One of the most surprising things about grief is how alive it is.
I’ve been grieving my health for a long time now, more recently my parents and my friend Chantelle, and far from a passive part of my experience or history, it’s a living, evolving landscape that I'm forced to walk through and discover.
When I bought four different types of walking sticks and walking frames to see what Mum would get on best with.
Standing in the kitchen washing up the saucepan with burned soup crusted on the bottom because Dad hadn't had to make himself soup in decades.
How I keep forcing the dates they died into my mind because I'm scared that one day I'll forget.
How my voice cracked spelling Mum's name when I registered the death and caught me by surprise, and how it didn't crack when I spelled Dad's and I wished it had.
Feeling guilt over not having called or visited Dad for 2 weeks before he died, and maybe that's why I chose to visit him in his open coffin after.
How the green metal hole punch that I used as a kid that I kept from Dad’s stationary cupboard means more to me than his watch or cufflinks.
The way Mum would greet me with "Hello, love" when I visited, like she was literally saying hello to her love for me.
The abundance of photos of Mum that Dad arranged around his armchair.
All that time at the side of Mum’s bed in the hospice, and mere minutes at the side of Dad’s.
How close I felt to flipping the fuck out when the guy at the desk of the critical care unit told me no Dr was available to tell me why my Dad was dead because they were in a handover meeting.
Grief isn’t a passive part of your experience, it's an active partner in it
And that’s where the work is—finding ways to navigate the landscape and speak the language.
Trouble is, the English language lacks the breadth or depth to adequately talk about and explore grief.
That initial shock and impact.
The total inadequacy of “Sorry for your loss”.
The dissociation from “normal” life, which for me flowed into numbness.
How I freshly value conversations that have honesty or compassion or vulnerability in them because that’s my truth and maybe it’s someone else’s too.
How profoundly we connected with Emma, the celebrant, who made so much space for our grief and our stories about Mum and Dad that it felt like she was family.
Seeking pockets of meaning in music, movies, TV, books, articles or social and holding them close—because the landscape of grief has no visual markers, no north or south, and no pathways to follow, so finding something that feels tangible is like finding a piece of the map.
Like the movie Arrival, or this utterly wonderful-in-every-way clip from Sesame Street that’s been doing the rounds.
How perfect is that?
The Work of Grief Is Never Done
Whether you grieve health, a career, a friendship, a loved one or even a picture of what you thought your life would look like, the work of grief is never “done”.
It’s work that’s filled with love and pain and beauty and aching.
Life will most certainly demand it of you.
Here are some ways to start:
- What’s your relationship with grief? Distant, tense, tender, compassionate? How would describe it?
- If your grief was a best friend, someone who’s known you forever and wants the best for you, what would they want you to know?
- If there was work for you to do to either be on better terms with grief or to explore that landscape with an open heart, what shift is needed?
- How could you be more Andrew Garfield or Elmo with your grief?