GRIEF

When Norm died, now over a month ago, I had no idea how his death would affect me, for I felt I had been continuously grieving during all those years as he gradually fell away. I say “fell away” but that is not exactly right. It is true that his intellect dissolved, his anger disappeared, his anxiety abated, and his memory vanished into the mysterious vacuities that began to fill his brain. But he stayed close in the sense that he continued to show his love for me and for everyone in our family. If anything, he seemed more devoted than earlier in his life, perhaps because there were no longer any distractions, no longer a business to run, no philosophical quandaries to resolve, no scientific riddles to unravel, no books to write. Finally, when he was unable to read or to carry on an intelligible conversation, it was as if a simple expression of love was the only meaningful thing left. That seemed to be enough, for he was sublimely happy.

But once he was really, totally, physically gone, how was I to react? What was I to feel? In the days immediately following his death I relied on a huge rush of adrenaline. I called people, I sent emails, I got in supplies, I arranged for a memorial service, I spent time with family and friends. Later I wrote thank-you notes. I hardly cried at all. I became anxious about whether I was grieving properly (whatever that is), that maybe I was unfeeling and cold. I talked with my friend Sara who assured me that I should not hold myself to cultural attitudes and expectations, that I should find my own way to acknowledge my loss.

I began to understand that each death is in a sense unique and therefore each one creates its own sort of sorrow. A parent who faces the untimely death of a child surely has a vastly different kind of grief than an individual whose elderly, ill, and failing parent finally passes away. To lose a spouse is yet another kind of experience, but again the circumstances vary widely. If a husband or wife is suddenly killed in an accident, the shock of such an unexpected event sets off enormous psychic and somatic waves; merely grasping the sudden absence of a loved one is a challenge of inestimable magnitude. If, on the other hand, a mate is lost to a long illness and the surviving one is left with the overwhelming responsibilities of making a living and raising a family, extra burdens are added to the weight of grief.

My situation had its own particularities. Beginning a few days before his death Norm refused food or water, and as he slowly and peacefully slipped into a coma we as a family had ample time to say our good-byes. I knew he was dying, and I felt confident that somehow he had made that choice. So Norm’s death was not unexpected, nor untimely, nor painful. In many ways it was a beautiful, profound experience. I am not plagued with feelings of guilt or regret. I cared for him the best I could, visited him frequently once he was in residential care, and demonstrated my love with cheerful talk, gentle touching, and sweet kisses. In some ways, the sense of rightness that I have regarding his passing has eased my sorrow. But still, I am often awash with sadness. My eyes fill with tears when someone mentions his name. I have difficulty concentrating. I forget things. I tire more easily. I get impatient. My friend Susanna, who is a facilitator of grief groups, recently pointed out to me that these are all symptoms of grief.

Susanna gave me a copy of a poem by Denise Levertov titled Talking to Grief in which the poet likens grief to a homeless dog that is denied entrance into the house and is kept hidden under the porch. The poem ends with the lines “You need your name,/ your collar and tag./ You need the right to warn off intruders,/ to consider/ my house your own/ and me your person/ and yourself my own dog.” Something in that poem resonated with me, for in my desire to appear strong and in my recognition of the many positive aspects of Norm’s passage, I have in some ways attempted to banish grief from my house. I need to allow the dog of grief its place on my hearth.

Since I have long lamented the loss of the companionship and intellectual stimulation that I once shared with Norm, I wondered what it was exactly that I was freshly grieving. As I sat looking out on my garden last evening in the soft glow of twilight, I suddenly realized what it is. What I miss and mourn most is that there is no one now who loves me the way he did, no one who looks at me with such absolute adoration. I shall never again experience those deep, soul-filled, loving eyes fixed on mine, and that is a terrible loss.

I open my heart to grief.