Has someone you loved died?
Did you fail grief 101?
Chances are you read or have been told about Elizabeth Kübler Ross’ useless at best and harmful at worst ‘stages’ of loss and grief. You will find she, and theorists before and after, believed that the bereaved should progress through the stages or phases or tasks to reach a full resolution of their grief. Success means ‘moving on’ with your life having reached ‘closure’. And you reach this place in privacy with the context of where and how you live not mattering a hoot. Failure to relinquish the dead loved one risks the grief (and you) being labelled pathological.
Now these theorists were not good observers of the real world. If they had been they would have spied people hanging about cemeteries or other significant places that had strong ties to the dead loved one and seen conversations going on between the bereaved and the dead that often consisted of filling the lost one in on life’s events since their deaths. These people despite appearing perfectly normal have not detached but rather are continuing their attachment with their dead loved one. Thankfully they haven’t read the rules of grieving.
In the late 1990s new theories emerged that challenged former grief theories but have never made it into mainstream knowledge or pushed Kubler Ross out of the way. This is a great shame as all of us would benefit from knowing more about lovingly guiding our grieving friends, family and ourselves through the pain.
A guy called Robert Neimeyer became the most prolific researcher on the theory of continuing bonds. He and his colleagues talk a lot about the quest for meaning. Apparently finding meaning is very helpful for the well being of the bereaved. I have difficulty understanding this concept but recently found an article that describes the act of understanding the story of the event of the death and creating a narrative of the ‘backstory’ of one’s relationship with the deceased can equate to finding meaning. Keeping the story alive and held within the body, heart and mind of the bereaved is an important aspect of this compassionate and wise theory.
So why does it matter? For me it matters as rather than the angst of feeling a failure at this grief thing, I grab with both hands the opportunity to continue my relationship with my children (albeit children that always remain the same age). I guess my dead grown up son Derek is our most lived with person. He tells us off if we pack the dishwasher badly and insists on that we park the car in the place where it is least likely to be scratched by other careless drivers. In the everyday world my children are not ‘relinquished’ but with me in pretty ordinary ways.
So are your dead loved ones part of your lives still? Tell me how!
This week I’m lending out my blog to my friends. Today’s post is by Sue, who’s writing a brilliant book about grief and motherhood.
butimbeautiful 
I haven’t lost anyone with whom I’ve maintained a close connection after they’ve gone. However, if I had lost someone I was very close to in life, then it would comfort me to keep them close after they’d gone, and I would would do it without shame. It seems perfectly reasonable to me to this.
A lot of years ago our youngest brother was killed in a motorbike accident, and we all grieved hard for him. From that experience I can say that all that matters is showing up when a person has lost someone, and finding the right words to say matters much less.
Yes, Katrina, it makes sense to keep them close. There’s a thing called ‘being there’ which I agree is more important than anything. Being there means giving full attention to the bereaved and responding in what ever way is appropriate at the time. Thanks for your comments.
Sue
Both my parents are gone. I am “okay” about my father. He had dementia and faded slowly with that and heart problems. I had years to prepare myself for his death. I’ll never be okay about my mom. She was always strong and healthy, plus people in her family live to very old ages. It was a complete shock to hear that she had pancreatic cancer at age 75 and was gone 4 months later. This was 12 years ago and while it’s not as painful every day, I’m not over it. I talk to her, despite not believing in such things. I know she’d be so proud of my daughters and her great grandbaby. My parents and I were a unit of 3, so it’s difficult, but I have my children. You don’t get over losing your mom though…
Hi Paula, yes, some deaths you never ‘get over’ these people are too special to leave behind. I hope you can keep her with you and feel her presence in your life.
Best wishes,
Sue
I talk to my mum too. Even though I don’t believe. And to my dad..and my dogs…and my cat!!
Yeah, there’s quite a crowd out there! no time to feel lonely!
Grief is a natural emotion, and eventually we do all grieve over our lost loved ones. My father died when my children were babies, At the time I was too busy looking after a young family and being strong for my mother, so I put my own feelings on hold for a number of years.
My daughter permeates my day and she speaks to me in strange and unexpected signs and communications. But not all the time. It is more like a new view upon the world, into which she comes and says “hi” from time to time, telling me and my wife that she’s ok. And that we are too.
Hi Landzek, I love how your daughter speaks to you and how helpful that is in staying OK. It’s a relief to know she’s OK too of course. Thanks for your heartwarming comment
best wishes to you,
Sue
I just want to say that this reminder was very useful to me, and I’m sorry for your tragic loss, Sue, grateful for the post, and I’m sorry for all those suffering bereavement. Nobody now speaks to me, and I don’t believe they ever did, though it did seem like it sometimes. My relationship with my dad was pretty difficult, and when he died I had a lot of personal work to get through. That helped me get a lot closer to my mum, who was devastated. Her death was pretty devastating to me, partly because she was struggling to recuperate from heart surgery, and had just got a little enthusiasm to live back, when she was hit by a car as she crossed the road and killed. The most difficult struggle for me, perhaps, has been losing a sister a few years later to leukemia, despite her courage and humour and our ability to say goodbye, and the peaceful nature of her end, because I went numb. All I felt was guilt that I wasn’t devastated, lost, crying, as I watched my relatives fall apart. This post made me connect with the depth of my sorrow, as well as remind me that there aren’t any rules and it’ll take its own course. Thanks.
Hi Lettersquash,
You have experienced a lot of grief and in difficult circumstances. I’m pleased my blog helped a little. Feeling numb is a way of staying sane of course until the brain and the heart have the strength to deal with the loss. It’s not surprising. The problem with feeling numb is that you miss all the good stuff as well. I really hope you and your relatives can come through this tking the spirits of your loved ones with them. Take care,
Sue
My wife committed suicide in March 2021. Before that, my three closest male friends all died: my favorite cousin, who was like a brother to me in 1986; my best friend in 1998; my next best friend in 2008. Recently, a very close friend died of a long illness (late 2021). Soon after, a political comrade (not so much a loved one) was murdered (January 2022).
All of these deaths caused grief, sometimes intense grief, but my wife’s death was a suicide, and it shattered me. (The friend who died in 2008 was also a suicide, but didn’t affect me as intensely.) I have not recovered from it, and doubt I ever will. It crowds out my other griefs and loves, and makes them all seem inaccessible.
My only coping strategies are verbal: I read, write, and talk a great deal about death. For a time I worked in a hospital operating room where occasionally we would deal with death—for instance, an organ procurement. My preoccupation with death seems (literally) morbid, but the alternative of forgetting or repressing seems worse. That happens too, though. I’m relieved when others talk about it. That said, I am not sure my experience has increased my sensitivity for, or empathy with others. Decreased it, if anything. I understand bereavement better than I did, but lack the emotional resources I once had for empathy. My own grief tends to overshadow everything. It worries me, but seems hard to change.
I’m so sorry, that must be overwhelming. I don’t know that one can ever understand another person’s experience of grief. My son died at the beginning of 2021 and I feel as if half my soul has been chopped out. The other half is my daughter, not that I live through them, but they’re everything that truly matters to me. It’s got less raw but not much. Guilt is a huge thing, also coming to terms with the concept that he’s gone for ever. I sometimes feel like a cardboard cutout pretending to be me but the real me is dead. Being human I try to reach an accommodation. Part of this was writing a book about death. Part is a feeling I have, which I know is driven by loss, that there is a lot more to existence than the brief flash of life and neverending death. A sort of more things in heaven and earth philosophy. Some cuts don’t heal, they just form a scab, and it’s very difficult for the ‘time heals everything/nothing is bad but thinking makes it so ‘ school of thought to accept that. Having said that, meditating helped me. You’ve suffered major trauma, as have I. We have to expect consequences.
It is overwhelming. I feel enormous guilt, as well. She left our home abruptly in May 2020, and eventually went to Canada, where she was born (was a citizen). She had major health issues, and was under the impression that going to Canada (which has universal health) would resolve them. But she didn’t calculate properly that she needed 90 days to get residency before those benefits would kick in, and in those 90 days, all hell broke loose.
She very ill-advisedly initiated divorce, and our lawyers both advised us to stop communicating with each other. So between September and her death, I had no idea what was going on with her. I later learned that she was bipolar (she’d hidden it from me), and cut off from everyone and everything, she just crashed. People tell me not to dwell on could-haves, especially could-haves that ultimately could-not-have. But for more than a year, that’s all I thought of.
I went to a Christmas concert this afternoon (it’s now about 6:40 in the evening). The music was beautiful, but all I thought of was the Christmas concert we attended together in Prague in December 2018. She had certain annoying habits, and on that occasion, she insisted on filming the whole concert with her phone. I couldn’t get over my irritation at the time, but now I regret how fixated I was on such things. I cried throughout the whole concert. But I’ve gotten used to this way of dealing with the world.
I am childless, but I’m told that there’s no experience more terrible than losing a child. Losing a spouse has been a shattering experience, so I can’t really imagine something worse. Like you, I have enormous trouble coming to terms with the fact that she’s really gone forever. There are days when she seems too real in my mind to be gone at all. We were out of communication at the end, so there are days when her absence seems an extra-long continuation of that. We lived for a time in New York City. I rarely go there now, but on the rare occasions when I have, I’ve had to suppress the belief that she will somehow materialize–that I will see her in our old neighborhood, that her “death” was just a big hoax or mistake.
In my case, I wouldn’t say that the real me is dead, so much as that the past me is dead. The newcomer that I am is similar to the person I was, but not quite the same.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds. It leaves scars, and the pain of those scars awakens at odd, unpredictable intervals.
I wish you the best in trying to come to terms with your trauma. Personally, I find it hard to imagine that I will ever feel real joy again. But I’ve gotten comfort in writing. I’ve been planning to write about her for a long time. With some luck, I’ll get to it soon.
In hindsight there are so many ways we think we could have acted that might have changed the outcome. My son had significant mental health issues and took refuge in drugs, which killed him. I’m responsible in some ways but also it’s true to say that some people have a very difficult path in life. They sort of travel a knife edge. Such people can be extraordinary, as Felix was, but also ill-adapted to living in the world. It’s terribly sad. It is overwhelming but some things do help. My daughter being here. My dog, weirdly. Still being able to help people in small ways. A fairly unfounded and somewhat shaky belief that something vast and good exists outside our direct experience, which I have on one occasion had an inkling of. The painful understanding that my son (and perhaps your wife?) were on a trajectory that would have been hard for us to shift, and that people do to some extent choose their own paths whatever their parents and loved ones might feel in terms of blaming themselves. It is so tragic. I feel for you.
To add, I get what you felt at that concert. I cry in the car listening to music. I don’t know why.
In reading my comment, it occurs to me that since her death, one terrible habit I’ve acquired is to shift in and out of different times or tenses when I write without clarifying explaining I’m talking about! In the paragraph about the concert above, it would be unclear to the average reader when I’m talking about this afternoon’s concert and when I’m talking about the one we attended together in Prague. I actually find that this confusion is not just bad writing–it’s how I’ve come to think. I often forget where I am, temporally speaking–am I in 2022 or 2018? I spend so much time in the past that I often have trouble distinguishing the past from the present. The past becomes my only present. This must be a common effect of trauma.
“…some people have a very difficult path in life. They sort of travel a knife edge. Such people can be extraordinary, as Felix was, but also ill-adapted to living in the world.”
That’s a perfect description of my wife, almost as though you knew her. There were times when there was something positively magical about her, and yet there was no avoiding how troubled a person she was. I often thought that she was somehow not made for this world, just as you say of your son. In different moments, I blamed the world for not being well enough adapted to her. The truth is, I just have not been able to come to terms with what happened, and am not sure I know how. But it helps to talk to someone who’s been through something similar. We speak a familiar language with one another, that comes from a similar place.