In Sane Grief

    Sometime shortly after publishing the last post, I joined a grief support group sponsored by the hospice organization that tended to my mother and me during the last months of her life. As I am about to mention in a post over at The Mom & Me Journals dot Net, although regular readers of these journals know that I'm not a Support Group Person, turns out I am a grief support group person. I've learned since there are a variety of ways that grief support groups are handled. One in my area is more focused on counseling than the one I'm in. Another is a formal, time limited group that is highly structured, featuring exercises designed to move the aggrieved along more quickly than if left on their own. Mine is low key. It focuses on expression and validation of grief. I've also discovered that attending a grief support group seems to soothe the need to write about the experience of grief, at least for awhile. At this point, though, I'm thinking that those of you who might be considering such a group after becoming a survivor of a death of harrowing consequence (not all deaths are like this, you know...I've endured other deaths that aren't, including my father's) might enjoy some inside information on grief support groups.
    I'd been considering joining since soon after my mother's death and had talked about it with the hospice grief support counselor who began monthly check up calls to me (as all survivors of those dying under the auspices of her hospice organization receive) in January. As I'd mention this possibility, my counselor would say, "Take it as it comes. You'll know if and when you're ready." At the end of May I was either ready or curious, I'm still not sure which. My group meets once a week for one and a half to two hours. So far, there's been only one session I didn't feel like attending. When I explained myself at the next meeting, there were nods all around. Everyone seemed to understand that, occasionally, you just have to to it alone.
    One of the reasons I put off attending was fear that all I'd be able to do was sob. I felt it would be more comfortable for me to do that alone. At my first meeting I did, indeed, sob. A lot. So, though, did many other members. One member, in particular, habitually seethed with grief throughout my first four meetings. She'd curl into a pseudo-fetal position in her chair, refuse to remove her sunglasses and just, well, grieve...sometimes audibly, sometimes silently. To my surprise, I much appreciated her reaction. I realized she was doing exactly what I wished I had the courage to do. Her public trial gave me a curious confidence about grieving and helped me break through the social barriers of which we're all aware in this society that dictate The Rules of Polite and Non-Intrusive Grieving. That break through opened the gates to relief.
    Timing attendance in a support group is tricky. A few of our members have been comfortable beginning soon after the death but most delay joining for some months, as did I. An incident at our last meeting illustrates what can happen when someone attends who isn't ready. A woman who had just lost her husband within the last few weeks attended with a woman who had become a companion to the couple and continues as the woman's companion. It was obvious, during introductions, that the widow was still stunned by her loss. She looked it. The rest of us could feel it and kept a concerned eye on her as the meeting proceeded. She offered the barest details of the reason for her presence then shut down. About a half hour into the meeting she announced that she didn't feel the group was for her and she'd decided to leave. Now. All of us understood. A few assured her that although our group is, ultimately, a safe place, she should follow her instincts. Her companion didn't argue. Although we only barely discussed the woman's departure, it was obvious that we all knew that she was confounded by the camaraderie and the breadth of emotions that exhibits itself spontaneously in such groups: The knowing laughter; the spontaneous tears; the relief; the joy that, in some mysterious way, comes from confessions of grief, confusion, guilt and anger. I wasn't ready for that for some months. Some are. Most aren't. This woman wasn't. We saluted her courage for realizing this and acknowledging it to the group.
    I've always known that expressing my troubled feelings helps me come to grips with them. I am still surprised, though, that the process (which I think is fairly universal) is mostly infallible, especially in regard to grief. At one meeting I felt driven to mention that I found myself marking time until my own death and fairly often looked forward to its approach. No one had mentioned feeling anything similar during my previous visits so I announced this with trepidation, concerned that members would jump in and try to "change my mind". Instead, member after member solemnly nodded their recognition. Since then, although the feeling hasn't diminished much, it's significantly easier to bear. Grief is definitely an exercise in endurance...long distance endurance. Having this confirmed by a community of active grievers is helpful.
    My group has the following guidelines:

1. Although it is fine to talk about one's group experiences outside of the group, using names and obviously identifying specifics are forbidden when describing to others what took place within the group.
2. Listening is important. Interrupting and aside conversations are discouraged.
3. Advice is discouraged. Grief, in my group, is recognized as a highly individuated process. It is fine to mention strategies and resources that have helped one in one's own grief journey, but it is not fine to dictate to others what they should do; nor even suggest that anything "should" be done or "should" be experienced. Recognizing common ground is different than insisting that everyone be on common ground. Curiously, one of the men in our group has traveled through his grief over his wife's death to the point where he feels called to prescribe strategy and technique. He is much loved and accepted by the group. At one meeting, while he was pedagogically instructing the rest of us on how to get through difficult experiences, our facilitator reminded him that he was "pretty messed up" for some time after his wife's death and he needed to be careful about "becoming impatient" with others in regard to how they are handling their grief. This incident has caused me to wonder if this is a common grief landmark, especially while basking in the elation of having passed an especially challenging stretch: I wonder, for instance, during a period when the pallor of grief is fading and life appears more promising, when people look back in impatience with the time and energy they've expended, the pitfalls they didn't avoid, if it is natural to be convicted with the intention of alleviating, for others, their own difficulties. I wonder if and when that will happen for me.

    Some grief group experiences and observations I've collected:

• Two weeks ago, at the invitation of a member of my support group, I attended another group. I was invited because the member, who regularly attends both, told me that a woman who cared for her mother through her mother's death was in that group and she thought the woman and I would have something in common and find validation in each other's experiences. I've attended that meeting twice. I find the people quite like that of my long-term support group but I don't think I'll be going back. Different groups have different dynamics, often molded by the group facilitator. The second group, although ulterior in its efforts to recognize grief as eccentric to the grief-stricken, has a stronger focus on "how to get through it". Gentle instruction is typical and inspirational provocations are common. I'm finding this hard to take, although, from the size of the group, I sense that this is a legitimate way of handling grief for many. Just not for me. I was surprised to realize, as well, that I can only handle one grief support group meeting a week. In reflection, I'm also pleased about this. I take it to mean that I am not as overwhelmed by grief as I once was.
• The facilitators of both groups described grief as an ever changing experience rather than a steady incline or decline. One facilitator uses the analogy of a spiral set on its side. The other uses the analogy of tides. Both are accurate. It's been interesting for me to observe that even those who are multiples of years from the event of the death they grieve (some in the group are four to six years away from that death) continue to experience the roller coaster aspect of grief, although in apparently slower motion. It's occurred to me, lately, that once profound grief is introduced into one's life from whatever source, life is never the same, it is always tinged with grief. Thus, grief follows the natural coursing of life.
• In the group I consider "my" group, the following conversational snippet has become a delightful piece of irony, because it passes back and forth often pre- and post-meeting:
  "So, how are you?"
  "Oh, fine."
  Some weeks ago someone asked this of me as the group was settling down to "business" and I automatically responded just as above...then stopped, looked the woman in the eye and said, "Well, actually, not fine, never fine. But, you know that. So, you know, I'm fine."
  She laughed, nodded, winked and said, "I know, same here. It's a code. I'm fine too."
  That bit has now become code for everyone in the group.
• This group understands that I am not grieving the death of my mother so much as grieving the death of my long time, beloved companion. I feel at home with the fact that most of them are grieving long time spouses. This is a huge relief and more than makes up for the occasional, frustrating, "mistaken identity" I experience as a griever outside of the group. This is probably the most beneficial aspect, for me, of being in this group. I am who I am. My relationship with my mother was, and is, what it was and is. My grief, as well, is what it is.
• If you've been a regular reader here, you know that I am notorious for intellectualizing, especially the practice of pitting my thoughts against those written by others. Amazingly, this technical aspect of my character is not only accepted but appreciated in the group. Three times I've brought in snippets of things to read that triggered in me deep recognition of my own feelings, sometimes in compliment, sometimes in contrast. I'm the only one (so far) who does this, and each time, great conversations have been sparked. It's nice to be appreciated for this eccentricity.
  For the curious, I've appended two of the three pieces below. One of them I am obligated not to publish as it was written by a local woman, she is in the process of seeking publication for it and has asked me not to publish it.

    Other grief observations, not necessarily group related:

• Although I have, in the past, not cared much about whether anything of us continues after death (I have, though, a slight preference for death being the end of everything for each of us), I'm finding, now, that I hope something of us remains somewhere and there is some sort of awareness of life-before-death and life-as-it-continues-after-our-death. I'm not concerned about whether my mother's aware of me, although even that lack of concern is complicated. Despite the content of the immediately previous post, I haven't felt her presence the way I would, say, feel the presence of a live being in a room with me. What I really feel is the enormous impact of her life upon mine. I also tend to think that, if anything of her continues to exist and she remains aware of her life before her death, she is not in one of those oft imagined states in which she is blithely uttering magnanimous instructions like, "Go, live your life, blah, blah, blah." Rather, I imagine that she is missing me as much as I miss her and saying things like, "When is that girl going to get here!?!" But, you know, she was convinced of her immortality long before she died. She talked about this as though she (and I) would remain corporeal, and companions, forever, which, frankly, would have been fine with me. I like to think, as she insisted during the last few days of her life, that once she'd conquered "this cold" she'd be "fine", that at her death she discovered she was right. So, I hope life goes on after death, in a way she recognizes, for her sake. She loved it. She couldn't imagine anything better, even during circumstances most of us would consider "bad", and she embraced life with uncommon zeal. I hope she's still doing that, with much surprise and delight.
  A few weeks ago when I related my mother's conviction of immortality to the group, one of the members mentioned that his mother, who died at the age of 90, had expressed exactly the same conviction in much the same way. He surmised that, maybe, at such an advanced age, whether or not one is aware of approaching death, life takes on the aspect of eternity. Who knows, I think in response: Maybe life in this mortal system does exist as a subset in an overall state of immortality but, when push comes to shove, it makes some sort of sense to, for the most part, ignore this, in this life system, at least.
• A couple of months ago I began experiencing a peculiar phenomenon. Day after day I've been bombarded with impeccable, multi-leveled memories of what each of these days was like last year. Since my mother, to her mind, was not dying, we played her last months, days and hours as she chose, remaining conscious of being in the thick of life, which, of course, we were. There is nothing more live-ly than death, frankly. It's what defines life. I am now reliving all those experiences with uncanny mindfulness of the parallel dates but with the added, belated understanding that she was dying. Last year I knew she was dying but it would have gotten in our way for me to consciously acknowledge this between us. So, now, I'm living an acknowledgment ceremony. I'll remember an incident and will suddenly realize, "Oh, right! That's because she was dying!" or I will relive it knowing that a few months hence, she was dead. It isn't particularly painful, but it is heartrending and distracting. I mentioned this off the cuff to the group facilitator and she speculated that it sounds as though I am now doing something I didn't have permission, from my mother, myself, or our family to do last year: Experiencing the death of her life. Hospice generally facilitates this but, of course, it doesn't push if a client isn't interested in living her death but would prefer to continue to live her life and worry about death when it happens. That was my mother's way. So, you know, this is the right time for me, now, to do this. It wasn't, last year.
• Grieving happens in character, I'm learning. I don't know why I thought, previous to this experience, that grief was tacked on and happened in a way that overrode character, but I did think this. I know better, now. For instance, I've never been much of a fan of human society, even though I revel in certain aspects of it; sisterhood, for instance, magnificent friendships, intimate companionship, and, certainly, I've always been thrilled with the experience of being simply and individually human. I continue to experience all of this. I can tell, though, that this lack of infatuation with human society is one of the primary tinting agents of not only my grief but my thoughts about what to do "now" that I am no longer my mother's companion and caregiver. My life long tendency to consider human societal life more bleak than edifying makes both endeavors, living through my grief and contemplating my future, unusually difficult. As far back as I can remember, into childhood, life had a dark sparkle. I liked it that way. Since my mother's death, life is just dark. The lack of glitter unsettles me. I have no confidence that I will regain the ability to see sparkle, nor do I have any idea what to do now that I'm in the dark.
• Update on my mother's ashes: Because MPS lives in the area, the disposition of my mother's ashes to the Veteran's cemetery that hosts my father's plaque (yes, my mother was a veteran of WWII in her own right) has been left to her. MPS' life is incredibly busy, she's a school teacher and has an active family, so she hasn't gotten around to contacting the cemetery and arranging anything. She's been getting some shit from another somewhat more distantly related member of the family about this. When she confessed this to me she also told me that she's carrying Mom around in the trunk of her car. "I talk to her when I'm driving to and from school," she told me.
  "Cool!" I said. "Mom's going to school! If anything of her continues to exist and she's aware of what's going on here in the wake of her life, I'm guessing this suits her just fine!" I also told her to ignore the shit she's getting from the other relative. "Mom was a teacher, too. What you're doing is very appropriate." I also think what she's doing is appropriate to MPS' grief workout. None of us daughters is, at this point, doggedly concerned about getting Mom to the cemetery and updating hers and Dad's plaque. It took Mom a couple of years to have Dad's plaque made and mounted. I think we're well within respectable limits on protocol and, anyway, I think that MPS' time with Mom is much more important than setting up a remote memorial than none of us will likely ever visit.

Two of the Three Reading Selections I Brought to My Support Group:

1. Excerpt from the screenplay for the movie Yes
   If and when I die,
   I want to see you cry.
   I want to see you tear your hair,
   your howls of anguish fill the air.
   I want to see you beat your breast
   and rend your clothes and all the rest
   and, sobbing, fall upon my bed.
   I want to know that I am dead.
   I want to know I'm part of you
   and that you cannot bear me being torn away.
   I want to see you dressed in black
   with red-rimmed eyes from sleepless nights of grieving.
   I want to hear you protest at my leaving.
   I want to see you in each other's arms and wailing,
   see you kick a chair and punch the wall
   and see you moan and fall upon the ground and scream.
   I want to know this isn't just a dream.
   I want my death to be just like my life.
   I want the mess, the struggle and the strife.
   I want to fight, and see you fight for me.
   I want to hear your last regrets, the things you wish you'd done and said.
   In fact, I'd like that just before I'm dead.
   Don't let them put you off or make you go,
   or say it's bad for me or makes it hard for me to leave.
   It won't be true.
   I want to see you grieve.
   Don't let me drown in silence, so pious, so polite.
   Let's make a lot of noise.
   A different kind of light will fill the room.
   I want my death to wake you up and clean you out.
   And, as I end, I'll hear you shout, "No, no, no."
   But I will go.
        --Written by Sally Potter; copyright 2005
   This excerpt ushered in a discussion about how we like to imagine that as death approaches (and, after death, assuming we believe in an afterlife) we will not want our remaining loved ones to grieve for us, nor do our dead loved ones want us to grieve. I've always questioned this. Many of the members of my group also question this, now that they're in the thick of grief. Why shouldn't we want our loved ones to grieve for us? Why, in the world, would we want our life to have so little discernible impact on others that they are able to pick up and carry on as though nothing has happened? Many of the members of my group agreed that this attitude has much to do with triggering feelings of personal guilt for the aggrieved over how long and how hard grieving is and how much of an impact it has on "the rest" of one's life.


2. Should There Be a Day
   [My sister sent this to me a few months ago telling me that she thought this might express much of what I was feeling. She was right, and I responded that I was still waiting to see the core of the rose. I continue to wait for this.]
   Should there be a day
   when you are not
   and I am yet with breath,
   what shall I say?
   What shall I ask of death?
   Come get the rest -
   the half of me that stays
   shallow of heart, hollow as a bone?
   Or shall I determine to forget
   delight entombed, alone,
   follow the foggy way
   of self-deceit and let
   the sun of truth go out?
   I do not know. I must pass
   the answer by. But if one tree
   allows itself to rise,
   one spear of grass to spike,
   one rose to show its core
   then surely what of me is you
   must grow beyond your night,
   keep faith with what you were
   and, more, be constant, whole and move
   within the light that was your gift of love.
        --by Julia Cunningham from The Shadow Heart
   

    Later, I suspect.