For the last several weeks, I have been feeling lost here on the Journey to Dissertation Land. You may have noticed my absence or, more specifically, my silence. I suppose part of the reason is that I have not known what I want to say.
Better to say nothing than to go on and on saying things that just don’t mean anything.
I also have been lost in the details. There have been many events of “loss” and “grief” lately, and my studies of the topic have continued to jettison me into that dark and familiar place that, frankly, can be a bit much to handle sometimes, so I choose to step away.
I’ve been wrestling with anticipatory grief because the holiday season usually triggers some of these feelings for me as I celebrate life with those that are still here, with the underlying understanding that at some point, the family dynamics inevitably will change again one day.
It’s all about living in the now, appreciating the people who mean so much, and letting them know it while we can.
Today, I am motivated to at least resume this conversation, since there have been some people who have been kind enough to continue sending me their thoughts, and I have been encouraged by the fact that my observations on grief, loss, current (and tragic) news events are reaching an audience that I did not realize was paying attention.
So I’ll keep this post brief today because I really don’t know what direction I am exploring at the moment. As I mentioned, anticipatory grief has been slapping me around, but residual grief is making an appearance. Perhaps this is the idea I should expand on for a moment, since it is foremost in my mind today.
Let me say that I don’t even know if “residual grief” is an official term, but I’m guessing it is. What I mean by residual grief is that lingering sadness you feel after sharing in someone’s grief.
You attend a wake or a funeral, extending your heart to someone who is in the early stage of dealing with the loss of a loved one. You stand on line, perhaps for hours, perhaps even in the frigid weather, because there are so many mourners, the line to the funeral home extends out the door. You want to be there for these people. This is what you need to do.
You exchange polite “hello’s” with old schoolmates or neighbors from years past who have joined you on line, looking to bring comfort to the family of the deceased.
You soak in the family’s pain: viewing their family photos arranged about the funeral home, reading (maybe discreetly, so as not to appear too interested) the small note cards on the floral arrangements sent by caring friends and family.
Eventually, you reach the front of the line where the immediate family stands, shaken, shattered, a piece of their heart torn away. Most of us will admit that we are “not good at these things,” but we manage words to express our sympathy and offer support.
We get through it, and presumably, it helps those who are grieving. In some way, it must help us as well, for we find the strength to put ourselves through the ritual even though it can be uncomfortable to show our own humanness.
After the wake my husband and I attended the other night, I asked him, “Why does it affect me this way?” The family we reached out to is not one that I would say is “in our close circle” but is a family we care about, respect, and love, for many reasons. We share a history that is connected to our schooling, sports activities, community life.
That’s the obvious layer. The deeper layers are individual -- you can insert your own suggestion here, but the truth is, we understand their grief because we understand what it means to love and lose someone.
In some small way, we feel their pain. Again, my smart husband had to remind me of the word. “That’s empathy,” he said.
I think back over the last several months about the people I know who have suffered a death in their family this year. Their grief is fresh, and the upcoming holidays will be difficult for them, to say the least. Other people who have had a loss that is not recent also will struggle, because the loss is permanent, and the milestones in our lives can make the absence sting anew.
Perhaps we should let our empathy motivate us. Find the time to stop in on at least one person that has had a tough year. I’ve got good intentions that I hope will manifest in my individual acts of kindness. I think I’m doing it “for them,” but I’m sure I’m also doing it for me. It isn’t the kind of thing you can separate. It is a shared experience that reveals the true spirit of the holiday season.
Look at that, a post that was not so brief after all. I guess I did have something to say.
Copyright 2010 by Marianne V. Heffernan
Copyright 2010 by Marianne V. Heffernan
