When Grieving Looks Different From What We Think It Should.
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I’m not an expert on grief.
I’m not really sure I need to be, though, to be able to share some insights. As uncharted as this territory was for me as I went through it, as unique and specific as my loss felt to me, I think that there are aspects of grieving that everyone shares, the flavor of which the familiar labels of denial, anger, depression, etc. just don’t capture.
What I’m thinking about today is that grieving gives rise to irreconcilable conceptual and experiential incongruities. I think this stems from the unfathomable nature of the loss, of death itself — mortality and immortality. Questions you and even science can’t answer.
What comes after death? What came before life? What’s the meaning of it all?
Okay, Neil deGrasse Tyson can tell you how the universe began, but do you really get it? And do you really want to delve into such a complicated matter when you’ve just had a hole ripped into your life?
No. Graciously, there are distractions and important decisions to make.
When my mom died, the mortuary gave me a handy list of things that needed to be done: picking out an urn or casket (which, five years later, I still haven’t done); calling friends and family; planning a memorial; writing Thank You notes; dealing with lawyers, bankers, social security, the IRS. The commonplace in the midst of the mystery.
Then there’s the cleaning out of the house. This particular distraction kept me busy for two years. Since Mom’s house was paid for, I didn’t need to rush to empty and sell it. I don’t know if this was a blessing or curse, but it’s how I did it.
Decisions had to be made about every single item in the house. I was intimidated by the enormousness of the task of making these seemingly endless and ultimately insignificant decisions.
What do I do with the five sets of hot rollers, dozens of empty Bic lighters, sacks and sacks of superglue? These are actual things I found stashed in cabinets and drawers in Mom’s house.
I could decide what to do with those things, but was troubled by their mere existence. So, in addition to the many tasks I had to keep me busy, I had these emotionally-laden mysteries about my mom to solve. Why all the superglue?
Distractions keep you busy, but you feel like a zombie, like you’re sleepwalking. And all these little chores seem to require more energy than they used to, more than you think they should.
I think that’s because underneath the busy-ness, your unconscious mind is working double-time to keep its contents unconscious. Fear of the unknown. An inability to grasp what just happened, what is happening. The contradiction is that the simultaneous numbness and busy-ness don’t feel like grieving.
I thought maybe I wasn’t grieving, and that was distressing.
The most important thing my mama left me was her precious and terrible little dog, Benny. I hadn’t spent much time with him. A cute little seven-year-old rat terrier, Benny had been Mom’s constant companion. I expected Benny and I to grieve her loss together. I imagined hours of cuddling with the sad little guy.
But he adapted to his new home right away. Basically, he treated me just like he treated Mom — he barked at me incessantly, demanding a toy, a treat, to be let out, to be let back in. He also had a steady stream of dog-walkers, joggers, skateboarders and people with baby strollers to bark at nonstop all day long.
He was in heaven. I was miserable.
I latched onto Benny’s barking as the obvious reason for my inability to grieve properly. I obsessed over it. It, more than anything else, defined the texture of those days. Coming home numb and wanting quiet, instead I was physically assaulted by the sound of his insane and frantic, high-pitched barking.
How could I grieve with all this noise?
In reality, though, I was grieving. That obsession was part of my grieving. Benny’s barking wasn’t just another distraction — a loud, insistent and persistent distraction. My reaction to his barking was, I think, an indicator that there was actually a lot work going on underground.
That work eventually became acceptance — of the loss, and eventually, the dog, too.
I think it happens that way. You don’t consciously, logically, reasonably figure out death. You don’t sit down and rationalize all the things that make the new normal new.
But someday, you are just okay with things. Even Benny’s barking.
*****
Lesley Nicole Ramsey has spent the last 16 years as an advocate in Texas for progressive and social justice causes. After taking 18 months off to travel and think, she is now working to support her colleagues in these movements through the healing practices of Yoga and writing. She writes about grieving and Yoga and politics. You can follow her at Benny Is Barking or Yoga with Lesley.
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