Grief, Revealed

Saturday, October 8, 2005 12:01 AM CDT

Whew! Well that little entry created quite a flurry, didn't it? LOL. Well, I guess most of you don't know how much of a flurry, because you don't get the private e-mails. Side bar....it would be good for those e-mails to go public. Grief, this journey through an alien, barren landscape, is universal. Most have walked a similar path. Each path is different, but there are commonalities in our experiences, threads as Jeffrey calls them, echoes...my feelings, my thoughts echoed in someone else's story. Some choose not to share or to share with a select few. Their right, their call, their decision. But I do know that the sharing of these stories brings understanding, brings connection to others, and opens the way for God to be present. "Whenever two or more are gathered"....we cannot do this alone.

So that is a part of the reason that I share, that connection, touching that universal archetype within us all. It's not the most important reason. This journal, which began as a way to convey information, grew into the story of an incredibly loving and courageous man and how powerfully he touched the people around him. It has changed again, into the story of my heart. It is a way for me to preserve these days, these feelings, these stories for my children. As they grow, they will want to remember. This is a way for them to know what happened, a way for them to recall what it was like.

Every day, I consider taking it off the web, making it something private, for my children. So far, I haven’t felt the need to do that. The responses I receive indicate that this journal touches a nerve for many, that it gives people a way to not only offer caring to us, but to further examine some of these issues in their own lives, their own relationships, to stop and remember what is of real value. It’s a small echo of Dave. Every day he shared himself with his students, his friends, his family. He was real with what was happening, the good and the bad. He always found a way to direct our eyes and our hearts toward God. God is the river, Dave is the rock, this journal is the ripples across the surface of the water.

In this effort, I strive for honesty above all else. It is tempting to "pretty up" the pictures, to gloss over the hard parts, to focus on the beauty. Our culture expects that. In some ways, we expect ourselves to be less than human. There cannot be full love without the risk of searing pain. A person like Dave, in life, gave so very much. It makes sense that there is a huge wound now that he's gone.

As a therapist and psychologist, I find people’s responses to that pain interesting, fascinating. As a person, I find some responses comforting and some less so. But all are made in love, and I feel that. Some are quick to assure me that what I feel is normal. Some resonate with what I’m feeling. Some are made anxious by it. Some draw parallels to their own experiences. Some pray for me. Some make assumptions. Some are frightened for me. Some are probably frightened BY me, although no-one's said that yet! Some offer advice or books. Some search for meaning. Some have encouraged me to not apologize for my anger. I don’t feel apologetic for feeling. Emotions are what make us human, all emotions. Some want to take away my pain or ease my burden, and realize that they can’t; that in most respects, the work of this journey is left for me to do. I can reach out for support and help, and I do. I’m not laboring under the delusion that I have to do this alone. I can’t. The work is mine, only I can do it, but I have support in doing that work. Some clearly think that I have lost my mind, and are worried about me. I’m okay, really. Really. I’m okay, in the way a woman in labor is okay.

When a woman gives birth, it hurts. It’s painful. It’s scary, especially if it’s the first time. She can get help and support and comfort from those around her, but the real work only she can accomplish. It’s exhausting and all-consuming. There are times when she feels like she simply can’t do this another minute. Sometimes she screams or cries or gets a wild look in her eye. Sometimes she says, “Just make it stop. I can’t do this anymore.” Those around her feel helpless and frantic. Then she reaches deep within herself, finds that reserve, holds her husband’s hand and musters the energy to move things one step further. This cycle can happen over and over again. And in the end, she’s got a gift beyond all measure, a sense of relief, and immense pride in herself.

The analogy is imperfect, as all analogies are. For one, there is no epidural for loss! The tunnel of grief is longer and more convoluted. Knowing when you’ve reached the “end” is impossible. The rewards are less tangible. The reasons less clear. But all-in-all, the gist holds. It’s a labor of love. And it’s perfectly natural and perfectly ordinary, and astoundingly miraculous and extraordinary all in one.

We tend, as a culture, to shy away from the hard parts, the ugly parts, the less than perfect moments. In movies, the laboring mom, with perfect make-up, hollers a little, her husband wipes her brow, and “Oh, it’s a boy!” and there are beautiful smiles. Most moms kind of roll their eyes, knowing what the reality for most is truly like.

Our culture glosses over reality. We are uncomfortable with pain. We teach it early. We pick up babies who fall and say, “There, there, it’s okay.” Nope. It’s not okay. They hurt. How much more real, more validating would it be if we could say, “Oh, that hurt. I’m right here.” We want to stop two year olds from feeling angry. How much better if we can acknowledge their anger, their burgeoning sense of self, and help them learn to use the power in their feelings positively instead of telling them not to feel it. We have trouble when our children feel sad. We numb them with tv. We fix them with cookies. We tell our teenagers they are over-reacting when they pout or seethe or express angst over their friendships and the state of the world. We laugh at their “drama” and call them moody. As a people, we generally do a lousy job of being able to tolerate hurt and anger and pain and grief….the whole “negative” spectrum of human emotion. We want to fix it immediately, and make it all better. And while it’s important that we are making progress, that we aren’t stuck, it’s just as essential not to skip over the steps…the denial, the bargaining, the anger, the sadness….these are essential before the acceptance. These are cyclical; they return in a spiral, we revisit old stages at new levels over time.

My hope is to teach my children about this spiral. To allow them their feelings, all of them. To let them know that joy and pain are simply two sides of the same coin. That in truly experiencing the joy of life, they will be open to the hurt. They will have to risk in order to fully love. And to learn that the risk is worth it. And to learn that the biggest gift we can give to someone who hurts is to walk with them, to allow them to feel, allow them to express. And to do the same in times of joy and celebration. And to allow others to do this for you. This is friendship. This is love. This is a gift from their father, who loved without any reservation about the risk. Every time. A man who was unafraid to love. A man who was unafraid to cry. A man who was unafraid to stand up for the ideas and people and the God he believed in.

Missy said something very profound at the game yesterday. She shared about a man who said that time doesn't really change anything, or heal anything, we just learn to carry the burden differently. That resonated with me. After almost 17 years, Kyle's death is still there, the hole still the same, the hurt as deep and as piercing as it was that first day, but I have learned to live with it, around it, through it. I carry it differently than I did.

Now there is new learning to do. Thank you all, for listening, for caring, and for walking with me as I learn a new thing...or maybe it's an old thing in a new way...again.

Love, Shelley