Sunday, July 15, 2012

I had a good conversation with an old friend yesterday, about loss and the future. For once, we weren't really talking about children at all. We were talking about being middle aged, facing increasing loss, and how to approach the next half of our lives. I've dealt with loss and grief, steadily, since I was about 10. For her, its all new.

Grief is not controllable and always a shock. After many losses I noticed a predictable pattern grief took in my body. Years later I began to practice acceptance about the whole situation which lessens the physical pain...somewhat. Perhaps it simply intellectualizes the pain. Because grief symptoms used to hit me in the middle of my chest. Now I get an instantaneous headache, small, behind my left eyebrow, very unlike sinus or migraine pain. Perhaps sort of like learning not to scratch chiggers, my body has learned to mostly ignore the initial blow-through explosion of grief? Except for this immediate pointed locus in my mind which warns: here come the weasels. I cry less and feel somewhat less seared, I can let go faster, yet I've become angrier.

It took me till recently to understand that grief, itself, does not require extended mourning. Neither does society. And you do not love less nor become a bad person if you let go of grief as fast as possible. When you can, when you are ready. (sigh...) It is okay to let go of grief. For some people, grief can become ritualized or can turn into hoarding, both of which conflate spirit with material things.

Who wants to roll into the second half of their life grasping, burdened, desperate for meaning, looking back more than forward, lonely, sad, or angry. Not me. Especially not the angry part. I want to be one of those happy expansive old people that seem large, somehow, and full of light. I want to spend the second half of my life engaged and willing, not in denial nor clutching.

Love does not reside in things. You can not shelter yourself from pain without becoming numb. And its good to have a plan for your failings. One of my failings is anger. If I'm not careful, anger could transform from a mere failing to a companion. Much in the same way denial can turn into a house full of objects that mainly serve to keep you from feeling fear or sadness. Anger and denial both serve their good purpose but make bad traveling companions.

Note to self: let go. Its alright. Practice love instead. Or art. Or both.

4 comments:

  1. The hardest part of grief, after the shock and anger, was just really simple:

    It took such a long time to grow used to her absence.

    Sometimes it was okay. Sometimes it felt like a slap. Other times like a kick right in the chest.

    Now I am no longer slapped and kicked, even in those times I feel longing for her.

    Everyone says it takes time, and we all sputter and fume. That's so cliche. Don't talk to me about time. I hate you.


    It does. It takes a very long time. I totally get what you're saying here. Let them go within you, as they've already gone.

    Sigh. love, Val

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  2. Oh Val, imagine suggesting "art" to someone grieving. GAWD. But there has to be a way to face old age bravely. Mortality is such a bitch. And I'm seeing, over and over, how people twist their lives just trying to avoid the issue. so sad

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  3. ahhhhhh. this was a great read. thank you. I will return to it.

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  4. K, I wouldn't suggest art unless they asked for ideas. Mostly when you're in pain it's just nice that when you reach out, other people hear you.

    After Lori died in June, that fall Julia was two months old and I was so sad. Post partum is not my thing anyway, and I was miserable.

    I told this to the other preschool moms in the hall while we were talking, waiting for our kids--I feel like I have no serotonin in my entire brain, and no matter how shitty I feel, it's not going to bring her back, and sigh.

    A mom told me to exercise, work up a sweat. It releases brain chemicals that help. I was unimpressed. Seriously? But I needed to feel better--a lot better.

    I went to the basement and jumped on the rebounder until I was sweaty, in the morning and the evening, and sometimes I thought about Lori and sometimes I thought about getting my LIFE back, about my baby crawling and walking and becoming and I did feel better. She was right.

    But nothing in the facts has ever changed. It's only me that could. love, Val

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