An open letter to those who are grieving

I wrote this letter years ago, after my dad died.

When my friends have lost their loved ones, I’ve cautiously emailed this to them. They’ve since forwarded it to their friends who have lost someone, and so forth it has continued this way over the years.

I do think words can help to heal, at least in a small way.

I share this letter in the hope that - if it’s managed to help those near to me - maybe it will help a few other people beyond my immediate circle too.

An open letter to those who are grieving

I write this letter in the hope that a handful of you read it. And within that handful, I hope my words offer support to a few of you.

I don’t have any answers here in this letter. Nine months ago, I was where you are today — completely devastated and in total shock at the magnitude of my loss. My father died suddenly, aged 62.

My grief was suddenly thrust upon me, perhaps yours has been too. Or perhaps your grief marks the end of a long journey with your loved one. No matter how our grief is packaged, or what our relationship was to them — it is of course, a complete tragedy.

I’m not here to paint a gloss over how you will possibly feel in the future — for what it’s worth, I still miss my father as acutely as I did on day one. I expect I always will.

You already know by now that grief is tragic, dark, messy and brutal.

It completely knocks you off whatever course you were on and leaves you incapable of managing even the simplest task. The idea of washing, sleeping, eating, shopping and paying bills is now as trivial as it is impossible. Let alone the idea of organising a funeral.

People mean well at a time like this, surrounding us with support (if we’re lucky), particularly in those first six weeks. After around six weeks, people start to get on with their lives again and the flowers stop arriving — ironically at a time when they would be most appreciated! I hope that this letter finds its way to you around this time, if not earlier.

Grief can be an incredibly isolating and lonely experience. Despite the many people around you offering support, no one really understands the aching loss you feel right now. Supportive sayings can come across as patrionising, and cards with painted doves, waterfalls or forests are laughably out of touch with your new reality.

Perhaps you’re being told to “remember the happy times”, “be strong” or “eventually move on” — though well-meant, these expressions can be as unhelpful as they are insensitive to the depth of your loss.

Of course you will remember the happy times, but probably not today. And why be strong? Honour your grief and the aching loss you feel right now. You have plenty of time to “be strong” later on if you really must.

In the spirit of sharing, I’ve written down what the past nine months have personally taught me — I hope some of it helps you in a small way.

1. The five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance) are not linear.

I thought that grief was to be experienced in neat stages, ranging from denial right through to some rose-coloured version of acceptance at a far-off point in the future. But of course, this is not the case.

Certainly, these stages do fall upon us at some point or another as we grieve, but they are not linear, passing conveniently from one state to the next and ending in a neat conclusion under the banner of ‘acceptance’.

In the space of one day you may well go from denial, to acceptance, with a detour into anger. For me, nine months on, I still experience denial and acceptance within a heartbeat of the other.

Grief is not logical and I don’t think it is ever fully resolved. For me, acceptance is accepting that a part of me will always be sad — but you do learn to live with the sadness. I think that this is acceptance.

2. People haven’t a clue what to say to you

You’ve probably already experienced this — your newfound ability to stop conversations in their tracks and transform normally calm people into nervous babblers is astounding (and depressing). At social gatherings you may start to feel like the uninvited cousin turning up unannounced with halitosis.

Conversations fade to an unsteady halt when you join a group. Lifelong friends may become strangely formal around you, and chatterboxes will talk about the weather, their day, anything — apart from asking you how you are really feeling.

I was so angry at people’s inability to deal with my grief. To me, it felt cowardly of those close to me to not even momentarily confront what I frankly, had to live with 24/7.

Only a handful of people directly asked me how I was actually feeling about dad in the weeks and months after my dad died. I couldn’t fathom how dear friends could talk to me endlessly about their holiday, in the shadow of my father’s death only days previously.

I viewed my friends’ unwillingness to ask me how I felt as cowardly, but now I just wonder whether my loss was a mirror to their own mortality. A subject very few of us are comfortable with.

Looking back, I didn’t appreciate how uncomfortable they were. I couldn’t see that their inability to have any meaningful communication with me was not representative of how they actually felt. They were desperate to help me, they just didn’t know how.

Frankly, people haven’t got a clue when it comes to dealing with death. Ironically, it’s often the bereaved that are most comfortable not only saying the dreaded ‘d’ word, but actually talking about the person who has passed. Our society’s inability to deal with death can make for an isolating grieving experience.

Over the months I realised that if I was going to get any support I had to clearly tell those close to me what I needed — and it made it easier for us all. I had to say, “I am okay talking about dad, in fact I like to talk about him, I think it helps.”

My husband reminded me of an important point, “they’re your friends, they’re not trained counsellors.”

Looking back, I was expecting my friends to fulfil the role of a professional counsellor (very unfair in hindsight I know!) I wanted them to say all the right things and when they said the wrong thing, or worse — nothing at all — I was angry and hurt. Although, much as we may not care to admit it, talking to the newly bereaved can be a little like walking through a conversational minefield — someone is bound to offend us in some way!

People don’t seem to realise that we who grieve are sad 24/7 — even many months and possibly years down the line. They feel that by not mentioning the deceased to us, they are helping us to ‘move on’. But of course, this is as insulting to the memory of the deceased as it is unhelpful to us.

Grief is relentless and even if we are smiling and laughing on the surface, chances are, we are barren inside. Plenty of people will want to ‘distract you’ or ‘cheer you up’, but very few will be willing to just sit with you and face your greatest loss together.

And of course, we all grieve differently — for as much as I wanted to talk about it, other people may want to keep quiet, to be distracted, or to be cheered up. There is no right or wrong way to grieve, but of course you already know this.

3. Grief can be intensely physical

I wasn’t prepared for this, and I certainly thought I was having my own heart attack at several points in the months following my father’s death. So much so that I booked myself in for an ECG!

My breathing was constantly laboured, my jaw was clenched, my heart was physically tight and heavy, my stomach was tense, my head ached — perhaps you feel similar symptoms.

For some, the physical pain can be relentlessly oppressive. The bleakness of grief in those early months can be simply too awful for our mind to accept, so possibly our bodies take on this pain instead. Certainly, as my mind adjusted over the months to my new reality (not accepted!!), my physical pain subsided.

So for what it’s worth, please be reassured that these strange and very intense physical reactions are not only entirely normal, they are quite predictable physical manifestations of grief.

(And also watch out for colds, coughs, gastro bugs and every other ailment under the sun! I was never so sick or physically run down as I was in those months after my father died. Be nice to yourself when you can — doona days are underrated.)

4. Crying can be daunting at first

A part of me worried that once I started to cry, I’d never stop.

Grief can be like walking down a set of steep steps. Each time we cry, we give into our pain and it’s like taking another step down — the fear is that you may not be able to ever get back up again.

I remember in the early weeks, being surprised after I cried for several hours that only a few hours later I was able to run a bath for my nine-month old son like a ‘normal’ human being.

It gave me hope that I could cry and actually also stop at some point (and even carry out some impressively mundane task hours later).

Honour your tears if they are there. They will stop.

Then again, you may not want to cry at all. Or you may want to cry, but not be able to. Have faith that your body is looking after you and allowing you to grieve in the way that is most appropriate for you at this moment.

5. Everything feels meaningless — at least for a while

When someone close to you dies, your understanding of life as you knew it often goes right out the window. Thoughts are scattered and life’s meaning is futile at best and at worst, completely devoid.

Through death, we realise how deceptive being alive is. Life fools you into thinking that you are going to just go on forever, suspended by this wonderful energy, this life- force of happiness. Yet at times like these, whether we want to realise it or not, we are acutely aware of the mortality hidden in the shadows of everyone’s life.

The good news (yes there is some!) is that grief can force us to make key changes in our lives. It can clarify our idea of who we really are and our pain can fuel us to fulfil other life experiences, which might have previously daunted us.

Ironically, grief can mark the defining point in your life for some positive change.

This shift won’t happen today, or even next week, or possibly even next year– but at some point in your future you may perhaps surprise yourself with positive life changes that come from what is right now, a very dark place.

However it’s probably best to adhere to the good advice: ‘Don’t change anything for the first year’. I shudder to think of what would have happened if I acted on every impulsive whim I had in the nine months since my dad’s death.

In the meantime, until this shift happens for you, don’t push things. You are quite likely to feel completely devoid of any motivation — even the most focussed people can feel overwhelmed by the simplest task. Don’t beat yourself up for this, just ride it out and be kind to yourself.

6. Family and finances — two unexpected hurdles

Life can be a curious thing sometimes — just when you are trying to deal with your insurmountable loss, practical issues suddenly barge into your world, demanding your immediate and undivided attention.

The mountain of bills, debts and paperwork (not to mention lawyers fees!) that you are probably facing right now feels possibly like a very cruel joke. Not only do you not have the energy to deal with all this, but having to sit in meetings with faceless people discussing your deceased loved one is at best, sad to observe and at worst, completely devastating.

What many of us may not have previously realised is that the ‘estate’ can be fraught with complexities, and in the event of complex estates — often following the sudden and unexpected death of a loved one — details are often are not fully wound up for several years.

This delay of course bears down on the grieving process, forcing you to deal with endless practicalities, at a time when you just want to fall to pieces and lock the door.

Added to this, family tensions can start to rise following the death of a family member, and frustrations and misunderstandings can come tumbling out. Whether related to finances and the estate, or the result of different personalities and ways of grieving, tensions can erupt overnight and threaten to undermine even the closest of family relationships.

Grief is messy and family members are the most likely people to hurt and be hurt. Not only are our families a delicate framework of different personalities with a shared, complex history — the old saying that you hurt the ones closest to you rings true at a time like this — as unfair as it is.

Another tip that really helped me to deal with my family, was to consider taking a few sessions of grief counselling. It can help to take the pressure off everyone by going outside your immediate circle to speak with a trained stranger about how you feel. This was probably the best thing I did for myself, following dad’s death.

Many psychologists and counsellors are skilled in grief counselling and it needn’t cost you any money. I live in Australia and I used the Medicare GP Mental Health Care Plan, where you are entitled to up to a set number of therapy sessions per year. Your GP can fill out the paperwork and give you a referral. While it may not be everyone’s cup of tea, this has helped me enormously in the past nine months.

7. You may go (a little bit…) crazy!

A family friend who has lost several people close to her gave me this reassuring nugget of advice. I laughed when I heard it, not because it was wrong, but because I could identify with it!! I was relieved that someone else had felt this too.

Whether like me, you suddenly look for ‘signs’ from your loved one or you find yourself walking down the street and talking quietly to your deceased loved one, it is okay.

Perhaps you ask them to flicker the light for your benefit. Maybe you can’t sleep until dawn arrives, or you now sleep with the light on, or maybe you just find yourself obsessively thinking about them every minute of every day.

Whatever you are doing, it is completely normal; no matter how surreal it may feel to you (and others!) in your quieter moments.

Personally, I still believe my dad is playing with our light switches (and sometimes it is simply faulty electrics!) Is it craziness or a new perception of life beyond death? A controversial point, so I’ll move on.

8. Grab the good moments when they do come along

I remember feeling curiously okay a few weeks after my dad died.

One day I woke up feeling perfectly fine. Then I immediately felt guilty. A friend gave me great advice. She said to ‘grab the good moments when they do come along, because you will soon feel rotten once again’.

Sure enough by evening, I felt rotten.

Grief can come in waves. I wonder if our bodies do this to protect ourselves from the intensity of our emotion. While we may not have particularly ‘happy’ peaks, we may feel ‘okay’ or ‘flat’ for a while, before the next trough hits once again.

Try to ride these waves for what they are and don’t waste precious energy feeling guilty for having a good day or even a good few hours. Enjoy the break before the next wave hits.

—

So there you have it, my summation of what life can be like in the first year of grief. Your experience will no doubt be entirely different. I just hope that our two experiences momentarily merge somewhere within the contents of this letter — and that this point of reference gives you a little support and understanding when you need it most.

Finally, this poem helped me a little. Perhaps it may help some of you — and apologies if this poem falls within the afore-mentioned, ‘well-meant but completely patrionising bracket!’

PAIN

Why must I be hurt?

Suffering and despair,

Cowardice and cruelty,

Envy and injustice,

All of these hurt.

Grief and terror,

Loneliness and betrayal

And the agony of loss or death — All these things hurt.

Why?

Why must life hurt?

Why must those who love generously,

Live honourably, feel deeply

All that is good — and beautiful

Be so hurt, While selfish creatures Go unscathed?

That is why – Because they can feel.

Hurt is the price to pay for feeling.

Pain is not accident,

Nor punishment, nor mockery

By some savage god.

Pain is part of growth.

The more we grow

The more we feel –

The more we feel — the more we suffer,

For if we are able to feel beauty,

We must also feel the lack of it —

Those who glimpse heaven

Are bound to sight hell.

To have felt Love and Honour, Courage and Ecstasy

Is worth — any price.

And so — since hurt is the price

Of Larger living, I will not Hate pain, nor try to escape it.

Instead I will try to meet it
Bravely, bear it proudly:
Not as a cross, or as a misfortune, but an Opportunity, a privilege, a challenge — to the God that gropes within me.

BY ELSIE ROBINSON 1883 — 1956

Epilogue: Five years on

I wrote the below to a friend who lost her father a year prior. It sums up my feelings five years on. I hope this helps — probably it won’t right now, but here it is anyway.

“….I understand completely when you describe how you feel. You’ve described the passing of time perfectly — the sadness pervades (and it always will) but with it comes strength and inner reflection (on a good day at least).

I do believe you carry them inside you, that their essence becomes a part of you in some very literal sense, and this guides you somehow forward. His memory is a part of my being and this informs my actions and my days.

The sadness is always acutely there, but it’s more beautiful now than it was in the early days and months — as it’s now about his legacy, rather than simply his loss.

It’s taken the best part of five years to reach this point though.

I hope this shift happens for you, too. My turning point was realising that any loved one would want the person they loved to be happy after they’ve gone. While this is a process in itself, it is something to work towards for their sake.”