When Grief Speaks
Grief may be introduced to us early in life, or we may be spared from thinking about it until much later.
My paternal grandfather died one week before my father was born. His death left a profound mark on my father and became part of the story I had always known. For me, however, it was only a story. I knew it was sad that my dad had grown up without a father, but because I never had the privilege of meeting and loving my grandfather, I was spared the pain of grieving him.
I began thinking about death when a little girl at my school was diagnosed with leukemia. I remember praying for her and knowing that her family was living with the terrible fear of losing her. Her name was Cindy, and she died from leukemia.
Sister Mary Ann was my teacher at the time. She told us that if Cindy had the opportunity to leave heaven - even for one second - and knew that she had eternity there, she would not want to miss a single second of it.
I remember not wanting to think about how difficult Cindy’s death must have been for her family. At the Mass our school held in her honor, I saw her friends crying. I felt relieved that I had not known or loved her the way they had, because it meant I would not have to grieve as they did.
I have now studied grief for more than 25 years, although I did not take on this task willingly.
My father’s death in 2001 came unexpectedly. I believed in heaven, but when someone you love dies, if you are like me, you begin begging for more clarity about where, exactly, that is.
Grieving my dad helped me understand that when death occurs, a new relationship begins. First comes survival - surviving the loss of having that person physically present in your life. I did not know how to do that. I had never lived in a world without my dad.
My heart loved him so much that it did not know what to do when the part of it devoted to loving and being loved by him could no longer fulfill that purpose in the same way.
I began opening myself to signs of connection with him. I was surprised by the comfort I found in a song - “Panis Angelicus,” to be specific. It was his favorite song. He had it sung at his wedding with my mom and had asked that it be sung at my and each of my siblings’ weddings. Hearing it after he died allowed me to experience my connection with him in a new and unexpected way.
The grief journey can feel unreal. Pain surges in waves, and yet each of us experiences it differently. Every loss also creates a new and distinct experience for the person who is grieving.
Many of us do not truly consider grief until its gut-wrenching reality becomes our own. This can leave us feeling unprepared and terrified when we finally encounter it.
In 2021, I began the grief journey for my mom. She and my Aunt Jackie died just 36 hours apart. They were both tremendous losses for me. I was desperate to find a way through the intensity of the emotional pain.
I found a grief journal that I highly recommend: How to Carry What Can’t Be Fixed by Megan Devine. Through this book, I learned to work with my pain in small, manageable doses.
One exercise I found especially healing invites you to personify your grief. The author asks you to take a few deep breaths, pick up your pen, and ask:
“Grief, who are you?”
Then you wait.
When you sense an image, creature, being, or person, describe what you see. Do not simply write about grief; allow your grief to speak for itself. Write in its voice. Set a timer for ten minutes and let your pen - or your fingers - write.
This is how my grief responded when I asked, “Who are you?”
I am pain.
Dark pain.
I am the deep ache that is always within.
I am a reminder of deep love.
I am sadness, anxiety, guilt, remorse, jealousy, disgust, and anger.
I am like a chameleon, adapting to the environment.
If you ignore me, I will wake you in the night - and often early in the morning. Sometimes I will arrive with tears. Sometimes with imagined scenarios. Often, I will disguise myself as anger or agitation, carrying what no one else could possibly understand - except you and me.
I can also be your friend,
if you let me.
Breathe in my wisdom.
Honor the depth of the love you feel.
Nourish your light, and remember the light of your mom and Aunt Jackie - your dad, and all the other loved ones you grieve.
