What Grief Has Taught Me About the Coronavirus
We are all grieving something right now. Identifying our grief during the pandemic can help us find compassion for ourselves and others.
The day my father suddenly passed away, the world came to a screeching halt for me. The man I revered in mythological proportions was gone. Walking through the hospital parkade back to our car, my stunned silent husband beside me, I looked searchingly at the people who passed us. Everything seemed normal. Couldn’t they feel the loss hanging thick in the air? The world appeared insistent not to stop – a juggernaut of chatter, laughter, and movement. I was livid.
Emotions played havoc in my body that year, all with little notice from an apathetic world. Somewhere in that journey, I stumbled upon the Five Stages of Grief, first outlined by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in her book, On Death and Dying. Reading the pages was balm for my soul. Naming everything I felt slowly, grudgingly, restored my place in the world.
Fast forward eight years, two kids, and seven days into self-isolation. COVID-19, the Coronavirus, social-distancing, TP hoarding, flattening the curve – an (unwanted) emerging lexicon in our societal repertoire.
A close friend had divulged her family members were flouting self-isolation recommendations after travelling. We can collectively swear under our breath here. In the past weeks, everyone has heard similar frustrating tales – a cousin, parent, friend, co-worker – disregarding the rules many of us are diligently following for “the greater good.” A vision of pelting those people with TP launchers regularly plays in my mind.
I didn’t have an answer for her. I didn’t have an answer for anything. A long, “iso-walk” was definitely in order. Trudging alone, I would startle violently at the sight of people walking within a three-block radius of me, but I was finally able to “sit-in” my emotions.
I knew I was grieving. I was in the stages of grief. Which ones? Sadness mostly, little bit of anger, dash of denial, and the tiniest glimmer of acceptance. Naming it gave me a small dose of satisfaction.
My friend’s question replayed in my mind: “What are they thinking?” Renewed anger surged in my heart. Can’t they see we’re all grieving while they party on the beach and cram the supermarkets? The world has stopped, just like it did all those years ago for me.
My foot paused midstep. They are grieving and they don’t even realize it! Denial, albeit infuriating, is a stage.
Once home, I skimmed Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler’s On Grief and Grieving anew, categorizing every COVID-19 media piece and personal experience. Each stage was there. Dr. Daniel Siegel first coined the term: “You’ve got to name it to tame it.” I felt like I was doing exactly that, taming the Corona-beast.
One disclaimer beforehand: No one’s reaction – be it over or under- will fit neatly into a particular stage; nor will it remain obediently sequestered in any stage for a definable period of time. Rather, our reactions to this pandemic are as a fluid as the situation itself; ever-changing, growing and retreating rapidly in the breadth of what feels like a second and eternity. It’s in this constant shuffling that we must find grace for ourselves and others.
Denial, the first stage outlined by Kübler-Ross, has also been the most heavily critiqued. When images of nearly nude, inebriated spring-breakers surfaced in the media, my blood boiled. Don’t they care? When people I knew continued vacationing, my mind revolted. They’re idiots. When I continue to see teens cram into cars, people disobey store distancing measures, or listen to certain overripe politicians, my heart thuds menacingly. You’re ignorant. Judgment happens instantly, but since my erratic epiphanous walk, I quickly repeat: O denial, thou art a villain!
Exactly what is too much for the human psyche to process? Life has changed, and we have little say. The neatly categorized, methodically planned world we envisioned doesn’t follow our playbook. We can lose. Our time is finite while our schedules limitless. We can die – young, old, strong, weak, rich, poor; we die, often alone. These truths generally flutter around the edges of awareness, but sudden tragedy- like the death of a loved one or thousands- unapologetically highlight these facts. As Kübler-Ross and Kessler state in On Grief and Grieving: “Denial and shock help us to cope and make survival possible.” While we cannot condone people purposely endangering others or ruminating in denial, a small amount of compassion is needed for human-beings trying to cope in a world that doesn’t follow our rules.
How easily denial leads to the next stage, anger. Those morons buying all the toilet paper? Monsters! Politicians covering up the truth? Expose them! Sandra from down the street who keeps having social gatherings IN. HER. HOUSE? That b%$@! There’s so much to be angry at right now –people, circumstance, fate. We’re even pissed off when Jared buys one more package of meat than the allotted two.
Anger is often our most shunned emotion; push it deep down where no one can see its chaos. Despite its pariah status, it remains a fundamental part of our healing process. Lurking just beneath the frenzy of our rage hides pain. It is okay to be angry; we just need to be clear why we are angry. It has little to do with Sandra’s parties or Jared’s meat hoarding. When I bark at my kids because they want me to play a millionth game of “Stuffy Jurassic Park,” I am less angry with them and entirely frustrated at my own helplessness in our current world. I can choose to suppress that anger until it harms, or find healthy outlets for its necessary explosions. Owning my feelings allows me grace for the anger I see in others, our communal rage.
As the pandemic first unfolded, the next stage, bargaining, seemed to abound before any other.
If I just buy enough toilet paper . . . If I wash my hands this many times, for this long . . . If I stay this far apart . . . If I do all the right things, you can’t touch me, Corona.
The rules keep us safe, but the underlying truth can be frightening. We can do absolutely everything right, and still lose. Everything will return to normal once we flatten the curve, except it won’t. We cannot bargain our way to the past; a new normal will emerge. Our challenge is to have empathy for those sadly trudging beside us, possibly masked and bathed in hand-sanitizer.
Sadness, our collective grief, comes to visit us at last, in small waves or crashing tsunamis. Since the passing of my father, sadness has often sucker-punched me with the thought: It should not be this way.
It should not be this way. Weddings should be large-scale celebrations; small businesses thriving; elders smothering their grandbabies in protested sloppy kisses; classrooms bursting with life; 2020 Grads centre-stage; our dying held by loving, familiar hands; our dead mourned in person.
But, at least, on the bright side, it is what it is…No! Acceptance will come later. Our grief must have its due. If we say things are okay when they aren’t, we make it more difficult for countless others to honour their personal heartbreak. When I deny my pain, I become far less empathetic to Farmer Charlie mourning the loss of “coffee-row” or Debutant Debbie with her last two eyelash extensions. In her LIVE discussions, Dr. Jody Carrington often emphasizes: Our sadness is not comparative. Whatever makes our bones shake with rattling sobs or quiet whimpers, it is valid. Right now, we are all grieving something. Only when we sit at the bottom of our individual (but united) well of sadness can we begin to climb again.
Until very recently, the final stage outlined by Kübler-Ross was acceptance. The loss of possibly millions will never be acceptable. We will never be the same. When my father passed away, I instantly knew these truths. After the Coronavirus, moments of denial, bargaining, anger, and sadness will continue to flair as long as memories hold. Acceptance- with time and grace- will soften each reoccurring blow. Once the storm has passed, we must acknowledge the value of each stage as we mourn. Thankfully, humans are designed to adapt, hope, rebuild. The questions will become:
What is it we want to rebuild? Which pieces are worth saving? What did our collective loss reveal?
How beautifully these questions fit with David Kessler’s newly developed sixth stage: meaning. When I took my fitful iso-walk, I was completely unaware of his new book, Finding Meaning. My memory vibrated with his words: “Loss is simply what happens to you in life. Meaning is what you make happen.” There will come a time, after each stage has been properly honoured, when we must individually choose to stay seated or rise. We can never move on, but we can move forward. How do we want to step into the world once the virus particles settle?
I choose to look for the “meaning makers.” Across the globe I see people moving forward: Balcony operettas, TikTok dancing doctors and nurses, hopeful window messages, LIVE stream connection hours, simple and large-scale acts of charity. With gratitude, I see single moms and dads doing it all with no break or recognition; small businesses adapting to survive; frontline workers risking their health for humanity. The stages of grief are not foreign to these people, and yet meaning and hope are happening as they simply carry on. My “meaning” enables me to see the best in us while acknowledging the worst. Your “meaning” may vary from frequently hugging loved ones to studying medicine. Our meaning will be as individual as our grief.
Looking at people through the lens of united yet individual grief allowed compassion to enter my heart in a senseless time. Viewing people’s actions through a compassionate lens does not condone those actions; it doesn’t say: “Please, continue processing this by partying and hoarding!” It simply means seeing people as human beings, imperfect, messy, but nonetheless worthy of and desperate for love. After all, we are in this together although we are far apart.
*If you or a loved one is dealing with anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation or suicidal intent, please reach out to the numerous health resources available. You are seen and loved.
