The grief continuum

We have terrible cultural models for grief. If you turn to movies or television, grief is the wailing and gnashing, the inability to leave bed or otherwise function and the utter devastation. Yes, that is part of grief. Movies and television also tell us about heroic grief, the people who turn their loss into action for the greater good. They found an organization, like Mothers Against Drunk Driving. They organize blood drives or volunteer. They act to honor the one they have lost. This, too, is part of grief.

But it's not that black and white.

Someone recently said to me that grief is a continuum, like most things are. Some people lean towards the devastation, others towards action and most of us fall somewhere in the middle, even moving from pole to pole throughout a day. It doesn't mean you're not grieving, even if you can act. Can do the laundry or even smile from time to time. It doesn't mean your grief is any less deep than that of the person who stays in bed for the day.

This past week I have been reasonably functional. I've gone out, I've gotten things done, I've even begun to work a bit again. And I've had literally dozens of people say to me over the last few weeks, "Wow, I can't believe you're doing so much! If it were me I'd still be in bed." I've also heard, "You're so strong. I couldn't do what you're doing." Here's the thing: When someone says that, while I know they are expressing admiration and also expressing their own fears, it doesn't help. We each grieve in our own way. And we don't know what we would do in this kind of situation until we are here. I certainly didn't. I still don't know how I will feel moment by moment.

When someone marvels at how functional I am, I wonder if I'm doing something wrong. If somehow, by taking small steps to move forward in my life, I am honoring my beloved less than if I were still prostrate. I have been prostrate. I will be again. But being in the world, living my life, continuing aspects of the life we built together, should be no less an honor and no less appropriate than crying, even if it is only six weeks since he died.

This isn't to say I don't appreciate the kindness, the company, the sympathy and even the wonder people have expressed. I just struggle with the model of grief that says simply because I am up and moving I must not be grieving. Maybe I'm having a day where my grief is private. Maybe I sobbed earlier and will again. Maybe I just need permission to feel something other than lost for a little while.

We need a new cultural model for grief. One we can talk about before we actually are grieving. Maybe this new model could encompass all the things we feel or do while grieving, and they could all be okay. Howling is okay. Going out to dinner with friends is okay. Starting an organization and staying in bed are both okay. Maybe if we had a new model of grief, workplaces could support grieving employees more. Loving friends would understand what might help more. The strangers who see us crying would more often be compassionate and the relatives who are surprised when we laugh would be more understanding. All of this is grief, and more.

This loss, this grief is the hardest thing I have ever experienced. There is no roadmap. But maybe if we start talking about it, and recognize that grief is as individual as every one who goes through it, that there is no timeline, and that one expression is no less valid than another, we can together begin to chart it out.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer