My mother wore grief like a backpack full of boulders. She could never quite figure out a way to lighten the burden. Her need to hold grief close influenced my ability to navigate my own journey. I remember not long after my husband died, my mother, a widow for almost 10 years, told me “it never gets better.” I was going to prove her wrong.
Grief is complicated.
I was determined to “handle” grief. I wasn’t going to hold onto it like a comforting childhood blanket. I pushed through the milestones. I vowed to be there for my children. I saw my last child off to college. I sold our home. I planned my only daughter’s wedding. I sold all of my furniture and moved into the city… all by myself. I remember reenacting the opening scene of the Mary Tyler Moore show in the streets of my new hometown, Chicago. Standing in the middle of Michigan Avenue outside my shiny high-rise apartment I threw my hat into the air and twirled around. I did it!
Not so fast. Grief is complicated.
In the past couple of months loved ones have been navigating their next “big” life choices. My little sister and her husband bought a big retirement home on the water. I was so excited when she asked me to help her move into their gorgeous home. Even during a pandemic, I said YES! The smell of the ocean was everywhere, the hard wood floors throughout were beautiful, the gracious bedrooms were many and filled with light. Around day three of the move I found myself close to tears, always on edge. I covered it up by being gruff. Eventually I slipped away to the beach and sat on a rock and wept. I called a dear friend. She stayed on the line, over 800 miles away, and just listened. I couldn’t put my finger on why I was crying. I was worried I was jealous.
Grief is complicated.
Fast forward a month and I’m once again at the beach. My sister-in-law had invited me to join the rest of my husband’s siblings at a beach house they had rented in Virginia. She mentioned that they were hoping to purchase a second home on the beach. I love her, I love real estate, and I love the beach. I was thrilled for her, but there was something sinister lurking beneath my happiness. Again, for some inexplicable reason, I was close to tears.
On my twelve-hour ride home, I once again called my friend. I blurted out that I thought I’d been infected with the “little green monster”. At first, she was confused, but through my tears, I told her I hated that I was jealous. I swore it was out of character for me. I lamented that I was a bad person. When I was done chastising myself, she used a word that is kryptonite for me. Do you think you might be grieving?
Grief is complicated.
I recently came across a quote by David Steindl-Rast that a dear friend shared with my family as Michael was actively dying, “…nothing is more active than dying. The verb dying does not even have a passive voice. I can say, “I’m being killed,” but I can’t say, “I am being dead.” Being dyed would make me colorful, not dead. Dying is something that you must do… You die to what you were and come alive to what you will be. Being afraid to die would mean being afraid to live. Learning to die means learning to live.”
I finally realized that my tears weren’t manifested by jealousy but out of grief. I was mourning a journey I was no longer going to take. I was mourning what I expected in order to come alive to what might be.
Grief is complicated.
I’m learning to understand that grief and joy can happen simultaneously. In fact, that’s what makes life so exciting, interesting, full and authentic. To be excluded from sharing a loved ones happiness for fear it would spark a moment of grief, wouldn’t actually be living.
Navigating unexpected grief during a global pandemic is…complicated, when the distractions and obligations of everyday life no longer exist. But maybe that is the gift.
Grief is complicated.
