Far Away Grief

By Barbara Goodearl

In 1987 my husband, mother, and father died, all within six months of each other. It was a year of overload and incredible sorrow. Perhaps since their deaths were so close together I learned to grieve in an unusual way. And perhaps I learned some valuable lessons to pass on to others.

I believe that my mother kept herself alive so that she could help me through the death of my husband. I believe that my father kept himself alive so that he could help me through the death of my husband and my mother. (I have read the journals he kept during this time and they lead me to this conclusion).

I learned that losing a loved one is like being hit in the head with a sledge hammer. The blow is unbelievable. The pain is sudden, even if the death is expected, and violent.

Thoughtful friends who rush to you and bring Kleenex and Peach Schnapps (goodness knows why) are invaluable. The friends who are there to bring food are angels. The friends and family who visit on the first Thanksgiving and the first Christmas after, take your mind off the grief and yet are there to talk and laugh and cry with you when the idea of “holidays” comes up.

I learned that you go through all the stages of grief (anger, denial, acceptance, etc.) all the time and often within a five minute span of time. “Why isn’t he here to do this with me?” “He’s going to be coming home in an hour or so to help carve the turkey.” “She’ll be here soon to cook her famous dessert.” It goes on and on…

So, we need to use tools to help us survive and cope. One of the best I’ve used is to say goodbye. (This may, or may not, work for you.) When I opened my mother’s recipe file and saw all those marvelous meals in her own beautiful handwriting it was overwhelming. I said, “Thank you Mom for fixing this for me so many times in my life. I know you won’t be here to fix it again, so I need to say goodbye to that memory and cherish it.” When I drove to our cottage in Canada for the first time by myself, I said to my husband, who had been gone many months, “Thank you for all the times we drove up here and all the happy times we had. I know you won’t be coming with me ever again.”

It’s heart wrenching, but it helps us to face the reality of their death. It helps us pass another milestone, another memory. It helps us open one tiny “box” of our memory and deal with it. Then we put it away until we can bear to take out another memory and deal with that: another grief, another step. It makes the remembering less harsh and painful.

Do I still grieve after all these years? Yes indeed. I sing “Happy Birthday” to my Mom and can’t get past the first few words. I see a telephone truck, think of my husband and wonder, irrationally of course, if he’s driving it. I pass a well-tended garden and wonder if Dad has been out there weeding. Tears are close and spill over. I have learned that it’s ok.

We grieve forever.