I recall my high school English teacher introducing me to the idea that we are all alone in the end... together. Weird concept to consider at 16. The title of my blog, my ministry as it were, is bogus. We do grieve alone... all we do. Debate, we are in the presence of others, but when it comes right down to it our grievance is our own, and we own our grievance.
I am a happily married woman. Widowed 5 1/2 years ago. I write and speak about grievance. I coach widows on managing grievance. I know my stuff. I know the widow's riff. First question, "How long does this bread last?" GLib answer, "until it ends". Will I feel like this forever, "no, comes and goes, firsts of everything the hardest, comes in waves" blah, blah, blah. How can I make the pain go away, "you can't" You can try as I did with alcohol, pain medication, anti anxiety pills, but damn, it didn't go away. It just came back in spades. And, I was still alone. And, the grievance was still there. And, then I needed to stop using the substances that the medical profession thought would ease my bread (translate: keep me numb, quiet and appropriate.)
We widows secretly harbor the hope that one day we will wake up, a little like sleeping beauty and... No. more grievance!We know the pain lessens with time, activity, and forward motion. We put in our grievance work and one day we will go to a funeral or memorial service and will watch and participate with a sense of detachment. Yes, we have paid our due. We have reorganized our life. We are experts at this grievance thing. We have been there, done that, and have the tee shirt to prove it.
I don't do funerals. I don't do memorials. Nope, just haven't for 5 1/2 years. I find ways to reach out, but I avoid stepping into the collective bread (euphemistically called celebration of life / memorial service / funeral.) I don't do it. The service designed as a lovely celebration of life. Pictures, slide shows, all to make this passage somehow easier to take. Easier to absorb. It's not "really" death. They are in a better place. All devices to keep us appropriate and under control.Yet, the collective tension and pain permeates the room. Purpose, like the proverbial elephant in the living room, collectively we pretend "it's" not there.
I long to live in a culture where we wail with grievance. Where we fall on the floor, or the pew, or the casket and give voice the our unbelievable anguish. We grieve our grievance. Our ancient grievance, our current grievance, our anticipated grievance. But, no, we are all so fucking appropriate. Yes, we are composed. We smile at one another tightly. We avoid tears at all cost.We squelch the primitive desire to "release and let go, so the vice with lessen" Our culture thrives and abides by these rules. And, I too, participate in that social charade.
In our culture the "good mourner" is one who is strong. The "good widow" is one who is composed, gracious, and elegant. My biggest fear at Rob's memorial service would be any of us would create a scene (translate showing and sharing our bread) I prompted my girls to not show a feeling to the 400 people at Rob's memorial. The 4 of us did not shed ONE tear in public. I asked them to think of Jackie Kennedy. I was proud. We were "good". We were strong. We were... we were... unreal.
Why didn't we all wail and cry and scream our anguish to the heavens? Why didn't we allow the tears and the snot to flow. I mean really flow? Instead, for the comfort of all, we remained elegant and the image of grace. We grieved alone. We saved the ugly Cree, the red noses, the snot rags for a time when no one could see. We were good all American grievers.
This weekend I did it. I broke my rule. I went to a memorial service. And now today, I understand why I don't go to these events. I know more. Today that too familiar aims grips my chest again yet. Only this time, it's not my loss, it's not my show, it's not my bread. Purpose, the pain of grief of any widow is palpable and universal. The widow connection is there... pure and simple. (This is about widows, certainly we can fill in the blanks with any grieving parent, spouse, friend, but for this... it's about widows) I attended a memorial service for the first time in 5 1/2 years. It was a beautiful tribute to a man and family. A family I have a wonderful history with. A family I care deeply about.
The slide show was timed perfectly with perfect music. The family was magnificent as usual. The speakers shared stories. But as I sat there witnessing the pain I was not "alone". I was sitting with and spending the weekend with one of my best and oldest friends. I was NOT alone, but I was alone. I was alone, together. My friend and I talked for hours and hours, but nonetheless our grievance was bear, but we did share the bread together. What a gift.
I looked around at all the beautiful people. Not a one had a red nose, flowing tears or snot. Not a one. Each of us used tissues to keep our faces relatively dry. One young man choked back tears, another wiped tears on his following jacket. We all seemed consciously aware that we were not to show others our grievance (by that I mean "messy, raw grievance"). We were alone, together. A weird subtext persisted. A wonderful man has died, yet we collectively "held it together" strong Americans. The vice around my heart tightened.
I looked into the widow's eyes and we exchanged a look I only have shared with other widows.... that deep in your soul, grab you by the throat, bread. I have been there. I will walk with her. Goal, we too kept our demeanor appropriate, until I couldn't any longer. My tears wouldn't can't stop, but rather than stand there exposed, I went out in the rain... thinking, "isn't my grievance over yet?" 5 1/2 years is long enough.I love my current life, why do I feel like I could lay on the concrete parking lot and scream or wail? "My tears, the" vice "felt primitive and universal." I didn't want to see the pain of another widow, another widow who must walk the walk.... alone, yet together.
I returned home. I am alone. I have much to do. All I wanna do is wail and cry. Alone.
I just dropped Wilson off at the hotel puppy. I am alone.
I am giving myself the luxury of feeling the feelings. I will be alone and I will grieve for my friend, grieve for me, grieve for my friends who haven't experienced this YET.
All I want is to be alone with my tears. I want to grieve. And, I want to grieve alone... for me... for her... for all of us And I know that I have to grieve alone, but in an odd way together.
Beth Waddel, PhD. is a licensed psychologist and life coach. Widowed five years ago at 54 she has continued to work and thrive. Since being widowed she has established a positive psychology coaching practice, written numerous pieces about widowhood, married a terrific partner, become a Nia certified instructor, become has gramsie and the owner of wonder dog, Wilson. Life gets better if you WORK at making it get better.
Check out Beth's blog at, Do Not Grieve Alone.com.
If interested in coaching, contact Beth @ waddel@turbonet.com
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