from the huffington post
We've Forgotten How to Mourn
"The death of a beloved person is such a mess, such a theft, such a halt to our lives. I am repeatedly frustrated and disappointed by our banal attempts to streamline it and make it convenient to fit into our busy lives. When my baby brother (he will always be that to me) died after a horrid and painful illness, I was obliterated. Really. I'd spent an entire year trying to save him (and me with him) and we lost.
I couldn't take it. I had nowhere to put my pain, no place to show it but in my shower or in the car after I'd dropped the kids at school. People would ask, "How are you doing?" and I would numbly reply that I was fine; if I'd uttered the truth, that I felt lost and adrift and angry and sick, I was pretty certain our pleasantries would take a dreadful and unexpected turn for the inquirer. So instead of skipping the small talk for a season, I skipped describing my grief. And in doing so, I skipped a lot of usefulness of mourning to heal. I got so fatigued by running into people who didn't know about my loss and having to say, "Well, my brother, died two months ago and so and so is playing varsity football and yes, I will be happy to drive the kids to the movies"
It would have been so much more accurate to have walked around with a dagger protruding from my heart to show the damage done to me. Jews traditionally wear, or wore, a piece of dark cloth pinned to their clothes to wordlessly explain the context in which the mourner walks. My mother-in-law wore black after her husband died, and I recall selfishly wishing she could give up the somber look for our wedding sixth months later, so as not to bring us down. Ah, well, we all know brides are insane.
We need to go back to those outward signs now. Maybe not the wearing of black -- New York City would look like it was grieving perpetually. But something with a couple of words, like a little sign or necklace or pin, saying "I'm Grieving" or "Be Gentle" or "Ask me about my brother/mother/husband/dog" whichever suits the occasion. We might even change the message daily or hourly, rather like an emoticon. On the days that one doesn't feel like participating in life's cabaret, a message such as "Please excuse me, I'm not really here." Then, if we cry at the dry cleaners or beside the copy machine, people will give us our space and not take it personally.
The reality is, losing a beloved is life-altering. We recover, but we are never the same. Everyone, if they we lucky, experiences grief and needs the protection and gentleness of those around us. We may move among you, but our perspective is altered for quite a while. In the meantime, we need to be able to go out in public without always being a full-participant. After a year of watching my brother die, and crying and suffering throughout, I wanted to lift the dark veil off my family and friends after he died. I didn't think anyone needed to be burdened with still another year of anguish from me. Perhaps I didn't feel entitled to be sad any longer. But we do and we must give grief its time and place for so much longer than most of us dare to in the land of constant productivity and achievement. Hey, I didn't invent this -- it's the result of lessons of the millennia and we've just forgotten it."
"The death of a beloved person is such a mess, such a theft, such a halt to our lives. I am repeatedly frustrated and disappointed by our banal attempts to streamline it and make it convenient to fit into our busy lives. When my baby brother (he will always be that to me) died after a horrid and painful illness, I was obliterated. Really. I'd spent an entire year trying to save him (and me with him) and we lost.
I couldn't take it. I had nowhere to put my pain, no place to show it but in my shower or in the car after I'd dropped the kids at school. People would ask, "How are you doing?" and I would numbly reply that I was fine; if I'd uttered the truth, that I felt lost and adrift and angry and sick, I was pretty certain our pleasantries would take a dreadful and unexpected turn for the inquirer. So instead of skipping the small talk for a season, I skipped describing my grief. And in doing so, I skipped a lot of usefulness of mourning to heal. I got so fatigued by running into people who didn't know about my loss and having to say, "Well, my brother, died two months ago and so and so is playing varsity football and yes, I will be happy to drive the kids to the movies"
It would have been so much more accurate to have walked around with a dagger protruding from my heart to show the damage done to me. Jews traditionally wear, or wore, a piece of dark cloth pinned to their clothes to wordlessly explain the context in which the mourner walks. My mother-in-law wore black after her husband died, and I recall selfishly wishing she could give up the somber look for our wedding sixth months later, so as not to bring us down. Ah, well, we all know brides are insane.
We need to go back to those outward signs now. Maybe not the wearing of black -- New York City would look like it was grieving perpetually. But something with a couple of words, like a little sign or necklace or pin, saying "I'm Grieving" or "Be Gentle" or "Ask me about my brother/mother/husband/dog" whichever suits the occasion. We might even change the message daily or hourly, rather like an emoticon. On the days that one doesn't feel like participating in life's cabaret, a message such as "Please excuse me, I'm not really here." Then, if we cry at the dry cleaners or beside the copy machine, people will give us our space and not take it personally.
The reality is, losing a beloved is life-altering. We recover, but we are never the same. Everyone, if they we lucky, experiences grief and needs the protection and gentleness of those around us. We may move among you, but our perspective is altered for quite a while. In the meantime, we need to be able to go out in public without always being a full-participant. After a year of watching my brother die, and crying and suffering throughout, I wanted to lift the dark veil off my family and friends after he died. I didn't think anyone needed to be burdened with still another year of anguish from me. Perhaps I didn't feel entitled to be sad any longer. But we do and we must give grief its time and place for so much longer than most of us dare to in the land of constant productivity and achievement. Hey, I didn't invent this -- it's the result of lessons of the millennia and we've just forgotten it."