The Grief Wave …

Grief isn’t a nice, tidy, or by any means short process that comes with any kind of manual or end date.

Nor is it something we can control.

It is unique and unpredictable.

But, over time we can learn to recognise and surrender to it rather than resist and prolong it. Not that it ever ends but more that the loss becomes integrated and the absence adjusted to, even when it still hurts.

Ultimately we have to learn to trust the grieving process.

Because when that fresh wave of grief hits, it hits.

You know about it.

There can be no denial of its arrival.

At least not for long.

In fact, we’d do well to notice it coming.

I saw mine on the horizon. Or rather I felt it. The tears that came at inappropriate moments. The stuffing them back down with sugar or salt laden rubbish, the extended and more frequent need for an afternoon nap, the struggle to smile in the presence of so much stifled sadness.

The signs were all there.

I simply refused to read them.

It took a meeting with my best friend and fellow psychotherapist to point out the unwanted obvious.

This was another wave of grief.

I’d come out of the fog of the first few months and people had commented on how much better I looked. I felt better too.

So when the grief began to hit again, I tried to resist it by carrying on as ‘normal’. I liked feeling ‘better’. And I didn’t want to feel sad again. I’ve already had too much sadness for one lifetime.

I resisted, denied, refused and fought this new wave of grief.

I didn’t want it to take me over.

I wasn’t trusting it to do its work of transformation or to deliver me to where I need to be.

All this despite knowing that something as important as the process of grief cannot be ignored. At least not for any real length of time before your body starts protesting via the language of illness. For some, even hospitalisation.

But, like most humans, I also like to buy in to all those palatable ideas about how having the right thoughts, beliefs, or pills, means we don’t have to be ‘so weak’ (read human) as to experience unwanted feelings. I get it. I want this to be true as much as the next person. And if swallowing these ideas came without the consequences it would certainly be a lot easier and less painful.

And so I allowed myself to indulge in a little delusion, despite my training, despite my knowledge, despite the reality that stifled sadness (or any other unwanted emotion) is a great stealer of smiles and obstructer of the internal well of joy.

I know this stuff but like most humans I still sometimes opt for the comfort of denial. No matter how shallow or short lived.

As a friend of mine says, denial is a very long river.

And for a while, I just wanted to swim in it. I didn’t want to get out to face much less engage with the reality that ‘the only cure for grief, is grieving’. (I nicked that expression off some one else but can’t remember who – possibly Kubler Ross).

But anyway …

Grief cannot be fast tracked, thought or prayed away.

Grief has to be grieved.

No quick fix.

No short cut.

No way out, over or above.

Just the long and at times lonely, walk through.

Sometimes it hits so hard, we come to a standstill. One which reminds us afresh of the lost one. Of the pain of having loved that person and no longer having them here in our midst in the way that we used to.

It hurts.

All I can do is ride it out.

And cut myself some slack. Re-check my schedule, re-assess what is really necessary right now and what can wait. Reduce my expectations. Listen to my body and respect its messages.

Ultimately, I can practice a little extra self-care. Experiment with when to push and when to let up. Trial and error. Learning along the way. Making adjustments where necessary.

After all, what really is the rush for anything? Do I have anything if I don’t have my health, if I refuse to stop and allow myself to heal?

Nothing is more important than health.

So I’m prioritising mine right now.

Not ministry, not the housework and not my finances. Because actually, without my health, what use are any of these?

I’m also letting my people know that I’m struggling. That I need a little extra encouragement right now. Because when my world becomes dark with grief, it’s the light of my people that breaks through and reminds me to keep trusting until my own light can shine again.

As I reflect upon my grieving process, I am reminded of how grieving has worked in my life previously, having experienced rather a lot of it. Not always related to death but always to loss.

What I recall is that it goes in cycles. I feel consumed by the grief for a period, then I experience a respite which feels wonderful in comparison, then another round of grief hits, feeling worse than the last because it’s now in contrast to feeling good and so the cycles repeat. Except that each time, the period of grieving becomes less severe and the period of respite becomes longer until the two eventually amalgamate in to a new norm.

It’s a process. One that I’m well versed in. So I know I can trust it to do its work of healing and transformation.

Yet I still need reminding when I’m in its midst for I can lose sight of the purpose of the pain.

This is the pain of healing.

Just like when a physical part of the body is healing and growing in strength again. It too can bring pain as part of the process.

I refuse to bypass this process.

I will not settle for Society’s short sighted offer of a superficial, intellect only healing. Tempting as it may be. I will not force my body to communicate through illness. When it starts warning me through the coldsore, sore throat, headache, nauseau or the really big warning sign, lack of appetite, I stop. I acknowledge my body’s message and respond accordingly.

Which means giving myself permission to do nothing. To simply be. To listen to the birds, to walk amongst God’s beautiful creation, to admire the buds of new life, to watch the sun’s rays bounce off the stillness of the river. I take these moments to just be still and allow myself to reconnect to the joy and privilege of simply being alive. Even when it hurts.

Because at the end of the day, I want a heart level healing. Or more realistically, a healthy heart level adjustment to the absence of the one who made such a difference to my world and my life.

Gosh I miss her.

Her smile, her expressions, her sense of fun and mischief, her laughter, her seeing, getting and reaching me with her love.

A mother’s love.

I want her back.

Now.

I don’t want to accept that she’s not coming back.

And I don’t want to wait until I get to Heaven to see her again.

Yet that’s the price I signed up to pay when I allowed her in to my heart; to mother me, to be a friend, a confidante, an encourager, a supporter, a stabiliser, a security provider, a champion of my dreams, a trusted one to share the day to day with, one to laugh with, cry with, share meals and pray with.

I signed up for this whether I consciously chose to or not. I signed up for the reality that when I allow myself to love someone, I must also accept that I may lose them.

It’s a non-negotiable part of the deal.

The possibility of losing love is part of the package of enjoying the love in the first place.

It’s just how it is. Sometimes we lose the people we love.

And the subsequent loss brings a painful grieving process with it.

It’s the price we pay for loving.

And I wouldn’t change it.

So instead of forcing my sadness deep within assisted by an onslaught of crisps and cake, I’m making a renewed commitment to myself to make time to grieve. Time to allow my tears to come forth, my sadness to be released. Secure in the knowledge that I will come through this with my heart still intact. I refuse to separate or cut off from my sadness or reduce myself to being half hearted. I will not settle for that.

I am choosing to remain full hearted. Even when it hurts to do so. Because this is the only way that I can remain fully connected and fully alive. And for however long I am gifted with the opportunity to live, I want to remain fully connected, fully feeling and fully living. Even now. Because I know that I will come through. I’ll be different as a result but I’ll still be fully alive.

And this business of staying fully alive is absolutely vital to me. Because I don’t believe for a nano second that my Jesus endured what he did on that cross for me to lamely settle for some little half hearted life where I’m shut off from everything that I don’t want to feel. Where in effect, I shut down the centre of who I am, the very lifeblood of my existence; my heart and soul. I just won’t do that.

And subsequently, I am trusting my Jesus to walk me through this. Every step of it. However long it takes. Whether I’m skipping, dancing or dragging myself. Because I believe that Jesus will help me to walk through my grief without relinquishing my ability to remain connected or whole. Or rather as whole as it is possible to be whilst this side of heaven.

It’s been a big wave. And it’s not done yet. But as I allow myself to engage more fully with my pain, I notice my joy for life, begin to filter back through. And somehow it’s sharper, clearer, more 3D, richer and fuller.

Grief hurts … but grief also heals.

It’s a paradox.

But one that it’s worthwhile engaging with.

At least if one wishes to continue living whilst living…