes they still hurt.
I lost one of my sisters to cigarettes and heart disease, and wrote about my, ummm, difficulty with it here on BBW (http://blackboxwarnings.wordpress.com/2012/11/19/the-well/).
But writing is an amazing release, a gift. And Le Clown’s gift to all of us readers and writers alike of this site is priceless.
Elyse, I read that post. It is beautiful and moving. The photo taken by artsifrtsy is one of my favorites and perfectly illustrated the effect you were going for.
Agreed, Le Clown has given us a gift. One I am truly grateful to have received.
You know, my friend was an awesome woman, her death caused me sadness, but her life gave me great joy.
Oh brother. I just re-read my comment and I sounded broken. I’m not. Just feverish.
Reminder to self: take Tylenol before responding to powerful posts.
Not at all. I think what you said makes perfect sense.
If a little bit depressed!
This was a wonderful post, Honie. Forced changes are never easy and to add grief to a situation makes it all the more challenging. I see Anger as the adrenaline to the sometimes numbness of resignation. We do need to feel, and go through all the feelings. I have not lost anyone who was directly close to me, but have been involved with the loss of friends of friends and it was devastating even from an arm’s-length view. You describe it all so well, and we do need to draw on each other’s strength to carry on.
Thanks. You’re right, summoning strength from the most unexpected places has made all the difference for me in the face of loss, grief, anger. I can only try to pass that along to help someone else.
I love what you wrote about anger. Anger is a powerful emotion and I think a lot of people are scared of it for that reason, but I absolutely agree that when directed productively, that power can be harnessed to process and ultimately heal.
Sometimes anger has been my bff. Other times, not so much. It truly is a powerful emotion.
I’m so sorry for the lost of your friend, Honie. This was a beautifully written and moving piece. I’m glad you find strength in writing and it has allowed you to connect with other people. My sister lost her husband to cancer, and I’m not sure she ever went through all the stages here. I don’t think she grieved enough. I think she kind of buried it. Anyway, I thought of her as I read this.
I appreciate you condolences. You are so right, it is very common to bury our emotions, cover them with activities/substances that help us not to feel them, but they are always there under the surface, aren’t they? Waiting for a moment when we least expect it, to knock us off our feet.
Honie, thank you for sharing your experience. You’re completely right in your most important points – there is no set formula, we’re all different, and we need each other.
May you be blessed as you continue your journey and your writing.
I appreciate your comment so very much.
I am sorry you’ve lost your friend. I can’t imagine seeing someone suffer or go through prolonged pain from cancer. My dad died suddenly at the age of 53. That was 21 years ago and I’m still not over it and never will be. Someone once told me that grieving is like ripples in water, over time, the pain subsides a bit, and doesn’t come as often, but it still comes, it ebbs and flows. Losing someone we love is something we all must go through and you’re right–we need each other. Thanks for such a poignant post.
Something that was always interesting to me about my friend Donna, she lost her father suddenly when she was a senior in high school, and for all of the years I knew her there wasn’t a single time we were together that she didn’t bring up her father. I know all of her childhood stories in great detail. She never got over that loss. She was one fierce woman, but she was a daddy’s girl. As am I. Fathers are our first loves, our protectors, and the model by which all men are measured. As it should be, I suppose. Thank you for sharing your own experience.
Since I’m so late to reading this and from reading all these comments, there’s not much I can add except that you are a wonderful person and friend. I feel strongly this writing as touched many lives, as it has mine.
Brigitte, it is always nice to hear your thoughtful comments. I appreciate how positive and supportive you are. It truly does have an effect on me when you share how my writing makes you feel. Thank you, friend.