There are days when I feel like I have to keep my suffering–my grief– to myself. But soon thereafter, I realize that I’m not being a hero. I’m actually stuffing my hurt for a short while, letting it compound, and then finding I can’t hold on to it any longer. My hurt builds, and resentment with it. I’m helping no one. I’m hurting myself along with others. My irritability and shortness only get worse the more I would hold on to it. Grief is relentlessly unkind.
But this doesn’t mean that grief has to control you. Grief hurts, it does. It’s just as rough as everyone says. But I can tell you as someone who lives with it each day, that it is possible to see the beauty of it. Yes, I know that sounds unimaginable, especially if you are in the throes of grief, but please hear me out. I like to see grief in two different ways, both equally important. First, it’s the deep feeling of loss and pain. Second, however, is its tremendous persistence and insistence–to remind us that whoever or whatever we lost was/is important to us.
Grief Is Felt By All–You Are Not Alone!
My grief felt like a secret–it felt like something I had to grasp and deal with on my own. When my mother went to the hospital for brain surgery, it resulted in a blood clot, then cardiac arrest, and then coma. I was there in the hospital in her room when it happened. Anytime I think of that day, it can feel all-consuming. My whole body feels like it’s closing. It stops me in its tracks. I feel numb. But as soon as it travels from my brain to my heart and my limbs…I actively make it vanish. At least for a little while. Is it fair to pretend that this pain doesn’t exist? I’ve discovered that the answer is both yes and no.
Grief and pain don’t have to be a dark secret. It’s a part of life that can be lightened with the help of loved ones.
anxietyisafly
Triggers for Grief Come Swiftly
One day I watched a show for the first time where they used a defibrillator on a patient. The lights flickered….code blue. Just as they did when my mom was dying. It caught me off guard. I started to cry, quietly keeping it to myself.
I finally told my husband and sister later that night. They were kind and were just the listening ears I needed. I realized later that the reason I didn’t say anything was that my mother’s transition into a coma was the worst day of my life, and I am not one to share heartbreak with others. I realize now that it’s a gift to share pain with loved ones. It’s trust that you place there…not more suffering. My husband is tender and sincere when I tell him past hurts I’ve never shared with a soul. And he does the same with me. It is through being there for one another that healing can start.
Grief and pain don’t have to be a dark secret. It’s a part of life that can be lightened with the help of loved ones. You can be strong by knowing when to let things go on your own, but it is also important to share them to move forward. You don’t have to forget it, but make peace with it. And sometimes it does help to not do that part on your own.
I chose not to Push Away the Grief for a Moment
I’ve found that it’s alright to distract yourself for a little while, but you can’t live there. Dealing with loss is so difficult, and it requires balance.
Today, I saw on a show a nurse closing a man’s eyes who had died. It wasn’t that part that struck me; it was his hand that she unclasped from the blanket. It triggered me a little. I saw my mom’s hands there–the day I saw her in bed when she died. Memories I didn’t even know I had sometimes creep in and go straight to my chest. These were times when memories demanded to be visited, and I’m glad I allowed them to come.
When she was in a coma, my mom’s hands would curl, and I’d do exercises to help her open up. The nurses put spacers on her toes so they would unfurl. What was my mom thinking? Could she think at all? I tried so hard to be supportive regardless. I had hoped her soul was elsewhere, but if she was still there, I wanted to do all I could to help her know that we were still there for her, even if it was only three days a week.
Uniting Experience with Memory and Healing
I remember the yeasty smell. It aches to think about it. Whenever I would come in, I would put the diffuser with essential oils out. I would play the music on her CD player. It was usually John Denver or A Beautiful Mind; some of her favorites. I had always hoped it would spark something. She was saved for a reason, I thought. She was probably spared so she could come out of it. But it wasn’t meant to be.
I had hoped then as well as now that I was able to send a signal to her somewhere, someway–maybe to her brain or her soul in heaven–that she is still loved. That she matters. That we are always thinking of her, even if we aren’t present at all times. I don’t know if it truly did give her comfort, honestly. The only thing I can be sure of is that it did for me. Even in a coma, my mother was selfless.
She was beautiful, even lying there alone. She was strong, even though she couldn’t say a word. She was brave, even in her rest. These are the significant parts of grief–the insistence to carry with you the beauty left behind.
Some Topics for Discussion
Have you lost someone important to you? Do you let feelings bottle up, especially grief? Leave a comment below if you’d like ⬇️
A Lil’ Disclaimer about comments:
This blog is meant to be a springboard for discussions on some tough topics. It’s so easy to feel alone, but you’re not!
That hurt you feel? Someone knows it, too.
It doesn’t mean your hurt is less important. It means that you’ve got someone out there that is bound to understand. At least a little.
Things can get tricky. Not all people are kind. But most are just trying to survive.
It’s important to honor the nuances in what someone else is going through, too. Your experience is your own.
It’s complicated, yes.
I’m happy to encourage others to share their stories. Like on any other platform, vulnerability comes with risks. Don’t share unless you feel comfortable. You can count on me in the meantime to put it all out there. 😅
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