Hell No to Hmmm, Maybe

by Carolyn Klassen

  The next day was Father’s Day. Gosh, it was a punch to the gut to wake up as newly childless. Everyone was celebrating all things fatherhood, and we were mourning two little boys.

  The following days, weeks and months were confusing, frightening and exhausting. I didn’t know this new me that was now grieving. That was discombobulating—to feel like a stranger to myself. I’ve always been a fairly optimistic, cup-half-full sort of person. Now, I was grumpy and hopeless. Nothing seemed fun.

  Color had drained from my world and I lived in shades of grey.

  I didn’t know what to do with myself.

  Television shows and movies just seemed silly. What was the point?

  I tried to read. Reading was always a favorite pastime. But now I could read the same paragraph over and over and it just wouldn’t make sense. I remember taking a Little House on the Prairie book out of the library, hoping that its basic reading level would help it be comprehensible to my brain.

  Friends would come over but I wouldn’t know what to say. It was hard to watch people coming and going, enjoying all that goes on in the daily grind of life. Didn’t they know my world had fundamentally changed? How could they go on as if everything was normal? I was angry and sad and confused—and then upset with myself that I made little sense.

  In the mornings, I would often have 2 or 3 seconds before I remembered that I lived in a world where my children weren’t alive. I would feel blissfully normal for a few fleeting seconds. That was immediately before the oppressive cloud of grief would weigh on me again. And then I would be angry at myself that even a few seconds had passed where I hadn’t grieved. And I would feel guilty that those few seconds had been wonderful—and angry at myself that I wanted more of them.

  I fell asleep crying for a lot of nights. It was miserable.

  I remember thinking there was a distinct possibility that I was going crazy. As in, not sane. That’s not written lightly as a sarcastic, disrespectful line which denigrates those with mental illness.

  I remember being genuinely concerned I was entering a mental state from which I would never recover.

  ◆◆◆

  I went to a workshop a decade ago on depression. The psychologist leading the workshop was talking about signs and symptoms, treatment, and all matter of things related to depression.

  He described going to New York, as so very many helping professionals did, in the aftermath of 9/11. The buildings had fallen, and thousands were reeling in the devastation of the terror of that day. He spoke of going to a New York fire house, and being surrounded by the remaining surviving firefighters, some of whom watched the towers fall on their comrades. The families of those who were killed trying to save the lives of others were also there. He described the incredible pain of those in the room. Firefighters had lost multiple colleagues, some of whom they had spent years working with. Family members lost dads, brothers, husbands.

  The bottom had dropped out of their world.

  The room oozed with a terrified vast ocean of grief that everyone was swimming—or rather, drowning in.

  This psychologist related the essence of what he delivered to those in the room in the firehouse that day:

  I’m here because I care and I want to support you in your grief. All of you have lost someone important to you. Some of you have lost many important to you. Grief is agonizingly painful to feel. It will create periods of confusion, anger, uncertainty, feeling lost, loneliness and so on. However, I am not here because there is anything wrong with these feelings. I am not here because what you are feeling is a problem. You are having very normal and very understandable reactions to huge loss. I am here because I want to help. I am not here because there is anything wrong with what you are feeling. While the tragedy of 9/11 is utterly wrong, feeling the grief you have is not wrong. Go ahead and be heartbreakingly sad. Allow yourselves to feel the full range of grief. Be sad. Be sad for a long time. This grief is not sick. I will not pathologize your grief.

  ◆◆◆

  Grief is brutal. It hurts. And the intensity of grief can be powerfully intense for you if you have recently lost someone or something very close to you.

  Grief is exhausting. It wears a person out, and saps energy. Folks who are grieving feel like their limbs are heavy, like they can’t do as much in a day, like a nap is necessary to get through the day.

  Grief affects the body in real ways. Folks who have lost someone often feel sucker punched by the physical ache that grief creates. It’s true—on brain scans, the pain of grief shows up in the same way physical pain does in the brain.

  Sleep is often a huge issue in grief. It might take hours to fall asleep. Or you might wake hours before sunrise. There are many hours where the world is sleeping, and you aren’t, and all you can think of is loss. It takes forever for morning to come. In the night, each sleepless, sad-filled minute seems an hour.

  There are legitimate cognitive effects. You have lower levels of concentration and decreased ability to problem solve. You are more liable to lose your keys or forget to get groceries that were on your list. You may find reading is difficult or even impossible.

  North American culture acknowledges grief that accompanies the death of a close loved one. When the death of a parent, child, or spouse occurs, they allow a few days off work. People send cards and flowers. Often, they bring over a casserole or cookies to express their condolences when they come for a short visit. There is a funeral or memorial service that honors the dearly departed where people attend to pay their respects and provide support to the surviving family.

  However, after the funeral, life returns to normal for just about everybody.

  Our culture has little ability to acknowledge the significant impact grief has on those whose lives are forever changed by the death of a loved one.

  North American culture is even worse at recognizing loss that isn’t a death. Grief is such an integral part of all loss.

  Loss is a part of life. We don’t just grieve when loved ones die. Things leave our life. Roles we cherish end. Dreams and ideas die. Relationships are destroyed. For example, people grieve the loss of:

  Career after retirement

  A dream when they didn’t get into the university program they had been working towards

  Financial stability with unexpected bankruptcy

  Marriage through divorce

  Freedom, quality sleep, independence when becoming a new parent (even when the baby is longed for and delighted in)

  A body part after an accident, or a house through fire, or a first apartment when you move into a house

  Loss creates grieving. It is a normal, natural response to loss.

  Grieving is the consequence of losing someone or something or even an idea you love.

  Great love inspires great grief.

  And grief generally lasts. In our instant culture, we take pain killers for headaches, and antacids for a stomach ache. When we are hungry, we make microwave popcorn in 2 minutes, and pop in a pizza pocket for an instant lunch. There is an inconvenient side to grief—it doesn’t subside quickly. There is nothing quick about grief.

  Normal grief is hard. But it resolves with support of friends and grieving in the way that makes sense for the person grieving. Some need to cry every day. Some feel the urge to talk about the loss frequently. Others need to return to routine quickly, while others stop and process the loss deliberately while stopping activities for a time.

  Everybody needs the support of others during grief. However, what that support looks like varies from person to person.

  ◆◆◆

  I thought I wouldn’t make it through the loss of Branden and Matthew. It seemed, with no exaggeration, that insanity was a very distinct possibility.

  But it didn’t kill me. And, in fact, I moved through the very initial intense grief to learning to live with it as a part of me. Slowly. Over a long time.

  My brother and wife invited us to sit on their back deck that first Father’s Day afternoon when w
e were beside ourselves.

  People who loved us send us cards. I valued those cards and the notes they held like I value breathing.

  Friends dropped by and took me out for lunch. I suspect I wasn’t pleasant company, but they didn’t seem to mind. They loved me anyway.

  My husband-at-the-time held me every night while I cried.

  And I woke up every morning. One plodding, leaden foot in front of the other.

  Day after day.

  After a couple of months, with much prodding, my husband convinced me to send out my resume. I nearly wept at the interview when Patti asked me why I wanted this job. I remember smiling a plastic smile, saying all the correct things that a person is supposed to say about why they want to work at a position, when inside I felt like I was screaming: “I don’t want this #&@*$ job, I want to be at home with my babies!”

  But I started the position about 3 months after they died. I went for coffee with my colleagues at the start of each shift. I worked with patients in the out-patient clinic. I developed the program, with policies and patterns, and developed a referral base. I did it because they were paying me to do it. I did assessments and treatments and got to know interesting people and laughed with them to help them feel comfortable. I went through the motions of a meaningful existence.

  After a while, I noticed that I now laughed because I was finding humor in my life again. I still wept, but it went from feeling as if the loss defined me, to gradually being one of the things that defined me. It moved from dominating my life, to being something in my life. Inch by inch, I began engaging in my life because it felt meaningful again.

  My grief isn’t “done”, but it’s become a part of me. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, grief moved from the principal feeling to one of many feelings.

  I have two little clay statues in my living room now with Branden and Matthew’s names stamped in the back of the figurines across the overalls. Two little birds sitting on a branch hanging in my kitchen. Their teddy bear tucked on the top shelf in the bedroom's corner facing out into the room. A small painting of two birds on a branch in the bathroom. These little guys have a place in my home.

  These first sons of mine are still a part of my life, but rather than being solely a source of pain, their memory has carved me into being kinder and gentler. As a person who has known profound loss, I’m not terrified of it. I don’t avoid people after they lose something and are sad. I’m grateful for who these boys were in my life.

  ◆◆◆

  If your grief is normal, which means agonizing, distressing, exhausting and painful, then you may not need to see a therapist. You may merely need to gather your people around you in a way meaningful for you. Let them hug you and hand you tissues. Teach them when you need them to listen to your stories. Tell them when you need them to distract you with something to give you a break from your own thoughts. Let them know when you need to pull away to cry, write, and be in solitude.

  Rinse and repeat.

  Your grief may become complex and require professional support. You may get stuck and the people around you don’t know what to do. But that’s for another chapter.

  Most likely, faced with loss, you need your people. You need space and permission to grieve.

  And you need to be painfully and naturally very sad.

  Because that’s what grief does.

  And there’s nothing wrong with that.

  5 Y

  ou are moving through with healthy coping

  I meet with Mary every Thursday morning for coffee for just over an hour. We’ve done this for about 14 years. We started meeting when my husband-at-the-time was in the process of leaving our marriage.

  We were both hurting—Mary and he were co-pastors of a new little church. Mary and I both felt abandoned, albeit in very different ways. I fondly called her “the other woman in his life”. After multiple years of an effective close working relationship, he was leaving her as a respected colleague as well.

  We met initially to go for a walk—as a support to each other. It felt valuable, and so we met again. It wasn’t long before we were meeting once a week for coffee. A little support group—as we grieved his painful behavior and then departure. We swapped stories, and when we felt confused, it was reassuring to know the other was confused too. When something made little sense to her, she would check with me, and I could confirm that it didn’t make sense to me either.

  We could be there for each other—I heard her pain, she heard mine. We supported each other as we labored through the pain of being left behind. We understood each other in a situation we didn’t understand.

  During those early days, I went to see a therapist a few times. He was invaluable. But as the months went on, and the therapist moved to a different position, and phased that part of his practice out, I was left without a therapist. And that was OK.

  It worked to not have him as a therapist because Mary and I still met for coffee. Every week, we have met at about 8:15 am on Thursday for coffee for about 90 minutes. When I was working sixty hours a week at two jobs, I still made time. Early on, money was tight, and although a latte wasn’t in the budget, the expense of the plain tea was always a priority.

  Over the years, sometimes she has a workshop she is leading out of town on a Thursday morning—so we don’t meet that week. Once we stopped for 3 months because she was on sabbatical. Sometimes, I have had to teach a class or a seminar on that morning. And when either of us goes on vacation, we don’t meet either.

  But unless one of us has a commitment that we have let the other know about, we meet. If we haven’t talked about cancelling, we’re there. If I’m not sure if she has cancelled, I go—and same with her. Meeting at Starbucks at 8:15 on Thursdays is our default.

  We now rarely see each other outside of Thursday mornings—maybe twice a year. We hardly call or text either during the week. But Thursday mornings find us slipping immediately into the easy, friendly and familiar camaraderie that is our rhythm.

  When I was more tired this winter than usual, she held me accountable to go to the doctor. She reminded me of the energy it takes to be part of a two-families-who-are-also-one-family situation, where I am parenting children that are not my biological children. Mary challenged me on my schedule and asked about some decisions I had made that left me over committed. She asked me why I was saying, “yes“ to so many things. Mary wouldn’t let me get away with any stock answers. She expected me to be candid with her and dug until we got to the root of it. It's a profound thing to have someone in our lives who can call us on our sh*t!

  Mary is good for me. I like to think I am good for her.

  Mary has an aging mother to whom she is completely devoted. She has ensured her mother receives excellent care all day every day. Her brothers are out of town, so, as the only child of her very elderly mom in the city, she takes her to all her appointments. She worries about her. Her mother, with memory failing her in the last months, has taken to calling Mary many times a day seeking reassurance. Mary and I have had some candid conversations about the level of care her mom requires. We wonder out loud how much to aggressively fight every health issue her mom has, and how Mary can prepare herself for the inevitable death of her mother.

  These haven’t always been easy discussions, but they are very real. We don’t avoid topics to be polite. We have invested so much into this relationship and have so much trust between each other. I give her significant latitude to poke and prod into the vulnerable areas of my life. We have a significant level of transparency between each other. She is going to hear about the rough spots of my life as they happen.

  Sometimes she supports me and reminds me about my strengths and why she loves me when I am too hard on myself. Other times, she gently chides me when she hears me being judgemental. She gets curious when I’m upset and doesn’t let me just sit and stew about it. Sometimes, I get all up in my head, and things get twisted up tight—and she lets me talk. As I rant in bits and chu
nks, she takes the pieces and helps me make sense of them.

  She isn’t a therapist, and she doesn’t expect me to be hers. But we have a level of accountability that allows for support, care, challenge and nurture when we hit rough spots of life. Regardless of when hard stuff happens, Thursday is coming. We will have a candid conversation about it. We also have someone who is a cheerleader and I know that I can celebrate accomplishments with her—I know she won’t perceive it as bragging. She will, more than most, appreciate all the bumps and barriers I had to tackle to allow for the achievement.

  ◆◆◆

  I have other friends, too, who prompt my growth, and support me in challenges. My friend, Judy, is a brave soul. Some might consider her somewhat outspoken. I just consider her a friend.

  I just see her as courageously honest. Being Judy’s friend is a little risky and a lot wonderful. She is an extrovert who embraces life. It gives her a wide circle of friends. I noticed that her boldness gives her more opportunity to be kind. She's not afraid to call someone up who might need help.

  Judy and I took a trip to Chicago several years ago to see Oprah Winfrey talk to Brené Brown as part of a taping of some episodes of Oprah’s Lifeclass. I offered to hang around Chicago airport for a few hours to wait for Judy’s arrival on a later flight so we could take the train downtown together.

  Judy forbade me to wait.

  She insisted I get on the train from the airport and start exploring the city without her. When Judy talks, I take her seriously. It meant this timid soul of mine found out it was quite capable of negotiating the train in Chicago. I saw parts of downtown I would have missed if I'd quietly waited for her at the airport, as would have been my natural bent.