What Does Grief Look Like

What does Grief Look Like? I think about grief daily. Sometimes it sneaks up on me in the shower and slides down my cheeks. I find it hidden between my ears, in the voices that rob me of sleep at 3am. They tell me about the way things used to be. They promise it will get better. They are not dead, just sleeping and I need to do the same. I feel grief like a heavy, wool coat that suffocates me on a hot July day. It’s a crashing, wide ocean wave that takes me off guard and slashes at me with a stinging mist of spray. I see grief in the bending branches of the Oak tree in my parent’s front yard. It slings low around the base, minutes from collapse. It wants me to come back into its abyss where I once felt safety among the foliage. Grief is the Rollie Pollie bug I cup in my hand. Its grey armored body extends wide and quickly pulls into itself. It is afraid to open its eyes and see. I feel sorry for it, so I set it in a patch of wet leaves and apologize. Grief is the line where the heavy rain begins. I can see it coming ahead and charge into its bottomless chasm. I have no fear anymore of what will happen when I pass from the quiet into the storm of grief. It envelopes me and I am soaked with its pelting promises that soon it will all be better. Sometimes grief is a happy thought. I hear a song that my mom and I used to sing together in the car on road trips, or smell the Chanel #5 that she dotted on the back of her ears. Grief is the beautiful, Jonquils that popped through the dying grass this past spring, or the purple blossoming Azalea bushes and, green Hastas that hug the sides of the house. Grief comes and grief goes like the phases of the moon. As each phase occurs, it evokes a new emotion that pulls and tugs us into all directions. For each of us, grief is different. It is not supposed to be the same. Grief is a one-of-a-kind thing. I recently asked my friends what grief looks like to them, and quite a few had the beautiful courage to share. My sweet friend, Jenny had the courage to share her grief journey after the death of her mother, Jean who used to work with me. The first time I met Miss Jean Riggan, was when I started working at Barnes and Noble in 2006. She was the kindest woman I have ever met, with a pure heart. She was delightful, genuine, and caring. She loved all her friends and would do anything for them. The day she told me she had cancer, she held my hand and told me to not worry, because everything was going to be ok. We both knew what the outcome would eventually be, but we hugged and she remained hopeful. A few months later, Miss Jean was transferred to her daughter’s house with Hospice to wait until the Lord would come to take her to her eternal home. I started going to her house almost every day for a couple of weeks to help her daughter, Jenny Toler cook meals or take care of her children. I would sit beside her and hold her hand why she smiled with her infectious smile wearing her sunny, yellow nightgown. I bonded with her entire family. I became friends with her sister, Sharon, and sister, Charlotte. I watched all of her sisters whisper words of comfort in her ear, and shower her with comfort and love as she transitioned to her end. It was not as scary as I thought it would be. With family huddled around a birthday cake and a sparkling candle in a dimmed room, love beamed from every corner and my heart felt warm. Miss Jean went peacefully when her end came. Jenny struggled with her mother’s death, much like I did. The day after her death, a beautiful flower arrangement arrived and the card was from her mom. The moment she saw the card, she collapsed into sobs in her husband’s arms. The weight of grief was palpable that moment, and I knew one day that this pain would find me too. We have both lost our best friend, our mentor, our soulmate. With that light extinguished from our life, we became numb for a long time, unable to fully digest the fact that our compass was gone. We are grief warriors and grief bonded us as friends. I thinks this created a pure friendship that I am grateful for. We do not get a chance to see each other as often as we used to, but keep up with each other via Facebook. Even after years pass, the pain doesn’t. It fluctuates and blows in the wind like Miss Jean’s favorite yellow flowers. For Jenny grief is still real and raw: “What does grief look like? Grief has so many stages, chapters and phases. Sometimes, I think it looks like the beach, and a storm. The water represents life that is still for the living. The sand represents the soul, who you really are. And the storm...is grief. That storm sometimes comes in knowingly, the "weatherman" told you it was coming. But sometimes, that storm just appears. Seemingly out of nowhere. The water is covered in a darkness and water beats down on it, beating into it...reminding it that the storm is there, that their loved one is gone and each rain drop is a memory of the person who is no longer here. On really bad days, grief (the storm) will throw lightening at you and will rattle down into your sand (your soul) with thunderous sounds. And though through this storm that just keeps going and going and going...sometimes leaving and coming back again....the sand may shift, move around...some may wash back into the water, redirecting our moods and thoughts, but the sand stays strong. Even when we think the storm is going to wash it all away. As long as there is one grain of sand left after the storm has passed for the last time, then we still have a part of the person we lost as well as a part of who we were with them. And....while the storms may come and go, the sun will break out in between....but when the grieving process has been survived...that sun shines brighter than ever. Occasional storms may remind us that it's ok to still having grieving times...but we know by this point that the sun is going to come out tomorrow...”

One of my friends from Kiwanis, Deb lost her husband of 47 years due to a sudden heart attack. He was asleep, woke up with chest pain and died in his wife’s arms. How hard that must have been to see. Deb shared her thoughts of what grief looks like to her: “I lost Andy after 47 years together...only man in my life ....we grew up together. To me, it's like losing an arm or leg and now having to learn how to live with this handicap......how to live without a part of you. Empty heart and also as your friend Terrell put it the" quite absence".....suddenly gone in the night and no longer in my life ...Family functions are not the same ....something is always missing ..I had to leave our home we had together ....everything reminded me of our great life we made together” My Uncle Frank Carnevale died just a few short months ago. My Auntie Vilma and Frank were married for many years and were each other’s soulmates. When they were together, the room lit up with beauty, serenity, and love. His laughter was contagious. He was funny, generous, loving, and kind. For Auntie Vilma, she is learning how to navigate a world without her other half. Everything seems off balance and fuzzy. I am sure when she looks in her son’s eyes, she sees Frank. I can only imagine how beautiful and hard at the same time seeing part of him here can be. You are not alone in your struggle. Vilma was able to share how she is managing the early stages of grief: “I'm right in the hardest part of my life at this time because I just unexpectedly lost my husband in April after 52 wonderful years of marriage. I find it so hard to explain because I don't think anyone understands how I feel.” For my friend, Terrell grief is many emotions all wrapped into one: “Grief is a circle. It ebbs and flows. It's a cold hunger in the heart. A fiery pain running through your nerves. It is the acute awareness of a quiet absence. It is periods of relief and good memory that last longer with time. It is the pain our heart feels while it is healing after loss.”

For my friend, Ruby, grief is a selfish and peaceful act much like a yin yang. She also sees that grief is not just missing and hurting over a loved one who is gone, but grieving for the people she loves who are still alive, but obstacles are in the way: “Grief has so many meanings. The last and one of the most important person I lost sent so many emotions through me and still to this day, I selfishly grieve for her. However, at the same time I am at peace knowing she no longer suffers from the pain and misery the world cast upon her. It’s a personal pain within a person. I personally I grieve for and over people and things that are alive. I grieve for children that have anything to do with me because they want me to continue a life of codependence and dysfunction. I grieve for my grandchildren I am not allowed to see due to their continued dysfunction. I can do on and on.”

Grief is and will always be a changing image, emotion and experience. Each person sees death differently, and each person grieves differently. But, the one thing we all have in common is the pain that comes along with losing a loved one. We each board our personal ship of grief. Some may falter and end up back on shore for months or years, and some may be able to steer their ship to calmer waters. There is no right or wrong journey. The Journey is yours alone, but the destination is what we all seek. Thank you everyone for sharing your inspiring thoughts of what grief looks like to you.

The Brightest Star

Where do you go when you die? I remember asking my mom this when I was ten and my neighbor, Uncle Ron Sykes died. She picked me up from catholic school and said she had bad news. Mom told me Uncle Ron went to heaven. I remember wondering where he was in heaven at that exact moment. I already knew he had died, I can’t tell you how I knew, but I did. I already knew he was sitting on some big, puffy cloud with Jesus sipping chocolate milk and waving at everyone below as they floated across the sky. The thing was, I was young and didn’t understand what death really meant. I knew it meant that the person was gone in a body sense but, I still needed more answers. I did not know the lingering path that death creates. It would take many years before I would be once again asking myself questions about death. A few nights after my neighbor Ron died when the sky was clear and the air crisp and cool, I asked mom again where you go when you die. She told me to look up into the night sky and pick the biggest and brightest star. Once I found the one I liked best, she told me that that was Uncle Ron. He was now a big, bright shining star and he would never stop glowing. He would live forever. This was such a profound moment for me. I loved the star analogy that she told me. It has always stuck with me and now I have found that all these years later when I look up in the sky on a clear night, I know all my friends and family that died before me are shining stars, burning bright. I thought of my conversation with mom back on November 15, 2010 as I stared up into the night sky on a once again, cool and crisp night. That morning at 6:30am, my best friend of fourteen years, Michelle died. She was 41 and died of lung cancer. She fought a two and a half year battle with cancer and it won. That night, I drove to her house to help her husband write the obituary and to pick out what she will be buried in. I said I would help tell her three year old son, Grayson about death. I remembered the serendipitous moment with my mom and the star talk. I knew what I needed to do. On the ride over, I thought about that morning remembering that it was gloriously beautiful outside. The clouds were perched high in the sky, there was a magnificent fall breeze and golden leaves swirled around me. The smell was heavenly, and I thought, what a beautiful day to die. The night of her death was clear and stars burned bright across the sky. I remember thinking that in a few moments, I will get out of my car and go into her house. I will have to take her son by his sticky little hands and tell him about death. I will do it while remembering that talk my mom and I had. A few hours later after dinner was cooked, dishes cleared and half an obituary written, it happened. Michelle’s husband and a few family members came and went, calls came in and calls came out. Doorbells rang, and the dishwasher sang its somber wail. Grayson looked up from his coloring book and asked me if mommy was in heaven now. I simply said “yes, sugar bear, she is and you know what, she isn’t sick anymore and she is sitting on a big, puffy cloud with long flowing hair and looking down on you right now smiling.” He looked up at me and said “really” and then smiled. It broke my heart to think of all the things that she would miss in the physical sense, but I knew he needed to know about the stars and that this was the time for his star talk. I told him that mommy was now a big, bright star and she would shine forever. Whenever he wanted to talk to her, he just needed to go outside, find the biggest and brightest star and that was her looking down on him. He smiled again and simply said, “Ok” and went back to coloring. Two hours later, I finally finished Michelle’s obituary, picked out her funeral attire and tucked her son into bed. I talked with her husband and eased his fears, and hugged family, and shed a few trapped tears. Grayson fell asleep to Wonder Pets and I cried my eyes out on the way home; my sobs engulfing the car.

What did I learn that month after her death? Although death happened, life remained. It had to go on. Eggs were scrambled, toast buttered, school bags packed, and my own home chores and obligations met. Seasons changed, anniversaries and birthdays came and went. Blue balloons were held by four-year-old hands and floated to the heavens to mommies and bright starts. I had to sit down with Grayson one night to explain the clouds and that even though it was a cloudy night, the stars were still there, but just hidden. And, there was no need to have a gigantic panic attack in the bookstore parking lot. Death circled me for weeks like a buzzing bee that I was scared was going to sting me. I flung my hand at it and swatted it away at every chance I got. The months after my first real, death encounter, Grayson became OCD, and thought that if he even smelled a cigarette, that he would breathe it in and die. He became obsessed with expiration dates on food, and would ask his father and myself if it was ok to eat and if it would kill him. He clung to his blankets and special toys and searched for his own way to cope with no longer having a mother. I tried to imagine what it must have been like to have been a 3 ½ year-old boy, yearning for his mother’s warm arm crook to pull him in and inhale the smell of safety. He was so young and searched for his mother in every woman’s eyes he met. He once asked if little boys could get more mommies because his mommy was needed by God for good things. He needed a mommy again. I told him you only get one special mommy and even though you can’t see her, she is always there. Grayson once told me as he was preparing for his bath that mommy came to see him the night before. He had a beautiful grin upon his face and said it was wonderful. He said his mommy came to sleep next to him at night like she did when she was alive. They told each other stories and fell asleep under the cool, blue light of his space-themed nightlight. I asked if it scared him for his mommy to visit, and he said of course not. I think the beauty and the pain of a watching a child cope with a parent’s death, made me change the way I lived life. I cherished conversations with my parents more and loved my boyfriend with a ferocity that I had never showed before. I wanted to make sure I told my mom all the things she needed to know just in case.

It has been five years since Michelle died. Her mother died about a year later, and Grayson did much better with her death. He still struggles, but is doing great. I told him missing someone is ok to do all the time. It’s normal, and necessary to help you grow up better. I told him you need to always remember, because this keeps their memory alive. I think of this now when I remember and miss my mother and my father. I miss them every day, but like Grayson, I can go outside on a clear night, look up in to the sky, and see them again in the brightest stars.