Uncooked

It is difficult to know how to grieve in Western society. I've been encouraged to share my feelings with others more, to talk about what I'm going through, because it aids the healing process. In our world, though, there are not a lot of good outlets for this.

One family I've observed who recently lost a precious 5-year-old daughter seems to be facing the same problem. They have posted about their anguish on their daughter's Facebook page, and I'm happy to report, many people either "like" those comments or reply with encouraging words.

Maybe the internet is the new way that we share our grief. There certainly are not a whole lot of other socially acceptable ways to express grief.

I've quoted Joan Didion's book before on this blog. It's so insightful that I just can't help it. Here's what she found about grief in our society.

"Philip Aries, in a series of lectures he delivered at Johns Hopkins in 1973 and later published as Western Attitudes toward Death: From the Middle Ages to the Present, noted that beginning about 1930 there had been in most Western countries and particularly the United States a revolution in accepted attitudes toward death. 'Death,' he wrote, 'so omnipresent in the past that it was familiar, would be effaced, would disappear. It would become shameful and forbidden.'"

- Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking



Try to stay with me... I know this is a bit academic-sounding, but in my experience it is pretty true to life.

"The English social anthropologist Geoffry Gorer, in his 1965 Death, Grief, and Mourning, had described this rejection of public mourning as a result of the increasing pressure of a new 'ethical duty to enjoy oneself,' a novel 'imperative to do nothing which might diminish the enjoyment of others.' In both England and the United States, he observed, the contemporary trend was 'to treat mourning as morbid self-indulgence, and to give social admiration to the bereaved who hide their grief so fully that no one would guess anything had happened.'"

- Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking



Now, any therapist worth their salt will tell you that mourning is not self-indulgent. It is an absolutely critical process that a person has to walk through, often for years, in order to heal emotionally. And yet, our society doesn't seem to be comfortable with letting people do just that.

Maybe for we Americans, it is our independent streak that gets the better of us. Our culture prizes the attitude of pulling ourselves up by our boot straps and moving on. Often I've heard the quote "when the going gets tough, the tough get going." This isn't always the healthy thing to do though. The many emotions of grief, if not given air, will fester below the surface and eventually come to the forefront again.

This is an excerpt from the memoir Angelica Huston has been writing since her husband of 16 years, the artist Robert Graham, died in 2008.

"I like to be associated with strength rather than weakness and misery. But we're made up of all of these components. There's always a moment where you are deeply alone in your own skin, and it's hard to come to terms with it. There's a period after something like the death of a spouse where you can totally understand why widows wore veils.

"Because no one should really look upon you for a couple of years, and you really shouldn't look upon anyone else. You're very tender; you feel like something uncooked. And people can be very unpleasant when you're in a state of grief."

- Excerpt from Angelica Huston's memoir, as quoted by the Wall Street Journal online

I love the way she uses the word "uncooked" here. I've often felt tender, vulnerable, like I was going out in public with a big bulls eye on my torso. To me, it seems like people should have a special designation when they are going through grief. Like a "fragile, handle with care" sticker that lets others know this individual is going through a difficult time, so please show some mercy.

It doesn't work that way, though. I've come to grips with the fact that in most social settings, I will have to be the one to bring up my daughter in conversation. Most people will not ask how I'm doing or extend their sympathies at this point. They look embarassed, averting their eyes and mumbling condolensces, if I relate a lesson that she taught me, or a story from her life.

And I cannot blame them: they have no pattern for doing this; they haven't observed anyone else around them responding to grief in an open way. Maybe they don't realize that it takes a long, long time for these wounds to heal, and that I will never forget my daughter, she will always be a part of me, always on my mind. If that means I have to walk through life a little bit uncooked, then it is worth it... she was, and is, worth it.

"I know just what you are going through!"

I love it when people share their own stories of grief, suffering, and loss with me. There are many things I can identify with in the stories that others share. It helps to know that I'm not alone, that other people wrestle with the same agony and questions that I'm going through.

Having said that, there are some circumstances that just don't compare. For example, a co-worker recently shared with me that he understood what I'm going through, because his wife lost their first child due to a miscarriage somewhere around 3 months gestation. I appreciated the fact that he was trying to reach out and sympathize, but the way he did it just grated on me. He acted as if the experience of pregnancy loss is the same as the loss of an infant. No doubt, both are painful in their own way. However, losing an infant that is 7 weeks of age is not the same as a miscarriage.

One of the things that people who have walked through the most painful kinds of grief intuitively know is that they don't know exactly what anyone else is going through. The deepest losses sharpen our sympathies and cause us to realize that we really cannot compare the uniqueness of our situation to anyone else. A dear friend who has been following this blog knows exactly this - she and I have unique and different situations, and yet there are similar emotions involved. We can express how sorry we are for each other's experiences, and ask the other what are going through. And then we can listen. Because beyond that, it is not fair to say we have been through what they have been through. We haven't.

One woman in sharing about her grief after her husband died described eating alone at home a lot, because she wanted to avoid going out and feeling exposed. I can truly identify with this feeling of exposure. People ask the most innocent of questions when I'm in public that feel like sandpaper on a raw and open wound.

For the woman who lost her husband, "are you married?"

For the parents who lost their only child, "do you have any children?"

This kind of exposure becomes even more acute when someone, usually a perfect stranger, claims to know exactly what you are going through. "Oh, you lost your baby at 7 weeks of age? I know just what you are going through. My grandmother, who practically raised me, just died last year at 82 years of age. I know how hard this is for you."

No, my dear fellow human being, you do not know. People's grandmothers are supposed to die when they get older -- it is the natural order of things. People's children are not supposed to die. You are supposed to die before your children, watching them grow strong into their mid-life years as the flame of your candle waxes dim.

I've come to believe that avoiding this kind of exposure during the most painful times of grief is okay, that it is a healthy form of self-preservation.

At the same time, there are times when human contact can't be avoided, and that is okay too. It teaches us (or at least me) to be patient with others, to give them grace, because Lord knows I have probably made the same mistakes. An innocent attempt to identify with what someone is going through can instead create a sharp contrast that clearly highlights the extent to which I don't know what they're going through.

And so I've learned that the best response to someone's expression of a terrible experience is, "Wow, I cannot imagine what you are going through. I am so sorry. What is this like for you?"

And then... I just listen.