Grieving at 9 Months. . .

Lately, I keep going back to the blog and reading about what we were doing just one year ago.  The first two weeks of April 2016 were happy days for us and for Brendan.  He was recovering from his chemo treatments, was gaining strength and eating food again.  Returning to school was the highlight of his days.  In looking back, those first weeks of April were like an oasis — a rest from the wearying pace of treatment and a time to refresh for what we would soon find out was coming.

When Brendan first passed away, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and relief that he no longer had to suffer.  When asked if I was sad, I answered, “I’ll know the memory of his suffering will have faded when I’m sad.”  Well, that memory of intense suffering must have faded sufficiently because I am often sad — very sad.  I know for the first month I was carried — blessed with peace and comfort, and consoled by the feeling that Brendan was still very close.  Over time, Brendan has felt more distant.  I miss him terribly.  

In the past nine months I have pondered a lot on the process of grieving.  It’s just what I expected and so different than I ever imagined.  One thing I’ve recently contemplated is “high functioning” grieving.  Have you ever heard that term?  I haven’t either. Over the past while I’ve seen this “high functioning” descriptor attached to the diagnosis of people with anxiety, depression, and even autism.  It describes people who function at a level where their struggles are often not recognized because it is masked by their high level of performance.  Or they appear “normal” on the outside while they struggle on the inside.  I’ve wondered lately if this term could also be applied to those grieving.

Over the past 9 months my ears have perked up anytime a conversation touches on someone going through a difficult time in their lives — be it the death of a loved one or any other struggle through mortality.  I’m always a little surprised when well intentioned people kindly remark on how someone should be “dealing better” or “moving on” past their struggles or grief.  Often, when I overhear this, my heart will freeze.  Because I realize that these people could easily be talking about me.  But they aren’t.  At least not in front of me.  But they could if only they knew. . .

What I usually read into conversations like these is that “nine months is more than enough time to get over the loss of a loved one and move on,” and “there must be a problem with someone who is still struggling with everyday tasks after a certain period of time.”  When I hear the stories and interpret what I hear, (right or wrong), I usually cry.  Not there.  Not anywhere there are people around.  But I sob into my pillow that night until my sinuses are so swollen I can hardly breathe. And I often cry again the next day.  Sometimes, it takes a long time to be consoled.  Why?  Because I consider myself a “high functioning griever" who tries to look fine on the outside even when I'm not on the inside.

If people only knew that getting out of bed some mornings is almost more than I can manage.  If they only knew how many tears are right there, just waiting for the right (or terribly wrong) moment to come spilling out.  If they only knew how much I struggle still, nine short months later, to keep appointments, promises, and commitments straight in my head.   Harder still, is making them happen.  

It’s pretty easy to hide a broken heart and a dragging spirit from someone who has not experienced such a thing. I’ve found most people don’t know what to look for.  (I certainly didn’t before I experienced Brendan’s illness and death.)  But I can’t hide the tell-tale signs —(answering the door in my pajamas, the breakfast dishes still on the table late in the afternoon, the red eyes)— from someone who knows.  Especially those who have lost children of their own. 

Hard moments have come and gone these past 9 months.  It’s not every day or every moment that I’m weighed down with grief.  Sweet, light moments are becoming more and more frequent between the bouts of heavy grief.   For awhile I gauged my level of “okay-ness” by my functionality — how well I could go about day to day life. Could I get out of bed in the morning?  Could I fix my family a meal?  Was I able to get out and go shopping? to church? to the school function?  I figured if I was “moving forward” (or at least moving at all) and “dealing well” then I was managing my grief ok.  Problem comes when I’m not.  When I won’t get out of bed.  When I can’t make myself leave the house to get the bread and eggs we need.  When I can’t make a decision no matter how hard I try.  And especially when I can’t remember the answer my kids have just given me even though I’m asking them the same question again for the third time.  (That’s when my grieving mind starts telling me that I’m going crazy and I start to believe it.)

I’m not sure anymore that functionality is the best way to judge how well someone is managing the grieving process.  Because, I’m finding, there is such a thing as “high functioning” grievers who want to appear that they are managing their grief just fine.  But truth is, every griever manages their grief.  It’s just in their own way.  And having others tell them when it’s time to “move on” doesn't help.  After losing a loved one, I’ve found, there is no moving on.  Just managing, and loving, and learning, growing, and stretching.  And most of all, understanding.

“Be gentle with yourself,” were magic words spoken when we were counseled about grief at the onset of our grief journey.  Those words have proven extremely valuable.  It’s reminded me again and again that we are in a fragile state — and it feels like it.   So I have to constantly remember to be gentle with myself.  And I think it’s a good rule for everyone who knows someone grieving— both recent or long ago.  Be gentle. . .