How Am I Doing Now (thanks for asking)?

Eight months ago, I wrote a post entitled ‘The Complexities of Grief,’ outlining how it felt to be three months into the grieving process for the loss of my sister, at 35, to cancer.  It has been my most-read post.  Whether natural curiosity, or a desire to find words that resonate with their own experiences, I’m not sure, but people, it seems, are drawn to honesty, openness, raw reality – as I am when I see it in others.

So here is another attempt to snapshot life and grief, a bit further on.  Ten short months in, there is still much that trips and entangles, daily, as well as much to celebrate and be thankful for.

People often ask how I am, how we all are, how we’re still standing, still going about the business of living after such a catastrophic loss.  I’m not sure that there is a straightforward answer, but if you linger with me a few minutes more, you might at least have a snapshot of how the grieving process looks now, for me.

One writer recently described remembering her late father as being like finding “crumbs” and following their trail to memories of him (you can read her post here.  This is brilliant metaphor and happens a lot, as anyone grieving will know; something small can trigger a memory, in turn triggering smiles or tears or both simultaneously.  These moments don’t always happen when you think they will and, conversely, often happen when you’re not expecting one at all.  

Moments and Memories

A year or so ago, my Mum decided it was time to embrace the smartphone.  We got WhatsApp installed for her and taught her to use the camera.  Last summer, whilst away on holiday, Mum sent some selfies that were worthy of going viral with the caption ‘when your parents have epic selfie-taking skills.’  They provided much needed laughs for Bec and me, during what turned out to be her last summer.  In May, when they went away again, they continued to send a selfie each day.  They were still hilariously funny.  In the car, on the way home from work on one of the days I had received one, I caught myself smiling – then blinking back tears, as I longed for Bec to be right back in my life, sharing the giggles and fun.

There have been so many times I’ve wanted to text her – food-factory disaster news headlines (her area of work), headless dolls (her greatest fear), ‘Miranda’ moments (which happened, frequently, to both of us), my son’s swimming successes (she was a County Swimmer in her time).  When my Grandad died, I sat at my Nan’s kitchen table, disappearing into a hole of self-pity, as my Mum and Auntie reminisced about childhood stories and memories they shared.  “I’ll never have this,” ricocheted round my head, as I fought back tears, not wanting to spoil the precious moment they were sharing together.

At Center Parcs, on holiday as a family, there were emotional moments for all of us and my own poem echoed in my mind:

“I will miss being next to you,

In the moments we will now never have.

But I will hold you in my heart,

Imagining you with us,

Imagining your presence, your voice.”

One that grabbed me unexpectedly was when I glanced at a large, toy elephant in the soft play area; the previous May, on Bec’s last holiday there, she had sent me a photograph each day, of her enjoying herself as much as she could with her precious family.  One had been a photograph of her, with the elephant, with the caption ‘Today I kissed an elephant.’  It made me smile then, and still did that day, as I remembered, through painful tears.

Learning Hard Lessons

I have learnt a lot and grown a lot, as I have surrendered to the process of grieving and I know I am nowhere near ‘out of the woods’ yet.  I could write a series of posts on the things I have learned on the path I have walked, but I think there are a few key things that are helping me keep going and keeping me from falling off a cliff-edge that sometimes feels perilously close.

1. I have learned to embrace the process.  Professional counselling has been key to this and I would wholeheartedly recommend this to anyone struggling with grief.  Railing against the feelings that overwhelm doesn’t achieve anything and leaves you even more miserable and exhausted.  Some days you have to accept that you need a good cry and a pray with a trusted friend, or alone.  Sometimes you have to sit with the feeling of flat, miserable emptiness, knowing it will pass and getting help if it doesn’t.

2. It’s OK to wrestle with the big questions – the questions and doubts that hit and threaten to derail your faith.  But you have to accept, too, that there aren’t any easy answers – but engaging with the questions, the process, the doubts and disappointments somehow helps you to move forward, find fresh ways to put down new faith-roots in unfamiliar and hostile terrain.  In the Bible, when some of Jesus’ followers begin to desert him, declaring it all too hard, he asks his disciples if they want to leave too.  Simon Peter’s reply has become one of the cries of our hearts – this is a hard road to walk, somewhere we don’t want to be.  It raises questions and doubts, but, ultimately – “Lord, to whom shall we go?  You have the words of eternal life,” (John 6 v 38).

3. It is immensely helpful and powerful to connect with others’ whose stories resonate with your own.  I am quite a novice on Twitter but have found great comfort in connecting with others who write about grief and loss.  The Good Grief Project, Let’s Talk About Loss, Memsta and Modern Loss are just some of the brilliant sites out there, available to help people walking through the lonely terrain of grief.  I have ‘met’ some brilliant people on line and been comforted by their words, as I hope mine have comforted others and resonated with them.  It’s not morbid, depressing or self-pitying, but really empowering to connect with others walking a similar road.

4. You need your friends to check on you and be there for you far more than you care to admit, and more than they will realise. They are not mind readers. Sometimes you have to communicate how much you need a coffee, a walk, a shoulder to cry on.  I am so grateful for the people that have done these things for me, endlessly, since Bec’s death – especially the ones that recognise that it doesn’t just ‘go away,’ and that I need them just as much now as I did in the early weeks after her death.

5.  You are stronger than you think you are.  When my Grandad died, in June, all the old fears pushed back in and I felt like I was going under.  I remembered a familiar Bible verse – “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” I read it in a different translation: “I am ready for anything and equal to anything through Him who infuses me with his inner strength and confident peace.”  I listened to a song – “When it looks like I’m surrounded, I’m surrounded by you,” (Michael W. Smith) and a peace and strength that were definitely not my own, flooded over me.  I am learning to put my hand in God’s, even on the hardest days and even when I am not sure if I want to talk to Him – and somehow, it always helps me go forward.

I close with one of my favourite quotes about grief: “Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.” (Vicki Harrison).

I think I have earned my ten-metre badge, but I’ve still got a long way to go!  Thank you for swimming alongside me.