The Gift of Grief

I've always been the one to stay rational in the face of loss. The strong one, there to support others, handle what they can’t.

This time is different.

When my father died, nearly 20 years ago, I was stoic and stalwart. My brother called to tell me the news during a shift at a crappy customer service job and I immediately went into strategy mode.

I packed up my things, told my supervisor and left. On the way home, I called my best friend and she met me at my apartment where we contacted the airline, booked a plane ticket and coordinated a place to stay. There were intermittent moments of feeling as if I were in a movie, but the next morning, I was on my way. Like I was going for a holiday visit.

I never got to say goodbye.

My final words to him were uttered over a casket, his face a hideous shade of gray rather than the ruddy tone I was used to. I shook hands with people I hadn't seen in decades. Then I gave the eulogy. To a room crowded with people who knew and loved him. 

Death has a funny way of putting people on a pedestal. Of forgetting their flaws or any damage they inflicted while acting out of their own unresolved emotions and wounds. 

I chose not to ignore that. My logical mind kept grief at bay and I presented what I believe was a well-rounded tribute to a man who did the best that he could in a world that not only discouraged men from showing emotion, but belittled them for doing so. In a culture where a man was less than if he wasn't a good provider, regardless of the dreams he had to sacrifice to achieve that. In my anti-grief grief, I chose to celebrate all of him.

I returned to Florida after the funeral and remember lying on my friend's sofa, my face to the back, unable to participate in the cookout that was going on around me. Tears trickled down my cheeks against my will. Then my friend's daughter, who was around three, crawled along the top of the couch until she hovered above me.

"Don't cry Aunt Staci," she whispered in that precious toddler voice. "I love you."

Her affection released sobs that brought my friend from the kitchen. I cried in her arms, unable to control myself. I hated that I couldn’t reel it in.

I lived the next few months vacillating between being a zombie and a version of myself I didn't recognize, forcing myself to do what needed to be done but not really caring about whether or not it got done. I had really good friends who checked on me regularly. Who wouldn't let me be alone too long. Eventually, I made my way back into this world.

This time is different. 

A dear friend died two days ago. When my mom told me on the phone Tuesday night that she had passed that afternoon, I slipped into logical mode. "I'm not surprised," I said. "I think she's been a lot sicker over the last year than she let on." This time I recognized denial.

I went about the rest of my evening, fixing dinner, catching up on some email and watching a movie without feeling a thing. When I woke up the next morning, I remembered that she was gone.

I cried for a minute, thinking about what her husband and mother must be going through. Then the anger showed up. Anger that I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. Anger at all of the incompetent doctors who contributed to her death. Who would never be held accountable for their incompetence or lack of caring.

Out of bed, I deluded myself into thinking I could go about my day without being affected. 

I found myself annoyed by the stupidest things. When nothing in front of me irritated me, I dredged things up from the day before that had. I really needed to chew on the anger. It’s an excellent distraction. Fortunately, the drivers around Pittsburgh gave me plenty of opportunities to be distracted.

Sometime during the day, I began to spontaneously burst into tears. Not because of anything that was happening around me, but because of what was happening within me. Unlike with my father’s death, I recognized what was happening. Unlike twenty years ago, I now know I am not above the human process of grieving. That it isn’t just for other people. I’m not different. I don’t get a pass on this part of being alive. 

I went to the pool that afternoon for some relaxation and found anything but. First men working in the shower room, which connects the women's locker room to the pool. Since I couldn't access the pool by going my typical route, I had to walk down the public hallway, past all of the people working out on bikes and elliptical machines, wearing only a bathing suit. This brought up an entirely new set of feelings, which I gratefully allowed anger to tamp down.

The door to the pool from the hall was locked with a sign saying you had to enter from one of the locker rooms. This meant I had to enter through the other women's locker room, which I don't use because I prefer to have access to the one with a hot tub.

It was a maze, and I had a very difficult time figuring out where the door to the pool area was. By this time, my frustration had piqued and the first tears leaked out. I finally found my way, set my pool bag down on a chair and got into the water.

This should have resulted in a giant exhalation. Instead, it quickly turned into more frustration as a lifeguard roped off half the pool and three dozen children from summer camp jumped in. Their joyful screams felt like glass shards against my fragile defenses and I couldn't hold it in any longer.

Standing in the corner, facing a wall, the tears erupted. Again, I had no control. But this time I was okay with it. I recognized it as a natural part of mourning a loss. I argued with myself inside my head that I shouldn't be doing this in public. As if I were responsible for how other people felt when they saw someone crying.

I wept, sometimes silently and others not so much, while doing my aqua exercises. Thinking about my friend. 

I remembered how when she saw a handsome man she did not hesitate to flirt. Or when her coffee wasn't to her liking, she immediately called over the waiter and asked for a different cup. I pictured her gleefully driving her beloved white Mustang convertible and thought about how she pushed back against the misogyny from the men at the local Mustang club. How she persevered through all of her physical challenges, including dialysis. How hard it must have been for her to get to the restaurant the last time I saw her.

I didn't get to say goodbye to her either.

But this time, I will grieve with gusto. I will honor every memory, not afraid of what it might make me feel. I feel safe to be present. For all of it. I’m now capable of feeling the pain without hurting myself. Thank you, Deb, for the gift of grief.