In this, Part 4 of my series entitled “On dying & grief”, which I thought would be the final piece in this series (there is now a postscript), I attempt to draw some conclusions from my experiences.
I think it’s important to note that I actually cry very easily at certain things: anytime animals or children are hurt, suffering, or missed; Remembrance Day; certain movies; and anything that makes me think of how much I love my wife and daughter. I cried when my last marriage ended and I cried the day the bastard Russians brutally invaded Ukraine in February 2022.
But I also sometimes cry for sheer joy: when I look out over the ocean from our back yard and think how lucky I am to be able to see that every day; when I hear the Hallelujah Chorus in Handel’s Messiah performed live; or when I take a moment to think how absolutely grateful I am for the life I have and the people in it at this, relatively later, stage of my time on earth. I’m not someone to bury my feelings and never show any emotion – it’s just that funerals for the mature adults I’ve attended have never made it on my list of events that evoke that type of grieving response.
Our pet cats over the years are a different story, though: I never cry as hard as I have cried on the days we’ve had to say good-bye to the furry, whiskered members of our family. We’ve had several felines over the years and each has been loved dearly, with that love having been reciprocated, completely and unconditionally. In most cases, we have watched them grow, then slow down as age takes hold. Some of them became sick, usually (although not always, unfortunately) toward the end of their expected lives, at which time the decision had to be made about sending them over the “rainbow bridge”.
It may sound odd, but they seem to have a way of telling us that it’s OK to let them go at a certain point but having them humanely put down is by far one of the most emotionally draining experiences I’ve ever had to endure. Standing there and watching the life that they’ve shared with you for so many years leave their little bodies is utterly heartbreaking, even if you both know the time is right, and there’s certainly no holding back the grief or tears then. The first time it became necessary, I had to go by myself, as my wife was working and my daughter just wasn’t able to do it at that younger age, and I’m quite sure the vet wondered whether he’d have to call someone to help me pull myself together. I was completely devastated.
“Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives.”
So what is it that makes the tears flow for me in some situations but not others? Succinctly put: it seems that we grieve the most either when someone’s passing leaves a huge emotional void in our lives or in the context of a deep, visceral empathy. This is no different in my case, I’m sure.
When it comes to one’s own parents, it’s the strength of the bond between child (of whatever age) and parent that determines the extent of the grief. It is sometimes difficult for people who have healthy, loving relationships with their parents to understand this, but it is not necessarily a sad thing for some children when a parent passes on. In good child-parent relationships, there is usually a profound sense of loss when the parent dies while, in dysfunctional relationships, there is more likely a complex interplay of love, hate, guilt, anger, indifference, and relief.
As I said, I didn’t cry when my mother died, but I think that had much to do with the opportunity to say good-bye in a deep and meaningful way that I had before she died, but also, frankly, because her passing didn’t leave a gaping hole in my life. Moreover, she was sick, and it was her time in that regard. I often wonder whether, if I’d received the news of her passing without that opportunity to say good-bye, I might perhaps have felt a bit cheated – as is the case for most people for any type of sudden or unexpected death, but her last days seem to have evolved in the best way possible from my perspective.
The interesting thing is that it’s now, well over 20 years later, that I miss my mother from time to time. She died before I married my wife and I can’t help but think how well the two of them would have gotten on because of their many shared interests, such as cooking, gardening, and houseplants – so many houseplants… Now that I’m in my 60s, it’s thinking about that from time to time that actually causes me to shed a tear. As for my father, it’s sad to say that I rarely think about him at all. In many ways, I envy those whose parental relationships have been shaped primarily by love and acceptance, but that simply wasn’t the case for me and I responded by allowing my grief to express itself naturally, which is to say temperately with my mother and not at all with my father.
Watching a family bury a child is another matter entirely. Like all parents, I shudder to think that the natural order of things, wherein children bury their parents, could be overturned for anyone in our family. The grief is unimaginable and, in truth, I don’t know how parents who have been struck this way manage it – I’m not entirely sure that I could. This is one of the situations in which it is the empathy that governs the response: it doesn’t have to be someone who is in our lives on a day-to-day basis – in fact, it doesn’t have to be someone we know at all. The grief of one parent anywhere is the grief of all parents everywhere because none of us knows when and for whom the boats will next be blowing their horns and setting off fireworks in the shallows in front of the seaside church.
As for pets, they are so deeply integrated into our daily lives that they almost by definition leave a gaping hole when they depart and this is most certainly not made any easier when we ourselves so often get the final say as to what day that will be. Pets have been a part of all my intimate and family relationships ever since I left my parents’ home and a pet’s death at any given time throughout the past 40-plus years has always been profoundly significant and impactful (I can only imagine how much more poignant that loss would be for someone for whom that little creature is the only other member of the household). Some might say that they’re “just pets” but those who have experienced a pet’s unconditional reciprocal love would understand all too well why tears might flow the most after such a loss.
Since Bobby’s passing in late 1979, I have yet to have a close current friend die (this changed in June 2023). Will I cry at the time? What form will my grief take? How will it manifest over time? It seems that it would all depend on how profound my immediate sense of loss is, but that, too, is not straightforward, as some of the people whom I hold dearest are not necessarily geographically proximate or participants in my everyday. There’s no right and wrong way to do any of this – death and grief have their own way of making their joint presence felt and someone’s passing, whether it’s someone far away or the person right next door, will inevitably affect people in the deceased’s circle each very differently.
I’m not an expert on grief, and I humbly defer to those who are. All I have are my own experiences on which to draw but I am convinced of three things. One is that grief is non-linear and unpredictable – there is no set time to “get over it” or “move on” and, in my case at least, there is simply a narrow, specific set of circumstances that would cause me to grieve in an outward way at someone’s passing – in my own way, in my own time, or perhaps not at all. Perhaps for the next person, the set of circumstances and the responses would be quite different.
The second is that grief is easiest to embrace when we understand that it is nothing more, and most certainly nothing less, than love transformed. As it has been said, “The deeper the love, the more profound the grief.” However, if we stop to think about it, love is difficult to define: it can apply to so many different circumstances (think love of country or love of a sport, as well as love of a person) and manifest in so many different ways in the case of love of a person (e.g., brotherly love, romantic love, parental love). It can also be empathic love.
We have a friend from Northern Ireland who has spent summers of the last many years with his wife at their house nearby on the Miramichi River. It seemed obvious from the day we met about 15 years ago (prior to our moving here) that theirs is a love story for the ages and the grief he has shared with us since her recent (as of this writing) unexpected passing is the kind of intense, virtually debilitating grief that only a great love engenders. A lesser love would not have evoked the sense of loss and the kind of sadness we have seen from this tortured soul.
The third is that grief for the death of a loved one should not only be accepted, it should be embraced as an essential element of the full spectrum and richness of life. Under no circumstances should we ever suppress that grief if it presents nor, on the other hand, should we force it or pretend if it does not.
I’d never really considered the value of true grief until relatively recently, but it makes sense that we do not engage the full spectrum of our emotional existence unless we embrace all aspects of it – even the ones that seem unbearable at the time. It’s not that I don’t cry at most funerals because I’m holding back – it’s simply that I don’t feel the need, but I would never want to deny myself the journey through the hellfire of grief for any reason, as this would be no different than denying my love for that person when they were alive. I would be lesser for doing either one.
“Funny thing about grief, its hold is so bright and determined like a flame, like something almost worth living for.”
Excerpt from poem by Ada Limón, “After the Fire”
In this context, it’s interesting to note how much “toxic positivity” (i.e., the dysfunctional emotional management idea that negative thoughts about anything should be avoided) often surrounds the grieving process. How many of us have heard all the old bromides such as, “He’s in a better place now”, or “Everything happens for a reason”, or “Look at the bright side”? This is absolute nonsense, for we deny our own humanity in avoiding pain.
“Everything worthwhile in life is won through surmounting the associated negative experience. Any attempt to escape the negative, to avoid it or quash it or silence it, only backfires. The avoidance of suffering is a form of suffering. The avoidance of struggle is a struggle. The denial of failure is a failure. Hiding what is shameful is itself a form of shame.”
Mark Manson, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*uck: A Counterintuitive Approach to Living a Good Life
There is real danger is shutting down and denying real grief, and that’s just not the way I’m wired. I will grieve when it’s time and stay silent when it’s not. At my age, I’ve experienced enough death in my life to understand that every person’s death is different and that every death will affect me differently. Some people I will miss, and some I won’t. Some will die too young and others will linger past the time that they themselves want to remain. For some I will cry and for some I won’t but, for those whose absence would matter in my life, I will grieve – deeply, genuinely, and completely.
In the words of Icelandic-Canadian poet, Stephan G. Stephansson, who penned these thoughts when he lost a son for the first time (he actually lost two):
“They say turn from the grave, he’s in Heaven’s warm hands,
Don’t let pain torture you through the years,
But this sorrow I hold, I choose to withstand,
It brings flowers and poems and tears.”
“To My Lost Son” (1895 portion), as adapted for song by Richard White, Andvökur
For me, that sums it up well.
Jerry, this is a heartfelt and powerful essay. I’ve re-read it a number of times and find myself identifying with many of the emotions you describe so eloquently.
While it is not unusual for some people to grieve by saying something to the effect that there is now an unfillable “gap” in their life, perhaps we should use the word “transition” to replace “gap”.
Gather the goodness from the now vanished physical relationship, accept the reality of life and death and go forward being strengthened by the memories and the knowledge gained during the time of the relationship.
And, as you say, not all passings will result in the same amount of emotion; that is reality.
Well done, dear friend.
I really appreciate that, Don. Any compliments coming from you about writing are deeply meaningful, as you’re damn good at it yourself.