I Never Knew

     Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my Mom and what grieving must have been like for her.  She was 57 years old when our Dad died at 59, leaving her with four teenagers still at home.  As I walk through my own experience of losing my spouse, my Bob, I wonder if she ever really was able to mourn the loss of hers.  I can make my own space and time for that every day if I want to or need to.  Mom had to still be "mom" to all of us, especially to the four still at home.  She had to find a job.  She didn't have the "luxury" to surrender to her grief.  No wonder she seemed to live with an undercurrent of depression the  rest of her life.

     I remember trying to be as present to her as I could, coming home from St. Louis as often as possible, calling her regularly--probably every week, if not more often.  I thought then that I was aware of what she needed, I thought I knew what she must be feeling and going through.  But how could I?  At that time, I hadn't been married, hadn't lost my life-partner, my soul-mate, best friend, dance partner, my other half, father of my kids and provider.  I had no idea how all-encompassing such a loss is--not then.  But I do now.  I am learning each day a bit more about how much harder than I ever imagined the loss of our Dad must have been for Mom who, as I recall, was the first in her circle of friends to lose her spouse.

    I realize, too, that no matter how hard I might have tried to understand Mom's grief, it would have been impossible.  It was impossible to have imagined my own grief  before I was in its midst.  Not that I didn't sometimes anticipate what life might be like without Bob's presence--his illness forced those thoughts upon me more than once over the last years.  Yet no amount of imagining it could have prepared me for the actual experience of what one grief counselor I'm reading describes this way:

    "Grief is what we think and feel inside after someone we love dies, and it is an every-day experience.

     That is, when we are grieving a significant loss, we feel our grief every day.  We wake up each morning knowing that today we will experience hurt and an ever-changing mixture of painful thoughts and feelings.

    Grief's very relentlessness is often frustrating, challenging, and exhausting.

    Our hope lies in small, daily doses of mourning.

    Mourning is when we express our grief outside ourselves.  While grief is internal, mourning is external.  Talking about our thoughts and feelings, crying, journaling, participating in a support group--these and other expressive activities help us begin to integrate our grief.

     Yes, our grief is a daily challenge.  But if we actively mourn, each day in grief can also bring a small measure of healing.  Encountering and engaging with our thoughts and feelings softens them.  Mourning one day at a time brings healing one day at a time."  (Alan Wolfelt)

     Thirty-eight years ago when Mom walked this path, she didn't know, I'm sure, and didn't have time or space in her life to find out that "actively mourning" Dad's death would be healing.  Instead, she believed she needed to be strong for all of us, and to keep her feelings inside.  I can only imagine now what that may have cost her.

A Little Child Shall Lead

     Yesterday Hope and David were here for the bulk of the day because there was no school.  When Hope and I sat down to eat breakfast together, I commented that it was nice to have someone to eat with because I usually eat alone now.  Hope looked up and asked, "Grandma, do you pretend that Grandpa is still here?"  I started to address the word "pretend," but then decided just to respond from her perspective.  "Yes, Hope, I do,"  I answered.  She had more questions:  "Do you pretend he is sitting in his chair at the table?"  "Do you pretend Grandpa is sleeping in bed with you?"  To each question, I responded affirmatively.
     Later in the day, as I returned to a game we were playing together, Hope surprised me with another profound question:  "Grandma, if you die, what will happen to all your stuff?"  I laughed a little and said something to the effect that it would mean someone was left with a big mess and a lot of work to do.  Then I said I am hoping not to die for a long, long time because I want to see what she and David and Frankie will be when they grow up.
     Besides being amazed at the maturity and depth of Hope's thought-processes, I am also touched that she reflects on what Bob's death has meant to me as well as what my dying might mean.  Additionally, I find myself reflecting on the timing of her questions--the beginning of the month of November, the month traditionally associated with death--All Saints' Day, All Souls' Day, the Day of the Dead, the dying of autumn and coming of winter.  I also feel a bit challenged by her second question--what will happen to all my "stuff"?  I know I need to be down-sizing and simplifying now because moving is definitely in my future.  It's a chore I've been putting off for months.  I know some of that procrastination can be excused because the grieving process itself takes a lot of energy.  But somehow, Hope's inquisitiveness has made me feel perhaps it's time to try to put a little more energy in the direction of down-sizing. Doing that, I also would be putting energy toward the Future.  I can almost hear Bob saying, "Yes.  Go on.  You can.  I am with you."