A Journal: Grief at about Four Months

Enduring grief, like happiness, is not a permanent, wall-to-wall, all encompassing state of being that consumes every minute of every day. It comes and goes a bit more than it did a month ago. For a friend of mine who lost her sister a year ago, it is still present and seems especially to come up at occasions like birthdays.

It is always there, for the most part, for someone like me, four months in; I pretty much know that it is going present in some form every day.

For the most part, it comes like clouds in the Midwest. This isn't to wax poetic about it. The weather I grew up with in Michigan really is an appropriate image for it. People used to say, "If you don't like the weather in Michigan, wait five minutes." And it was true that rain in the morning could be followed by generally sunny skies in the afternoon. Like those skies I knew in the Midwest, the moments of sunshine that break through can feel like sudden moments of relief. And they often seem unacceptable and unearned. I feel guilty for not thinking about the loss I've experienced. The point is to let them come and let them pass.

When I look for metaphors--again, not to be poetic, but to be accurate--one does come to mind right now. Four months after the loss that has happened to my family, the grief feels as though buckets of gray paint have been splashed over everything in our lives, even over things that we enjoy doing. The grayness is always there and kind of has ruined everything around me. When I go to certain restaurants, I am reminded somehow of what my son thought of them--what he ordered or what he didn't like about them. When we drive to a movie, I remember the streets on which he rode or walked to Goodwill stores. Even when I try to read, it sometimes comes to me that I spent too much time reading and not enough playing basketball with him. There is always something there in the background to think about.

But also, none of this is the stabbing grief or the kind of earth-shattering realization that came earlier. Now I just seem to be living with it. I think this is called regret.

Part of the point in all of this is that while I'm generally doused or muted, I'm not always thinking about the grayness all around me. Sometimes I'm thinking about my book, about my teaching, about my family, or about something in the news. I get into the moment and it has nothing to do, temporarily, with the loss. Sometimes I'm thinking about nothing at all. I was feeling guilt over this, but now, not so much. My friends and colleagues around me, of course, have been very helpful throughout all of this, but also there's another dimension that resolves around questions we commonly ask, or at least I used to: How do I help someone who is grieving the loss of a loved one? Do I bring it up? Do I tell them I am thinking about them? Or do I leave them alone?

These questions are tough. Most people seem to do one thing or the other. Either they bring it up and try to give hugs, or they ignore me. I should add that I can only answer them for myself. I hope this helps and yet also doesn't lead to overgeneralizing.

First, I appreciate people who don't ignore me. They acknowledge me, but they also let me feel "just okay" if that is where I am--where the Michigan clouds have broken apart temporarily. I appreciate also friends who don't assume anything and are quietly willing to talk if I am. It's not that complicated, really. It's a matter of understanding what we all go through. I suppose that grief comes like this for many people.

Thank you for reading.