In a span of ten days at the end of January and the beginning of February, two close beloveds died — my friend, Judy and Adrienne’s dog, Jake. Both suffered profoundly during their last days. After their deaths, I determined to move forward with my life — taking my sunrise walks, reading books and listening to music — my typical routine . . . or so I thought until one day a week ago when Adrienne said, “You look so tired.” Then she said it the next day. And the day after that.
Grieving is work. Hard work. And the reality is that I will grieve forever. I will never “get over” the loss of loved ones. I will heal but I will never be the same. Nor should I be the same. Nor would I want to be the same.
Grief is a given in life. The work of grief is not, and how one undertakes that work (whether one chooses to or not) will adapt to your needs at the time. When my sister, Karen, died 23 years ago this Thursday, March 14, I lost 15 pounds in three weeks. When my mother died in January 2018, I lived on a diet of popcorn and champagne. When my father died last February, I was befuddled, wondering who the hell he was and why he never wanted to know who I was.
When Judy and Jake were dying, I read an 800-page history of World War II in one week, and a 600-page history of the Civil War the next. I had no idea why at the time. The horror of it all comforted me. I wasn’t in the midst of a war. Life could be worse.
I also turned to scripture which helped some, but not much. What seemed to help the most was the book The Kingdom, the Power and the Glory: American Evangelicals in an Age of Extremism by Tim Alberta. The horror it described was worse than the books I had read about two major wars.
I, of course, turned to poetry, and pictured below are some of the volumes I’ve been reading alternately for the past few weeks. I read these poems and feel surrounded by loved ones.
Then there is the music I turned to which kind of surprised me. First, Olivia Rodrigo — an enormously talented, former Disney child star, now a 19-year-old angry woman: “I don’t get angry when I’m pissed/I’m the eternal optimist/I scream inside to deal with it . . . I’m a perfect all-American bitch.” Yeah, scream it, girl. I got you.
Second is the latest album from Christine and the Queens (or is her/his name Heloise or RedCar or Chris? It changes. Click on the link). His [he prefers male pronouns at this time] 3-disc album “Paranoia, Angels, True Love,” was written and produced following the death of his mother. His music isn’t for everyone, but for me, this album has been completely cathartic and transcendent.
The last part of my grief work surprised me as much as my music choices — painstakingly completing “Paint by Sticker” masterpieces given to me several years ago by my beloved friend, Beth. Some stickers were so small, I had to use tweezers, toothpicks and a magnifying glass to affix them perfectly. Needless to say, hours passed. Hour after hour after hour. Beauty was created. It wasn’t dying. I have since ordered three more “Paint by Sticker” volumes, these ones featuring more famous works of art, birds and flowers.
So that is my grief work for this particular wave of losses. In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis writes: “Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape.” I have no idea where grief will take me tomorrow. I do know, however, whenever or wherever it takes me, it’s going to continue to take a lot of work. It’s going to demand yet another slog to gut my way to the next bend.
When my friend George killed himself, part of what saved me were the books by Jonathan Kellerman. Death, murder, darkness riveted me and helped me cling to life. I couldn’t tolerate optimism, light, cheerfulness. Every horrific loss has been different but the same. I had to give myself over to the gutwrenching pain and find ways to touch life.
Thank you for sharing the ways you gave yourself over to grief and kept touching life. I love you.
Neola — your comment arrived as I was in the middle of editing this post because after it went live at 3:20 a.m. EST, I noticed a SLEW of typos and missing words and unclear sentences. Had I proofread the draft?
I thought so. Yeah, it’s called grief.
In any event, you read it. Thank you. But even more, THANK YOU for sharing details about your own grief work following the death of your beloved George. “I had to give myself over to gut wrenching pain” — that takes so much courage, fortitude and tissues. Right? Boxes and boxes of tissues.
I love you.
The very top title photo in this post was taken at dawn the day after Jake died. The last photo in this post was taken outside of Judy’s hospice room the Friday before she died late Sunday, January 28.
Other indications that grief work is underway:
— Sobbing uncontrollably during the last few minutes of the very last episode of, “The Crown,” as Queen Elizabeth II is depicted walking past her coffin — complete with crown and scepter, etc. atop — out an eerily empty cathedral flanked by her younger selves (played by the actual actresses who depicted her in earlier episodes of the series). From afar and overhead, we witness the Queen walk slowly and steadily toward far doors that, of course, open to blinding light. You know what she’s walking toward. You know it. But still you lose control.
— Sobbing as silently as I can through the film, “Origin” — about the origins of hierarchies of power. It is a completely original, audacious and ambitious film that should be required viewing for every American to fully understand the United States and its divisive history. Bottom line, however, it is about grief in all of its forms. As the credits rolled, Adrienne and I were speechless as we dabbed our eyes with tissues.
There are never enough tissues.
FYI, Adrienne was the one who introduced me to Olivia Rodrigo. Thank you, Adrienne. Her anger has helped me to vent mine.
Following are the ending lyrics to Christine and the Queen’s, song, “Lick the Light Out” — the song I can’t stop playing from his CD, “Paranoia, Angels, True Love,” written following the death of his mother. There is a spoken part in this song — the “voice” of his mother, who in this song is Madonna. Yes, THAT Madonna:
If an angel in power
Decided just to see me
Could I get that much higher?
See me, hear me, feel me
If an angel in silence
Decided just to free me
Could I get that sweet power?
See me, hear me, feel me
See me, hear me, feel me, oh yeah
I’m an angel in power
I decided to see you
As a human, a flower
I see you, I hear you, I feel you
I see you, I hear you, I feel you
I see you, I hear you, I feel you
I see you, I hear you, I feel you
Give me your heart, my darling, as it breaks, my baby
I see the cracks, my darling, I’ll lick the light out
Give me your heart, my darling, as it breaks, my baby
I see the cracks, my darling, I’ll lick the light out
+++++
This song on YouTube — again, not for everybody, but its ending is triumphant.
Being human is tough isn’t it? I appreciate your courage in doing grief work. Reminds me of Mary Oliver’s poem In Blackwater Woods: To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing that your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.
Sooo tough. Then we have to live with the change, adapt, shift and be curious. Sooo tough. Thanks for your description of letting go.
Thank you, Charlotte. Yes, being human takes a lot of work.
I had forgotten that we have “to live with the change” once we let go of what is mortal” — we have to “adapt, shift, be curious.” Never thought much about the being curious part. Now, of course, I’m curious.
“In Blackwater Woods,” the Mary Oliver poem from which you quote was one of the first Oliver poems I loved. At the time, it sounded like a wise perspective. Now it see it as hardcore truth.
Grieving is such an individual process. As well, a process that can change from one day to the next for any given individual, as you have shown us in this piece. I think important things to realize about grief are 1) that grief is a part of life that cannot be avoided, and 2) that grief can, over time, be enriching of our lives in often profound ways. As you say so clearly, “I will heal but I will never be the same. Nor should I be the same. Nor would I want to be the same.” Thank you!
You are so welcome, Carol, my patient, non-judgmental partner in grief. xoxo
How wonderful that Paint by Sticker book could be helpful to you. I had no idea that it would provide comfort or solace in a time of grief. It just seemed like something that a woman who has a Lego Architecture set and many 1,000 piece puzzles would like. There must be something about the focus needed to complete these projects that frees the mind. Wishing you peace, my friend.
Thank you for this collection. It makes the nebulous term “doing the work” tangible. You are showing us that working through and with grief is the path to healing. I saw a quote by Tyler Perry that I wanted to share, “Grief is a very living thing. It visits at random. You can’t schedule. I tried to work it away. I tried to drink it away. I booked myself like crazy. And all it did was wait for me to finish.”
p.s. One of my clients who recently lost a loved one and is doing “the work” sent me these two songs that help her.
https://youtu.be/SUNbKSkAxE8?si=ef-Py3YWDiFnkeva
https://youtu.be/tJcRPcdvLWI?si=N-Buyyzz4NxCzCZt
Just listened to those links, Kelly. Geez Louise, so beautiful and mournful: “The drugs don’t work, they just make things worse . . . ” Yes. “I can’t take you with me where I’m goin’ . . . ” Yes, again. Your client knows how to pick ’em.
Also, I have a new appreciation for Tyler Perry. Never gave him, much less his wisdom, a second thought. I stand corrected . . . and healed. xoxo