Back when the dinosaurs roamed the plains, I took a course in Developmental Psychology. We learned that each stage of life had certain tasks that had to be accomplished as part of human growth. Seniors were tasked with accepting and learning to live with loss. What the…? To my mid-thirties self, this was the worst. I couldn’t imagine what that would even feel like.
Now I know, unfortunately through lived experience. I am in the early stages of navigating the loss of my son in January of this year and ten weeks later, the loss of my only brother. I had learned how to deal with my parents passing away years before, because it was the Natural Order of Things. But I used to joke with my son about becoming a crotchety old lady that he would have to put up with. He responded by buying me a t-shirt with a picture Sophia from the Golden Girls and sending me memes of the “Where’s the beef?” lady.
Then came cancer, a Trojan horse attacking my son from the inside. I learned about chemotherapy and its side effects, both common and rare. I became adept at searching for clinical trials, and on that final day when the ER doctor stated bluntly, “He’s not going to make it. He’s dying,” I learned how to break news to the extended family, and worst of all, how to tell my daughter-in-law, at home with my sleeping grandson, that she was hours away from becoming a widow.
I never learned to come to terms with cancer. I fervently prayed that my son would be cured and discharged from the overcast realm of treatment into the brilliant sunshine. The sun continues to shine, but my son is not around to enjoy it. It is no coincidence that the day my son learned that his time on Earth was limited was also the day we had a major solar eclipse. We never got to use the special sunglasses we’d bought, but we didn’t need them. Our entire world went pitch-dark and stayed that way.
There were moments of joy, such as when my son played his last two gigs with his punk band, and when my grandson celebrated his first birthday. Two weeks before Kevin died, he, his wife and I went out for lunch to one of our favorite Vietnamese restaurants. Over pho, we talked about how we wanted to see the new Superman movie, and which shows were worth binge-watching. It was just like old times, if you ignored the fact that we’d chosen this restaurant because it was wheelchair-accessible and that Kevin was eating lightly because chemo had affected his digestion. We masked our feelings, smiled and pretended that everything was cool. We also talked about the next time we’d get together, and where we’d go for lunch. There was no next time, but you probably guessed that.
I’m trying to come to terms with the loss of both my son and my brother. I’ve been working the whole grief thing with various groups, both in-person and online as well as with cherished family members. My new contacts through my local Compassionate Friends group have been lifesavers, even if we only see each other for an hour-and-a-half every month. They are true foxhole buddies who really “get” what I’m going through.
Along the way, I also acquired a new BFF, Grief. Maybe she’s not a bestie in the classic sense of the word, but she shadows me like my cat does whenever I go near the cabinet where I keep the treats. Grief looks like an old lady, the kind who overcompensates for lost youth by wearing purple cat-eye glasses and lots of leopard prints. She wants to be easily recognized. Not all my emotions are that considerate, and on the advice of my bereavement counselor, I’m working on labelling them, but that’s another story.
Grief tries to comfort me as I melt down in the potato chip aisle at Walmart when I realize that I can’t pick up Sriracha chips for Kevin because he’s gone. She’s trying to help me accept my New Normal, telling me that everyone walks around with a metaphoric stone in their shoe that they can’t shake out no matter how hard they try. My first reaction is disbelief, but then I start talking to people and I realize how many times Grief is replicated among the people I know.
At first, my reaction was “Look, Grief. I don’t wanna hang out with you! Leave me alone,” with a few F-bombs sprinkled as a garnish. But I was expending so much energy fighting Grief that it was draining what little reserves I had in my tank.
So I pivoted towards radical acceptance.
What if I sat down on the couch next to Grief and allowed her to hand me tissue after tissue while I sobbed and mourned the losses of my son and my brother? Would it possibly help? After all, I couldn’t feel any worse than I already did.
To my surprise, my experiment worked. Like the chef’s trick of soaking raw onions in cold water to decrease their pungency, Grief was becoming progressively defanged. I wasn’t exactly welcoming her presence, but I was resisting less. Maybe I was starting to come to terms with my New Normal. More likely, my pain was moving from acute to chronic. It’s still there, but it’s a different experience.
Whatever the reason, I don’t spend as many days in bed doomscrolling. I used to rise early and I still do. But I identify as a mourning person as well as a morning person. Honouring my loved ones looks different to lying in bed with the lights dimmed. Now it can look like hopping on a plane with my niece to attend a music festival because Kevin’s and Ian’s fave bands are playing, and wearing their t-shirts so they are present in some form.
The bottom line is that Grief is here to stay. She will be a part of me as long as I am here. And when I leave this Earth, I will ask her to be a faithful shadow to everyone who loved me. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.
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Rachel, you always had a way with words, even with this article you succeeded in your perfect articulation, sharing with us, what you feel. You let us in to your grief, sharing the impossible pain of loosing a child and then brother. I am sure Kevin was aware how wonderful a mother you were to him, his best fan! May his memories be a blessing!
Rachel, you are and always have been an inspiration, for all sorts of different reasons. This is so beautifully written. Thank you for sharing.