Here’s the thing about grief. You can’t really know it completely until you experience it firsthand. It’s like visiting the Grand Canyon for the first time. Before I ever visited it I imagined what it would be like from pictures I’d seen and what I’d been told. Ultimately, when I got to the rim of the canyon that first time and began hiking down one of its trails, it was nothing like what I had imagined. Grief is like that, too.
My husband and I lost our 28-year old son Andrew in 2018 to a rare and aggressive kind of cancer. While I have lost aging parents, the kind of grief experienced after losing our son took me to an entirely different place altogether. I’ve found that even though it’s only been three years since our son died, time has helped soften the edges of my sorrow and allowed me to look back at some of the preconceived ideas I had about losing a child and about grief in general.
I know a number of parents who have lost children. Before Andrew died, I had always thought of these parents as being forever sad and unable to enjoy life ever again. I couldn’t imagine how they could get up in the morning and complete their day, being so injured by the loss of their child—how could they possibly go on?
Through no choice of my own, I’ve learned how they go on. Like the Grand Canyon, I’ve gone to a place that I could never know without visiting it firsthand. And in going there, deep into a canyon of sorrow, I’ve learned not only what it’s like to lose someone who is so dear to me, but I’ve discovered so much more.
Having traveled to the depths of mourning has given me a different understanding of life. I’m able to connect with others who have experienced this kind of grief. We recognize each other, speak the same language and exist in a vaguely different reality. Having faced a place of profound sadness has enabled me to experience life more fully. It’s like when you travel deep enough into the canyon, you find the river. The Dalai Lama says that without experiencing great grief, you can’t know great happiness, and I’ve found that to be true. While I will always grieve the loss of my son, I can also find incredible happiness when I hear the peepers first thing in the spring, when I visit a beautiful garden or when I hear from a close friend from far away.
In the past I have tiptoed around parents who have lost a child. I was afraid that I’d say the wrong thing. Or worse, I’d remind them of their loss and ruin their day. As if! Trust me when I say that there’s nothing you can say that will remind me that Andrew is no longer alive—that knowledge is always there. Even when it’s not at the front of my mind, the loss of my son isn’t something I will ever forget. I’ve also hesitated to talk to other people about their loss because I’ve assumed that they just don’t want to discuss it. However, most of the time it helps me to share memories of my son, and I’ve discovered that other parents welcome talking about their lost love one, too.
The Grand Canyon, like grief, is made up of many different pathways. Some trails stay close to the rim and others crisscross deep into the inner gorge. Each visitor to this place has a different experience, which is also true of grief. There is no right or wrong way to process a devastating loss. After Andrew passed, my husband buried himself in his work while I wanted to go deep and rehash everything that happened. Both ways of coping got us through.
The Canyon is also made up of many geological layers, from the white Kaibab Limestone at the rim to the deep purple Vishnu Schist deep in the inner gorge. These varied layers are thick in some places, thin in others and non-existent in many stretches. In a perfect world, these bands of rock would stack up evenly, one on top of the other, but they don’t. When it comes to the phases of processing, grief is like that too. Researchers have identified stages, such as denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance, that grieving people experience. However, one stage may last a long time, another briefly, and others may not happen at all. These stages may also come and go out of order, can repeat and are often nuanced. Again, every person grieves differently.
I was surprised to find that grief does some really weird stuff to your body and your brain. I know that because in the months after we lost Andrew I had tons of migraines, smell hallucinations and disabling vertigo. I was so achy that I thought I had developed fibromyalgia—until I came across a grief website that told me flat out that it was grief, not fibro. And my brain! In the first few weeks after Andrew died, I was numb. It was amazing that I could function as well as I did at the time, but was later told by a grief counselor that your brain only gives you as much shock as you can handle. As the weeks went on, more grief got though, and I couldn’t think straight. There were moments driving when I had absolutely no clue where I was. I was forgetful and couldn’t concentrate. The counselor said, “Be careful out there, this is your brain on grief.” And so it was.
In experiencing Andrew’s passing I learned that grief is universal, and the death of my son doesn’t diminish anyone else’s loss. More than a couple of times I’ve had interactions with people who hesitated to talk about losing a parent or a beloved pet fearing that their loss might sound insignificant compared to the passing of my child. Grief isn’t a contest. Just because my loss was devastating, it doesn’t make your bereavement any less painful, and I’m capable of acknowledging your grief. In fact, I’m more capable now than I ever was.
We’re all meant to visit the deep canyon that is grief. Loss is a part of life, and we’re meant to experience loss in order to learn and grow. But it’s painful. Traveling deep into that canyon can feel endless and scary, but just when you feel like you can’t go any deeper, you come across a tiny creek of clear water passing through a grove of willows.
Use the chapter locator to find out information about chapters in your area. Locate a Chapter by selecting your state and zip code.
