Unsigned first-person bereavement essay from May 1981. The author’s personal experience is preserved without assigning the adjacent column’s byline or presenting it as clinical guidance.
Surviving the loss of someone deeply loved is an ongoing process.
As each stage of the recovery process recedes, the methods of recovery are difficult to recall, to document in any clear fashion.
The morning finally comes when petals scattered by a spring rain, even the rain itself, bring delight, and the survivor asks: “How have I come this far?” There is the sense of relief in knowing that no matter what comes, life can never hurt so much again.
There is no certain way to arrive at that conviction.
The methods vary.
At first all motivation seems lost.
It sounds melodramatic, but it is true that existing becomes a minute to minute affair.
The best that can be done is to manage brief respites from pain.
In my case the telephone was my lifeline.
There was the daily check-in with my mother, my sisters; the talks with a friend suffering a similar loss (we had the understanding that we could call at any hour, for any reason; we would ask: “How are you, really,?”) My strongest inclination was to “turn my face to the wall”; instead I managed to put one foot in front of the other. I remember dragging myself to my weekly volunteer assignment in my child’s kindergarten class where the teacher was sympathetic and blunt: “Working in here will be therapeutic – you’ll forget the churning in your stomach for a few hours.” The tendency to underestimate the time needed for recovery can contribute to selfrecrimination for not coping more effectively.
At first relatives, friends, and small comforts like music, chocolate bars, movies, a favorite book, provided my hinges to life.
Later, I saw the choice between waiting around for handouts and taking control of my life. I remember deliberately deciding to make a daughter’s first communion dress because I wanted to be forced to accomplish something. I made sure there was something nice for me at the end of every day by giving myself permission to reread many of my favorite books. Instead of beginning the day by throwing in another load of laundry I spent a scant half hour with the newspaper and coffee. I had been wisely cautioned that, for a time, the best life had to offer would be found in simple things. I extoll the benefits of jogging or any other physical activity as an antidepressant. I’ve learned to resent the high price I pay for inaction.
I have assumed, however haltingly, responsibility for my own recovery.
With my fragile new coping skills I know how to soften the demands and expectations I put upon myself. I try not to let the future loom too far ahead … one day at a time, sometimes one hour at a time; emergencies can be met, and crises eventually go away; something will turn up…
Just when I think I’ve stabilized there comes the day when the children take turns being disgruntled, the sink clogs, the chickweed proliferates the lawn, the garage roof rots, the shower leaks, and the fence sags.
If the setback seems severe I implement crisis intervention: alert best friends, delay critical projects until I regain my confidence.
The depth of sorrow cannot be measured, nor can the time required for mourning be calculated. Eventually the periods of strength lengthen.
There is a surer sense of self reliance, of willingness to risk, to create, to give, and to receive, to experiment and to discover.
Originally published in The Paper, May 1981.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1981_05.pdf, printed page(s) 11; PDF page(s) 11.
