Grief as a Second Language
How I learned what to say after a loss.
In my younger years, I discovered I had the good fortune to possess the genetics to run long distances. Some might hold a different opinion and see that as a mental deficiency, but we will just have to agree to disagree.
In 1989, I set out to run the San Diego International Marathon with a small group of runners in my graduate school. We made a gentleman’s agreement at the beginning of the semester and would train towards the event in December.
One by one, each runner began to back out and announce he would not be able to complete the task. Eventually, I was the only one left. It was still two months till race day.
I’m not sure why I kept going, but I did. And I worked myself in the best physical shape of my life. My training was aimed at a 3:20 performance, and I was feeling confident that I might even break that personal goal.
Fast forward to race day. I had asked my friend, Galonedv Ayidohi, whom I will abbreviate as GA, to accompany me. I also asked if he could meet me at mile 21 and run the last five together for moral support. I told him I thought it would be fun, but Providence had something else in mind.
The race began as expected. My early mile splits were on target. The air was cool and easy to breathe. It all felt amazing.
Until it didn’t.
About mile 8, I started to develop a cramp in my right arch. I had never experienced this particular pain before, even in the hundreds of miles of training that I had put in. I thought to myself, “Maybe it will work itself out.”
But it didn’t. It got worse. And worse. The pain started to radiate upward into my ankle, then into my calf bone and eventually the knee. Any hope of finishing a PR was now gone, and I had shifted my mental energy to completing the race, all the while coping with the pain.
But the thing that kept me going was knowing that GA was going to be waiting for me at mile 21. I kept thinking, if I can just make it there, he’ll know what to do.
As I got closer to the mile marker, I could tell from his face that he knew I was in trouble. He and I had run together for years. He knew what I was capable of. He knew what this meant to me. And he knew what to say.
“Good to see you, brother. I’m here to get you across the finish line.”
Those words were like a salve to my pain, not just in my right leg, but in the disappointment that all my months of hard work were not going to pay off as expected.
He didn’t say, “Suck it up, you big baby.”
He didn’t say, “No pain. No gain.”
Instead he said, “I can see you’re hurt.”
And this is one of the best things anyone can say to someone who is suffering a loss.
GA didn’t shame me, nor did he ignore what was immediately happening in my body. He told me it was OK if I needed to walk for a little bit, and we did. He said he was proud of me for being the only guy to train till race day.
He showed me what it meant to grieve alongside a disappointing loss.
Loss is a part of the human experience. And while all loss isn’t equal, all loss needs to be grieved. Whether I lose my phone, my dog, or my job, all three of these losses will have taken some toll on me. To ignore any of them is not wise.
If a coworker seems a little more angry, or a family member a little more argumentative, or a neighbor aloof and acting different, you might be witnessing the grief process trying to play itself out.
Instead of returning anger for anger, try asking if that person is ok. And wait for a response other than, “I’m fine.”
The global impact of COVID-19 has touched people in every country in unprecedented ways. Through this, our entire planet has suffered a collective loss. We’ve suffered the loss of loved ones, the loss of jobs and businesses, and the loss of normalcy that may never fully return.
So how does a planet grieve its loss?
It grieves in the same way any world-wide movement takes place. One person at a time. One family at a time. One community at a time.
In the race to get back to normal, I need to be aware of those around me who still need to grieve. Even though no one close to me died of the disease, many of my friends felt the impact of loss of life first hand. To dismiss their misfortune because I didn’t experience it, is also unwise.
Just like GA did for me when he saw me at mile 21, he recognized I was hurting and he didn’t ignore it. He saw me in the condition I was, not as he thought I should be. And he helped me get to the place I wanted go.
Give permission to those who have lost. Let them grieve. We’ll all be healthier in the long run.
