The Grieving Room: Thou Shalt Honor Thy Grief
Mon Feb 04, 2008 at 06:14:11 PM PDT
HEALING.
It is the word we use as the destination or end point of our grief journey. Its use implies an outcome that we may reach through time and effort and tears; it evokes the image of a place of comfort -- an oasis, if you will -- where, upon arrival, we may kick off our shoes, let down our hair, pop open a cold one and recover from the effort of the trip.
Let us suppose that there is such a state (although I am far from convinced that it is universally available... but stay with me here), and that each one of us is somewhere on that journey towards HEALING.
So... how do you know it's not an oasis (or worse, a mirage) you're entering? How do you know you've arrived? What is the cost of admission, and why are we forced to pay it, when we're not even sure healing is available to us?
I was in an oasis this past fall.
A brief recap (those who know my story can skip this paragraph and the next): my mother was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer on 3/30/06, at the age of 67. Until the arrival of that disease, she was a healthy, active woman who invested in an exercise franchise after retiring from her second career. She traveled extensively and volunteered for causes she cared about - she was an extremely ALIVE person. One year and one week later, she died, on 4/6/07, which was Good Friday. I was honored to be at her side for her last three days and to hold her hand as she drew her last, labored breath. She was my mommy.
Grief had been festering for the entire year that she was fighting her illness. You know the kind: we've called it "pre-grief" here before. It's when you are depressed as hell and sad beyond belief, because you know your loved one is going to die and leave you forever. Your loved one is sad and depressed, too, mourning the loss of his or her own self. Still, you both soldier on, trying to be brave for each other, and trying to have as many good memories in the time you have left to make them. You push that pre-grief back and push it back, and the stress is formidable.
At last, the death happens. You, of course, are devastated with the finality of it. Still, you're amazed at that at the same time, you also feel a sense of relief or peace - your beloved one is no longer suffering, and you're no longer having to keep your finger in the dyke that is holding back the tidal wave of grief. The flood of pain is what you feared, and yet, you find it somehow a comfort that you can finally experience it instead of resisting it.
Then, amazingly, you start to heal. You can feel it. I noticed the change about a month and a half after my mother's death: somehow, the constant hum of acute pain and anxiety was no longer buzzing about me. Sure, it was still present often enough, but was no longer primary and fundamental throughout every day.
Huh. Was this the beginning of HEALING? Of course. Just a taste, though.
Then, I began to notice that I was going longer and longer between crying jags. That I could talk about my mom without tearing up every. single. time. That I could think about her and picture the happy, healthy mom from the summer of 2005, and not the shell on the bed from spring of 2007.
Finally, this past fall, the buzzing was all but gone. I had to actually work at thinking about her and letting the tears flow. At this point, I was coming to terms with the permanence of her absence. She was gone, and she'd be gone for the rest of my life. Easy to say, easy to understand, but hard to contemplate.
So, had I reached the destination? Had I arrived at the shores of HEALING?
I sure thought so. Then, I had a very, very big surprise.
Some of you may know that I am both a professional musician and a professor of Music. One of the things I have to do is travel for "gigs" - I do this less often now that I have students to supervise, but it's important to me and to my University that I maintain some prominence. So, on January first, I left home for a month for a gig in another state. There would be three weeks of rehearsals and one week of performances. I was excited to do the piece (one that was new to me), and excited to be in performance mode after a long semester of teaching.
I got there, and started the process. And I STANK. My skills were good, but my brain was in a fog (one of the pea-soup consistency). In short, halfway through the rehearsal process, my colleagues were not at all sure that I was going to get my act together for the opening performance. I couldn't get things right and I was feeling inept and mortified.
I went back to my hotel after the hardest day, and had a good, cleansing cry, after which I sat and thought through things. What had I done wrong? I had started working on the piece early enough. I had put in the hours of practice and coaching that were required. Could it be that I was preoccupied with some difficulties my husband was having at work? He was depressed and considering resigning from his job. Sure, that might be killing the old concentration.
Ah-HAH! It came to me. I had been diagnosed with a thyroid disorder only a month before, and I just remembered that one of the symptoms could be "difficulty concentrating." My new thyroid meds were kicking in, so I just had to hang tight. Of course! It would be OK.
The next morning, I got the email. It was from my mother's very best friend. She reminded me how much my mother loved to travel to see and hear me perform, and how she never missed an opening night. She often came with a pack (anywhere from two to four close friends) and they always made it into a huge event. My mother's very best friend and some others had made their plans: they were coming. They weren't going so far as to buy an empty seat for my mother, but they wouldn't dream of missing this performance.
THAT'S WHEN IT CAME TO ME. It was really painfully clear.
My mom wouldn't be there. She wouldn't be there to tell me to "break your leg" (I gave up trying to correct that one). She wouldn't be there to tell me about all the small details she noticed. She wouldn't be there to tell me how much she cried the minute the first note sounded. She just wouldn't be there.
Needless to say, it was as if the dam had broken anew. I don't remember crying this hard the day she died. That grief was still as strong as ever, and now it was PISSED OFF that I had kept it down and denied it for so long (or, I should say, attempted to). I had to pay it all the respect it required of me, and I spent a long night doing just that.
The next day, after finally sleeping well, I was ON, and I stayed ON for the remainder of the engagement. The reviews were excellent, and I proudly added another achievement to my resume and another work to my repertoire.
Never in my life has something been clearer to me. You can cover it up however you like - plant grass and flowers over your grief. Cover it with wallpaper. It will not be ignored, and it will not be denied, and to attempt to do so WILL result in a world of unhappiness.
Thou Shalt Honor Thy Grief.
Thanks for reading my saga. It was good to get it out, and if it can help even one person (other than me, which it's helped already), then I'm happy. Feel free to share your story or your feelings or your comments below. And, as always, here is a link to all the previous Grieving Room diaries.
The next couple of weeks are spoken for, but Mondays from 2/25 on are up for grabs. Speak up in the comments!
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