Life with a Mourning Person
I am not a morning person. David warns my friends about this before trips, so they won't get offended by pre-coffee Laura. Instead of assigning a positive value to the start of the day (a.k.a."Good morning"), he uses a statement of fact: "It is morning." This is a crucial survival tactic learned over the space of nearly 16 years of marriage. Recently an acquaintance chided me after I replied, "What's so good about it?" to that aforementioned a.m. greeting. (In my defense, she WAS REALLY CHEERFUL AND ALSO TALKING.) She replied, "Just open your eyes!" Her response wasn't mean spirited in the least, but was based on HER perspective. What was obvious and beautiful in HER eyes. The warm sunshine and blooming buds didn't have the same effect on me. Because morning.
I thought this interaction was a wonderful analogy for the new world of grief we inhabit. The clarity of a black and white mindset pretty much gets obliterated after a traumatic loss. Because mourning. (See what I did there?) Grief relegates you to shades of gray. The old way of seeing the world, the conventional way of seeing the world, no longer translates as true. Have you watched videos where profoundly color-blind people get special glasses that enable them (in certain conditions) to view the entire spectrum of hues? Usually filmed outside, the recipient puts on said glasses and looks around in tearful wonder. It's an emotional, almost transcendent experience. Their earth is being created anew, given vibrancy and depth previously undiscovered. They take it in with child-like abandon, basking in the marvel of it all. Okay, now imagine that scenario but in reverse. Your familiar and beautiful surroundings suddenly get shocked into a desolate alien landscape, dull and lifeless. Everything is at once completely different and completely the same. That's grief. It's unsettling. A friend said that her color-blind husband refuses those magic glasses for this very reason: The constant knowledge of what he's missing when they aren't on. I completely understand.
Margot has been gone for 6 months. 6 MONTHS! She's almost been off this planet longer than she was on it. We're undone. At this half year milestone, I'd like to share some "truths" based on our family's journey through loss thus far. This is by no means a guideline or set rules; each grief is as unique as the individual experiencing it. However, these statements might provide some much needed context for future encounters with your greytone, grieving friends.
1. When you lose a person, you don't just lose THAT person. Especially with infant loss, you've lost a LIFETIME of experiences and memories, hopes and expectations.
The difference between these two things is monumental. The world at large may (mistakenly) assume -because of your child's abbreviated life- that you also undergo abbreviated grief. That a mourning period should directly correspond to the length of the loved one's existence. GARBAGE! Love doesn't work that way. Recently we attended a memorial service that brought this into sharp relief. My Uncle Doug -a devoted husband, grandfather, and friend- died at 78, after an 8 year battle with ALS. The funeral celebrated his life and faith, a loving tribute to a deserving, honorable man. It moved David and I to tears. For our daughter. Because, despite the brutal disease that caused his untimely passing, Doug had a pretty full life. A decent childhood, time in the navy, shared apartment with his brother, marriage and fatherhood, professional success, personal fulfillment in biking, being a granddad, and knowing Jesus. Each memory shared was a punch to the gut. Another reminder of what was taken from us, from Margot. We were robbed of her unique personality, our relationship and future with her, the knowledge of her skills and interests. All gone. Grief isn't cut and dry. Folks tend to see pregnancy/infant loss like a tooth extraction: Messy and painful at first, but ultimately a small, defined hole that is easily fixed with a shiny, new replacement. In reality, each child -whether they be a hope made during monthly pregnancy attempts, a newly established embryo, or a full-term fetus- is a seed sown in the soil of expectant parents' hearts. And that seed roots itself quickly and deeply. So if ripped out prematurely, it WILL bring foundational soul stuff with it. Inherent, irreplaceable pieces of mothers and fathers forever clinging to the roots.
2. Suffering and sadness -as related to grief- are not chosen emotions. They are the outworking of an impacted brain trying to process the impossibility of a traumatic event.
America is slightly obsessed with self-made success. Like a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps to beat adversity story. Based on this pervasive mindset: A little hard work can help someone achieve ANYTHING, overcome anything. And, in turn, popular views of mental health and coping with loss suffer from this misconception. Bereavement is NOT a choice. The cycle of grief and its symptoms aren't an intentional course of action, they're inflicted -much like a debilitating sickness- upon someone. It's mourning manifested, medically and physically. The DSM-5 recognizes this as adjustment disorder, a diagnosis typically brought about by a significant, stressful event (Ahem, the death of a loved one) and the body's struggle to adapt afterwards. Symptoms can look a lot like depression: Loss of appetite, difficulty focusing, trouble sleeping, lack of motivation. In fact, both my counselors since Margot (Yes, both. I've had 2; I need a lot of help.) gave me this glowing prognosis. Which, when combined with my oversharing tendencies, turns the innocuous "How are you doing?" into an opportunity for me to TELL MY HARD TRUTH. (I mean, they DID ask.) So if people respond to that honesty with, "Well, thank goodness summer is here," as if this should have a direct effect on my mood, it makes me want to scream. Because I don't have seasonal affective disorder, my daughter is dead. No amount of sunshine or exercise or hammocking will change that. Now, I get it, taking care of yourself by getting outside and being physical IS important. But immediately following a trauma, setting goals or intentions for grieving parties is unreasonable and degrading. The first few weeks, David and I barely managed to get out of bed, the steady stream of tears constant enough to carve downward channels on our faces. We sat on the sofa, at the dining room table, in front of the TV like zombies. THAT took all our energy. Bereaved people cannot snap their fingers and make a decision to "get better," because -trust me- they would. We'd choose remembering JUST the joy of our past relationship every.single.time over the overbearing, heart-crushing hurt common to most mourners. And as the months pass, for outsiders looking in, the line between us actively, appropriately missing someone VERSUS soaking in sadness may be blurry. I beg you, err on the side of grace rather than expectation. Because, despite what society may say, grief isn't laziness. It is THE VERY HARDEST WORK.
3. After tragedy, religion can be a great source of comfort and, conversely, a great source of pain.
A friend has been wrestling with cancer for many years now and recently had another huge setback. Among the encouragement on her social media, one comment stuck out, "This is God's plan, Sweetie. Just remember that." It made me want to burn the internet to the ground. When horrible Christian cliches (aka: "God won't give you more than you can handle" -or- "God needed {departed person} more than you did") are wielded upon folks in the middle of suffering, no matter the original intention, it comes across at condescending. Because it presents as a value judgement on the victim, especially when bestowed from the high horse of someone NOT currently in crisis mode. Like, "God's plan seems to be to prosper ME, hmmmmmm, wonder why YOU'RE struggling?" I've said this before, but it bears repeating: Statements of this nature "offer most comfort to the ones expressing them, rather than the ones receiving them." It allows a person to "spiritually address" a hard situation WITHOUT ACTUALLY ENGAGING in the real life complexity of said circumstances. It's totes a Pharisee move and something I believe Jesus would've whole-heartedly condemned. Don't assume the role of Divine mouth piece by attempting to explain the inexplicable to a hurting friend; that isn't YOUR job. The Holy Spirit (or a masseuse-JK) has to do that. You cannot fix grief, you cannot create sense from chaos with a perfectly chosen phrase. No one can. What you CAN do is quietly listen, without offering answers or trying to spiritualize the situation. You CAN pray for a family when they can't do it for themselves. You CAN be the hands and feet of Jesus: Bring a hot meal months after the fact, energetically (and non-judgmentally) show up to tackle some neglected housework, or take time to recognize (With language: Use the deceased's name, With behavior: Visit the burial site, With intention: Send a quick text to the fam) and honor the one they lost. These actions speak louder than any words and are where we've seen God most clearly since Margot. Incarnate support through the kindness of our community of friends. Because, regardless of our complicated dynamic with God, we cannot argue with the loving comfort His children continue to offer us. And that IS (or SHOULD BE) the true definition of "church."
4. Grief, particularly an out-of-order loss, destroys any sense of "the regular" from before. Regardless of how much time passes, you'll never return to your previous version of normal. That straightforward reality died with your person. Now, there's only the slow rebuilding of a different self and life.
So at some point, after a person lives through their worst nightmare, they have to return to the world. To work. To the grocery store. To CVS. To the gas station. And as the weeks pass, this person may look -for all intents and purposes- as if they have readjusted to life. They are wearing appropriate "outside" clothes, participating in less stilted conversations with others, ticking most boxes of their old routine. On the surface, they seem okay. Let me tell you: They.Are.Not.Okay. Everyday minutia is either a welcome, numbing distraction or a very half-hearted performance. Under EVERY interaction they have, as constant as a dull ringing in the ears, is a sentence on repeat: Our daughter is dead. Ourdaughterisdead. Ourdaughterisdeadourdaughterisdead. So, when you see this person, resist the urge to compliment them on anything superficial. Because no matter how groomed their facade looks, they are dying inside. And polite conversations -which force them to gloss over that messy soul space- feel like a betrayal of their departed. Examples:
Instead, simply acknowledge their pain. Know that underneath the "regular" front they're working so hard to maintain, there is a tortured spirit stuck in THAT -"I can't find a heartbeat. The cancer has returned. There's nothing more we can do"- MOMENT. Their past normal is gone, so don't expect the past them to suddenly return like nothing has changed. That person is gone forever. The best you can do is slowly sort through the wreckage with your friend: Help them gather the broken but beneficial pieces of before, discard what weighs them down, and affirm the sacrifices made, significance discovered, and the sacred burden borne on their path to self-restoration.
I thought this interaction was a wonderful analogy for the new world of grief we inhabit. The clarity of a black and white mindset pretty much gets obliterated after a traumatic loss. Because mourning. (See what I did there?) Grief relegates you to shades of gray. The old way of seeing the world, the conventional way of seeing the world, no longer translates as true. Have you watched videos where profoundly color-blind people get special glasses that enable them (in certain conditions) to view the entire spectrum of hues? Usually filmed outside, the recipient puts on said glasses and looks around in tearful wonder. It's an emotional, almost transcendent experience. Their earth is being created anew, given vibrancy and depth previously undiscovered. They take it in with child-like abandon, basking in the marvel of it all. Okay, now imagine that scenario but in reverse. Your familiar and beautiful surroundings suddenly get shocked into a desolate alien landscape, dull and lifeless. Everything is at once completely different and completely the same. That's grief. It's unsettling. A friend said that her color-blind husband refuses those magic glasses for this very reason: The constant knowledge of what he's missing when they aren't on. I completely understand.
Margot has been gone for 6 months. 6 MONTHS! She's almost been off this planet longer than she was on it. We're undone. At this half year milestone, I'd like to share some "truths" based on our family's journey through loss thus far. This is by no means a guideline or set rules; each grief is as unique as the individual experiencing it. However, these statements might provide some much needed context for future encounters with your greytone, grieving friends.
1. When you lose a person, you don't just lose THAT person. Especially with infant loss, you've lost a LIFETIME of experiences and memories, hopes and expectations.
The difference between these two things is monumental. The world at large may (mistakenly) assume -because of your child's abbreviated life- that you also undergo abbreviated grief. That a mourning period should directly correspond to the length of the loved one's existence. GARBAGE! Love doesn't work that way. Recently we attended a memorial service that brought this into sharp relief. My Uncle Doug -a devoted husband, grandfather, and friend- died at 78, after an 8 year battle with ALS. The funeral celebrated his life and faith, a loving tribute to a deserving, honorable man. It moved David and I to tears. For our daughter. Because, despite the brutal disease that caused his untimely passing, Doug had a pretty full life. A decent childhood, time in the navy, shared apartment with his brother, marriage and fatherhood, professional success, personal fulfillment in biking, being a granddad, and knowing Jesus. Each memory shared was a punch to the gut. Another reminder of what was taken from us, from Margot. We were robbed of her unique personality, our relationship and future with her, the knowledge of her skills and interests. All gone. Grief isn't cut and dry. Folks tend to see pregnancy/infant loss like a tooth extraction: Messy and painful at first, but ultimately a small, defined hole that is easily fixed with a shiny, new replacement. In reality, each child -whether they be a hope made during monthly pregnancy attempts, a newly established embryo, or a full-term fetus- is a seed sown in the soil of expectant parents' hearts. And that seed roots itself quickly and deeply. So if ripped out prematurely, it WILL bring foundational soul stuff with it. Inherent, irreplaceable pieces of mothers and fathers forever clinging to the roots.
2. Suffering and sadness -as related to grief- are not chosen emotions. They are the outworking of an impacted brain trying to process the impossibility of a traumatic event.
America is slightly obsessed with self-made success. Like a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps to beat adversity story. Based on this pervasive mindset: A little hard work can help someone achieve ANYTHING, overcome anything. And, in turn, popular views of mental health and coping with loss suffer from this misconception. Bereavement is NOT a choice. The cycle of grief and its symptoms aren't an intentional course of action, they're inflicted -much like a debilitating sickness- upon someone. It's mourning manifested, medically and physically. The DSM-5 recognizes this as adjustment disorder, a diagnosis typically brought about by a significant, stressful event (Ahem, the death of a loved one) and the body's struggle to adapt afterwards. Symptoms can look a lot like depression: Loss of appetite, difficulty focusing, trouble sleeping, lack of motivation. In fact, both my counselors since Margot (Yes, both. I've had 2; I need a lot of help.) gave me this glowing prognosis. Which, when combined with my oversharing tendencies, turns the innocuous "How are you doing?" into an opportunity for me to TELL MY HARD TRUTH. (I mean, they DID ask.) So if people respond to that honesty with, "Well, thank goodness summer is here," as if this should have a direct effect on my mood, it makes me want to scream. Because I don't have seasonal affective disorder, my daughter is dead. No amount of sunshine or exercise or hammocking will change that. Now, I get it, taking care of yourself by getting outside and being physical IS important. But immediately following a trauma, setting goals or intentions for grieving parties is unreasonable and degrading. The first few weeks, David and I barely managed to get out of bed, the steady stream of tears constant enough to carve downward channels on our faces. We sat on the sofa, at the dining room table, in front of the TV like zombies. THAT took all our energy. Bereaved people cannot snap their fingers and make a decision to "get better," because -trust me- they would. We'd choose remembering JUST the joy of our past relationship every.single.time over the overbearing, heart-crushing hurt common to most mourners. And as the months pass, for outsiders looking in, the line between us actively, appropriately missing someone VERSUS soaking in sadness may be blurry. I beg you, err on the side of grace rather than expectation. Because, despite what society may say, grief isn't laziness. It is THE VERY HARDEST WORK.
3. After tragedy, religion can be a great source of comfort and, conversely, a great source of pain.
A friend has been wrestling with cancer for many years now and recently had another huge setback. Among the encouragement on her social media, one comment stuck out, "This is God's plan, Sweetie. Just remember that." It made me want to burn the internet to the ground. When horrible Christian cliches (aka: "God won't give you more than you can handle" -or- "God needed {departed person} more than you did") are wielded upon folks in the middle of suffering, no matter the original intention, it comes across at condescending. Because it presents as a value judgement on the victim, especially when bestowed from the high horse of someone NOT currently in crisis mode. Like, "God's plan seems to be to prosper ME, hmmmmmm, wonder why YOU'RE struggling?" I've said this before, but it bears repeating: Statements of this nature "offer most comfort to the ones expressing them, rather than the ones receiving them." It allows a person to "spiritually address" a hard situation WITHOUT ACTUALLY ENGAGING in the real life complexity of said circumstances. It's totes a Pharisee move and something I believe Jesus would've whole-heartedly condemned. Don't assume the role of Divine mouth piece by attempting to explain the inexplicable to a hurting friend; that isn't YOUR job. The Holy Spirit (or a masseuse-JK) has to do that. You cannot fix grief, you cannot create sense from chaos with a perfectly chosen phrase. No one can. What you CAN do is quietly listen, without offering answers or trying to spiritualize the situation. You CAN pray for a family when they can't do it for themselves. You CAN be the hands and feet of Jesus: Bring a hot meal months after the fact, energetically (and non-judgmentally) show up to tackle some neglected housework, or take time to recognize (With language: Use the deceased's name, With behavior: Visit the burial site, With intention: Send a quick text to the fam) and honor the one they lost. These actions speak louder than any words and are where we've seen God most clearly since Margot. Incarnate support through the kindness of our community of friends. Because, regardless of our complicated dynamic with God, we cannot argue with the loving comfort His children continue to offer us. And that IS (or SHOULD BE) the true definition of "church."
4. Grief, particularly an out-of-order loss, destroys any sense of "the regular" from before. Regardless of how much time passes, you'll never return to your previous version of normal. That straightforward reality died with your person. Now, there's only the slow rebuilding of a different self and life.
So at some point, after a person lives through their worst nightmare, they have to return to the world. To work. To the grocery store. To CVS. To the gas station. And as the weeks pass, this person may look -for all intents and purposes- as if they have readjusted to life. They are wearing appropriate "outside" clothes, participating in less stilted conversations with others, ticking most boxes of their old routine. On the surface, they seem okay. Let me tell you: They.Are.Not.Okay. Everyday minutia is either a welcome, numbing distraction or a very half-hearted performance. Under EVERY interaction they have, as constant as a dull ringing in the ears, is a sentence on repeat: Our daughter is dead. Ourdaughterisdead. Ourdaughterisdeadourdaughterisdead. So, when you see this person, resist the urge to compliment them on anything superficial. Because no matter how groomed their facade looks, they are dying inside. And polite conversations -which force them to gloss over that messy soul space- feel like a betrayal of their departed. Examples:
What you say-
|
What they (may) hear-
|
“You look GREAT!”
|
“You look like you are finally over it! Thank God.”
-or- “I need you to be okay for me to interact with you,
fake it if necessary.”
|
“You weren’t acting like yourself,
I’m glad you’re feeling better.” |
“Your grief makes me uncomfortable.”
-or- “I’d rather only be around you if you are happy.
Don’t be forthright about your hard emotions with me.”
|
“There’s that smile I remember!”
|
“I liked the ‘before loss’ you better.”
-or- “If you smile that means you’re done grieving, right?”
|
Instead, simply acknowledge their pain. Know that underneath the "regular" front they're working so hard to maintain, there is a tortured spirit stuck in THAT -"I can't find a heartbeat. The cancer has returned. There's nothing more we can do"- MOMENT. Their past normal is gone, so don't expect the past them to suddenly return like nothing has changed. That person is gone forever. The best you can do is slowly sort through the wreckage with your friend: Help them gather the broken but beneficial pieces of before, discard what weighs them down, and affirm the sacrifices made, significance discovered, and the sacred burden borne on their path to self-restoration.
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