Grief's Beginning, Middle, and...New Growth?
Because vilomah grief has no end
My grief counselor (I’ll call her Kate) gave me homework so I’m going to workshop it here instead of in my brain at three in the morning as usual. Come on along.
At my last appointment, I mentioned something about being worried that my grief would never become more manageable than it is now — which is to say, not very. Since we know it never gets better in the traditional sense, the best I can hope for is change of some sort. She asked me what I thought that change might look like and I was stumped.
As we talked, Kate’s question eventually became, “What does the beginning and middle of grief look like, and where does new growth fit in?” I still had no answer to this very good question, so she asked me to write down some thoughts in time for our next meeting. I think what she’s getting at with this assignment is to look back at where my mind was to...I don’t know…see how far I’ve come? To take a look at where I’ve been so I have a clearer path of where I might be going?
I don’t know that I’ll come up with a sensible response, but I’ll give it a whirl.
The Beginning
There’s a lot I don’t remember about those first few days and weeks, some things I remember but would like to forget, and many things that just are. For instance, I remember feeling so hollow in the beginning. I was merely a skin suit with liquid inside; I don’t know how I walked around or even stayed upright. It was an odd feeling that I only now realize was a physical response to losing a part of myself. I felt hollow because I was hollow.
The physical manifestations of my early grief were pretty scary. Although I didn’t tell anyone at the time, I had chest pain so severe that on many occasions I thought I was having a heart attack. I was uncoordinated, shaky, and my startle reflex was so strong I began to wonder about the practicality of a sensory deprivation tank. Everything hurt. My eyelashes, my toenails – my body was in full revolt.
Of course, the simultaneous emotional symptoms were much worse. The forgetfulness, despondency, terror, confusion –– I know they’re common reactions, but at the time I felt like someone else was operating my body and mind.
My initial grief was compounded by some earlier, unresolved, tangentially-related trauma I was carrying around, so I was already on the back foot when Christopher’s death catapulted me into the most unfamiliar territory I’ve ever experienced. I was incapable of thinking rationally, which led me to make some really stupid decisions in the first few days. I bring this up for two reasons.
First, I don’t want other grieving parents to feel bad about unwise decisions made during the worst moments of our lives. I’ll flop my embarrassment and frustration onto the table so you know you aren’t alone.
Second, I want anyone supporting a bereaved parent to be aware that poor decision-making is a normal part of early grief (according to my counselor and other mental health experts who write about grief) but worth avoiding if possible. I can’t tell you whether or not to intervene, or what to say if you try, but please keep an eye out for irreparable choices in the making.
I can’t change the decisions I made, so all I can do is learn from them. I realize now that some of my choices ended up informing my early grief and shaping my middle grief, which really doesn’t mean anything except to give this entire grief experience so far some additional context.
Now let’s rerun the first dumb choice I made.
I was home alone on a Friday night when I got the call Christopher had died. My husband was participating in an event that would have been severely impacted if he left early, so I didn’t tell him what happened. I was irrationally worried about the ripple effect his early departure would have and how many people it would affect, so I just sat alone on the floor for hours waiting for him to come home.
I could have called a friend to come sit with me but, for one, I didn’t know how to work the phone at that moment. I couldn’t have located my own foot if it was on fire. I was also afraid to be near anyone because I worried I would literally physically lash out at anyone who threw a cliche like “he’s at peace now” in my direction. Literally hurt them. For the first few hours, I was feral.
Looking back, I know I should have had Michael come home or called someone to come over, but I wasn’t thinking rationally. So that was my first stupid decision. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be the last.
Saturday morning I began making flight plans, and here’s where I made a catastrophically bad decision. This event of my husband’s was scheduled to last several more days so I recommended he stay home and keep that commitment. Yes, I actually told him to continue on as if nothing had happened. You see, I was afraid that taking him away from people who were counting on him would make me seem needy (yeah, I know). I didn’t want to interfere with the event and I knew asking him to come with me would most likely shut down something a lot of people worked very hard on for a long time. I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone.
I understand the absurdity of it but, remember, I was not making rational decisions at the time. There’s a lot to unpack about that choice, and how clearly it speaks to my feeling that I don’t deserve to be cared for or about (remember there was new trauma on existing trauma happening here), but that’s a whole other discussion. In the end, Michael did stay behind at my request (he wasn’t thinking clearly either), and I went to Christopher’s funeral alone. Little did I know how hard that decision would bite me in the ass later.
I’ll get into that next week.
News & Notes
The Role of the Acute Stress Response in Grief
"Understanding acute stress provides context for what people are able to hear, process and understand. It might also prevent people from quickly labeling the situation as ‘grief' and responding with conventional sympathies, stories, offers of help, expressions of hope and meaning making. These are well-intentioned gestures, but it’s often way too soon for the person experiencing the loss to find them helpful.”
I believe that the interval between the moment your child dies and the time when you’re able to form a coherent thought is the most fragile time for a parent. I think it deserves more attention from grief experts because it’s misunderstood by grievers and bystanders alike. It’s also the time when we can do the most damage to ourselves.
25 Therapist-Approved Texts To Send Someone Who’s Grieving
"I can't imagine how you must be feeling. If you need anything please let me know.”
Every one of the text recommendations in the article are complete crap, but this one takes the cake. Vilomahs hear “I can’t even imagine…” a whole lot and it’s insidious. The unspoken part is “…what it’s like to be you and I’m so glad I’m not.” The rest of these aren’t much better. Nearly all of them start with “I am/can/will/want” in case people want to make it all about themselves rather than the grieving person. And, “I’m coming over for coffee” is inexcusable. Anyway, this is a nice list of what not to text.
"I was left physically and emotionally depleted — and it showed. My face had become gaunt and haggard, my sallow skin formed shadows etched beneath my eyes that no amount of makeup could disguise. Looking in the mirror only reminded me of what had happened.”
I don’t even recognize myself. Maybe someday I’ll get up the nerve to post some before and after pics.
Thanks for reading this edition of The Vilomah Project newsletter. Please share it to help grieving parents find and support each other. Subscribers are always welcome.
Until next week,
Be well.
Lisa