Three Simple Resources that Helped me Grieve and Grow

They were all close at hand

This dream was memorable because it happened. My sleep was usually bereft of dreams. Maybe dreaming was too much to expect from an odd hour of dosing now and then. The drugs dulled my pain enough for me to worry if I would ever walk unaided, but were not strong enough to induce sleep.

But that night, I fell asleep. I slept long enough to dream that it was my birthday. There were people in and out all day. By late afternoon, I told one of my guests that Chris, my husband, must have died because I did not receive a present from him.

When I woke up, the pain was there and my husband remained gone; but the dream was a gift. I remembered the feeling in the dream of waiting for a present or message that never came. It was a metaphor for the dramatic changes in my life.

How could I accept my sudden loss?

In the pain-filled, post-surgical days of my life at that point, it was hard to accept that I had lost the person who shared my heart and my bed. How do you react when the worst thing that could have happened does?

When I was a teenager, a woman went to the theater with one of her daughters, leaving her husband and six children at home.

She returned to find her home in flames, and her family killed through political arson. As a young girl, the cruel deaths horrified me, but I did not grasp the full impact of her tragedy.

Yet her words of faith as she left her native land have remained with me: “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be His Name.” Tragedy did not give her courage or faith. It merely revealed both.

The circle of life includes birth and death.

One is indisputable joy, the other sadness. Yet, peculiarly, our journey of grief is within our control more than any other part of the cycle. The object of our grief no longer has an input. It is not interactional. Grief is between us and our memories, aided by our situation.

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, elaborating on models used by European clinicians since the 1940s, popularized the stages of grief in 1969. Other clinicians elongated those concepts to twelve stages. I liked the explanation of John Hawkins, who chose seven stages as outlined in https://gatewaycounseling.com/7-stages-of-grief-explained/. I cannot emphasize too much that none of the models are linear or sequential.

Lots of the stages, I’ve bypassed. I did not bargain and was not angry. I was not conscious of denial, but after the dream, I knew my birthdays would never be the same and the special rituals of our married life no longer mattered.

Chris always celebrated my birthdays, even when I wanted nothing. His last gift was a mug regretting that “he had not met me earlier or could not live forever to love me longer.” Now, I’ve placed it in a cabinet to keep as a memento.

The dominant phase that almost consumed me was that of Guilt and Pain. The thought of his unanswered cries for help tortured me. When the forensic doctor assured me he was unconscious, I wondered if the noonday heat dehydrated him as he laid unconscious. The doctor reassured me again, but I felt guilty that I never joined him for his morning coffee on the porch. Why did I spend so much time in the yard instead of hanging out with him?

Why did I not hug him when he brought me that last cup of tea? Well, the nursing aide was with me and I did not want to embarrass her by displaying affection. I sipped the tea and told her: “He makes tea like an Englishman.” With my compliment in his ears, he walked out of the bedroom and out of my life.

So guilt took up an enormous slice of my grief. Even as I recuperated, sleep was an erratic visitor, particularly when I stopped my pain medication. Maybe I was depressed because, after a week or two, tears ended most conversations and destroyed my sense of control.

Yet, from the time of his accident, a verse from Scripture lodged in my mind (Rom 8:28) “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him…”

It is hard to see or understand the good when my life partner is not around. He was not just good; he was my best gift. However, I cling to the faith that one day, I will find it.

The Comfort of the Dream

Despite my refusal to get more stuff, my husband insisted on making my birthday special. My first birthday without him would have found me in a storm of grief if I did not have that dream so many months before. Many times, my cheeks have been wet with sudden tears before I could stop them.

Therefore, I spent months preparing myself to have courage and be happy. The day had added significance because it was the last of our personal celebrations. I’ve endured the first Thanksgiving, Christmas, wedding anniversary, his birthday, and now mine.

My birthday was on a Sunday. I went to church, enjoyed the birthday prayer, read my cards. My brother and I had a sumptuous meal and despite it being Lent, we enjoyed a glass of red Chardonnay. The daffodils were in bloom, and the yard and my home were full of color.

My siblings called, helping the day to pass quickly.

The next morning at the gym, I met a friend who saw me dissolving in tears, just talking about some altar flowers for Chris’ birthday. She knew the significance of that Sunday. In response to her unspoken inquiry, I proudly asserted: “I did not cry once.”

Relief lightened my mood. I survived the hurdles of the many celebrations in good shape and achieved a dream to be published in the Medium. Folks say that I’m strong, but I have lots of help.

I found it in unexpected ways, in familiar places.

Family

My eight siblings and their families formed a spontaneous support Committee. I have over sixty first cousins. The female cousins phoned and prayed while the male ones sent their love. My surviving Aunt sent me a card that expressed my losses so poignantly, its truth still comforts.

Some came immediately to help and cheer. They all returned months later for the Memorial they helped plan and took central parts respecting my wishes. The extended family, across time zones, conveyed love and concern. They helped me to think, understood when I was in a fog. They cheered every inch I made towards normality.

Even our pets, the feral cat who adopted us and our beautiful huskie, cried and shared their grief. Around Thanksgiving, someone left Lord Wedgewood, a German Shepherd, by our gate. He is still waiting to be adopted, but he reminds me most of Chris, who advocated for animals and conservation.

Friends

Old and new friends, from home and abroad, took the time to write letters, shop, or cook, referred me to others who could help. They volunteered their services, gave their talents and time. They, like my family, shared their memories of him. Each story created more layers of his personality. It helped me to know him even better and enlivened my own memories of him.

Independence is a great aim until you have to rely on others. I remain in awe of the care and kindness my friends offered. Before my family could assist, they provided all I needed with warmth and generosity. Their outpouring of support has been sustaining since my family returned to their different States.

Faith

Faith is born from belief and needs to be practiced before it is required. I believe God supplies the strength I need. Experience of God’s help comforts me. My faith community provides a caring circle of encouragement. They are my cheerleaders.

Ten weeks after the accident, I could not control my tears in public. A friend reminded me of Ps.56:8 where God bottles our tears. Six months later, while in an exercise class, I thought of Chris and my tears stained my mask, but it was inconsequential. I continued with the leg curls.

The lady who lost her husband and six children in the fire, Kobe Bryant’s wife, Vanessa who lost him and their daughter remind me that other people have endured greater tragedies.

Covid-19 has given the world an exercise in universal grief. Public and private survivors who find safe harbors inspire me. I know God is with me in every situation.

However, even in the short months since my loss, my lifestyle has changed.

I include three practices.

Gratefulness

I appreciated my family and friends. Since Chris’s accident, I thank God for them daily. Our relationship has improved in meaningful ways.

There are many other things for which I’m grateful, e.g.

• Within weeks, social security clearly informed me of my financial status
• Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution agreed to scatter my husband’s ashes. He valued working on their ships. During every interaction, they exemplified compassion and competency.
• In the best of times, my mood is low in winter. I learned to adapt. Despite my sadness and the isolation of the pandemic, my mental health seemed unaffected.
• Spaces can help one heal. Belatedly, I’ve learned to enjoy my surroundings as much as Chris did. The dagwoods in bloom and the blossoms of the cherry and pear trees gladden my heart. I’m grateful that I can still live here.
• Each day warms my heart with different reasons for gratitude.

Gracefulness

This has nothing to do with poise and elegance. Six months won’t be long enough for me. I refer to having grace as showing mercy or leniency, not demanding perfection or judging intention. We’ve heard the slogan: Don’t sweat the small stuff.

I’ve realized that even the big stuff did not warrant the time and emotional energy I spent. Putting dirty clothes in a basket makes perfect sense, but it does not need a lecture or an ultimatum.

Now, I try to practice greater tolerance, acceptance, and generosity of spirit. Extending grace has increased my empathy, for there is a language of loss known only to survivors. The body language of grief is easily accessible and often speaks more eloquently than words. I’ve become more attuned to folks in different distress.

Mindfulness

Mindfulness is not as esoteric as it sounds. You do not have to be a Buddhist to benefit. Any form of reflection is restorative as we become more attuned to our body and mind.

I used to pride myself on multi-tasking. Now, I’m intentional in giving undivided attention to people and projects.

In the months following Chris’s death, memories comfort me. The most healing ones are those in which I was totally involved with him.

Dancing solo on a cruise ship, only caring for his applause or sipping a glass of wine on the front porch as we watch the setting sun painting the sky from a matchless palette. The activities mattered less than the feelings of connection they evoked.

They have motivated me to spend more time with people by being fully present when I visit or phone. Now, it is easier to say that I need to be somewhere else or I adjust my routine to give my attention to the matter at hand. Of course, I slip back to my old distracted ways but I’m failing less.

Grief has its own time-table and does not always run a straight course, but I’m grateful for my Family, Friends, and Faith. The new practices are enriching my life. As Celine Dion sings: My Heart will go on.