You might have to catch me, even if I don't ask you to.

I know the main steps of the grieving process. I've heard about them from medical professionals, concerned loved ones, and from my sociology degree. I can rationally and intelligently define the different stages, but I've never lived them as wholly as I am these days.

I try to make the best of even my worst days, but sometimes it’s just too much work and I realize very quickly that I just can’t do it. Unfortunately that often leads to feelings of great guilt and confusion.

I talked to a dear friend today who has a very close family member whose child died years ago. This child had many physical exceptionalities and was very developmentally delayed. Many parents, or people who plan to have children, wish and hope that some day their children are not born with such disadvantages; not only for the child, but for themselves and the life they imagined themselves to have.

Some people are given a situation that to others would seem impossible. Some people face it with grace, dignity, and perseverance. These people often do not see their own goodness and selflessness. If I could give them one thing, it would be to help them see themselves the way others do. This woman is one of these people.

She is a mother of all mothers. She not only works her heart out at her career, but also makes every point of providing wonderful opportunities for her 2 remaining children. To meet her, you’d think she’s grateful and content, and that she gets great joy out of her selflessness. Anyone who meets her wants to be her friend. When you’re around her, your heart can’t help but be happy.

But, hers isn’t. And, I didn’t know that until today. She is desperately sad and despondent. The only reason I know this is that my dear friend opened up to me, after I pried. She is concerned, as she loves this woman beyond imaginable means – and rightfully so. This woman has been a rock, and a responsible example throughout the years. She is such a wonderful mother that she ‘mothers’ people who aren’t even her own! (We all know someone like this)

To hear that she is sad and down trodden makes me feel concerned, but I also feel sympathetic. Here is a woman who dedicated her every waking moment to the needs of her first child. She knew that he couldn’t exist naturally without her constant care and attention, and she never resented it, or hired help. She gave her whole self to his needs, and ended up getting great joy out of this. Some people would be frustrated, she found purpose. This can be strangely fulfilling. So, when other world powers take away that situation that was all consuming, how do we move forward in a new direction, suddenly being forced to give our attention elsewhere? Heck, how do we suddenly turn our love and attention to ourselves, when it’s been so long since we ever thought to love ourselves first (maybe we never knew how to do this in the first place).

I relate, only because my Mom was very alone in her raising of me. She was consumed by her work and being a mother, which isolated her on many levels, and made her very dependant on me. I became the punching bag, that ultimately became the soft place to land. I was a sounding board and was treated as an ‘adult other’, but was also treated as an immature child for much of my time with her. What contradictions to balance! Many people told me to walk away. Many said I didn’t need to ‘take it’. All I thought was that she needed me, and that was enough reason to stay. And, I’ve written about this before; she needed me, but I wanted her (love and approval that is). So, I dedicated my life to making her proud. I aimed for straight As, and just about always got them. I loved her when she deserved it least, and came back even when I swore I wouldn’t because that last time she hurt me she went a little bit too far.

When you commit your life to one thing, and one thing only, and then that thing is taken away – you are left spinning like a broken record top. When we’ve been careening in circles for so long, how do we suddenly walk forward, in a straight line, without feeling dizzy? Too often we fall over, like a small child who spins on a hot summer day. The difference is, the child spun for the pure joy of landing clumsily in the green grass. If only our falling was so joyous.

If I didn’t have my man to love, who loves me back even when I don’t deserve it, I don’t know how far I might dizzily stumble. I am SO lucky to have him. He doesn’t tell me to walk a straight line. He doesn’t tell me to stop until I’m ready to move forward steadily. Instead he stumbles along beside me, ready to catch me if I trip on my own feet. And even more so, ready to fall with me if I don’t catch my balance in time. He doesn’t laugh, or chastise – he just says, “you’re not alone, I’m right here” – sometimes without words.

Pots often call kettles black. Easier said than done, right? How do we so clearly see other people’s realities, and what they should do to find contentment, but we can never take our own advice?

I wish this wonderful lady nothing but peace. I want her to recognize that she served her purpose, for the time she was needed, and she did a damn good job. I want that realization to cause her heart to overflow with pride and confidence, so that she can move forward similarly in raising her other beautiful children, and by continuing to help my dear friend that relies on her love so.

In connection, I have been struggling with my Mom being gone more lately than ever. It’s a lot of life anxieties combining, but, the shock has also worn off. Suddenly I’ve realized that my Mom isn’t just ‘on vacation’. Scary. When she first passed away I took the time to neatly fold all of her clothes in her drawers. Now I look in those drawers, even at the neat rows of her underwear and think, “Shit, she’s never going to wear these again”. That doesn’t make it easier to throw them out!

It’s incredible how we cling to the simple things. So, think of how consuming the big ones are!

Tonight I took an online quiz about depression. Turns out I rank as pretty darn depressed. Whoa. But, I read further (as this hasn’t been a common thing for me for the majority of my life so far) and it openly stated that this kind of depression can’t be applied to people who are grieving a significant loss. Phew!

So, I re-acquainted myself with the stages of grief, and was reminded that this is not a linear process that has a light at the end of the tunnel. This is a cyclical and repeating process that keeps recurring throughout our lives. Of course it would be easier to just be done with it, but if we could do that, we would.

What I found, which gave me some much needed peace is as follows:

The 5 Stages of Loss and Grief

By Julie Axelrod

The stages of mourning are universal and are experienced by people from all walks of life. Mourning occurs in response to an individual’s own terminal illness or to the death of a valued being, human or animal. There are five stages of normal grief. They were first proposed by Elsabeth Kubler-Ross in her 1969 book “On Death and Dying.”

In our bereavement, we spend different lengths of time working through each step and express each stage more or less intensely. The five stages do not necessarily occur in order. We often move between stages before achieving a more peaceful acceptance of death. Many of us are not afforded the luxury of time required to achieve this final stage of grief. The death of your loved one might inspire you to evaluate your own feelings of mortality. Throughout each stage, a common thread of hope emerges. As long as there is life, there is hope. As long as there is hope, there is life.

Many people do not experience the stages in the order listed below, which is okay. The key to understanding the stages is not to feel like you must go through every one of them, in precise order. Instead, it’s more helpful to look at them as guides in the grieving process — it helps you understand and put into context where you are.

1. Denial and Isolation
The first reaction to learning of terminal illness or death of a cherished loved one is to deny the reality of the situation. It is a normal reaction to rationalize overwhelming emotions. It is a defense mechanism that buffers the immediate shock. We block out the words and hide from the facts. This is a temporary response that carries us through the first wave of pain.

2. Anger
As the masking effects of denial and isolation begin to wear, reality and its pain re-emerge. We are not ready. The intense emotion is deflected from our vulnerable core, redirected and expressed instead as anger. The anger may be aimed at inanimate objects, complete strangers, friends or family. Anger may be directed at our dying or deceased loved one. Rationally, we know the person is not to be blamed. Emotionally, however, we may resent the person for causing us pain or for leaving us. We feel guilty for being angry, and this makes us more angry.

The doctor who diagnosed the illness and was unable to cure the disease might become a convenient target. Health professionals deal with death and dying every day. That does not make them immune to the suffering of their patients or to those who grieve for them.

Do not hesitate to ask your doctor to give you extra time or to explain just once more the details of your loved one’s illness. Arrange a special appointment or ask that he telephone you at the end of his day. Ask for clear answers to your questions regarding medical diagnosis and treatment. Understand the options available to you. Take your time.

3. Bargaining
The normal reaction to feelings of helplessness and vulnerability is often a need to regain control–

·         If only we had sought medical attention sooner…

·         If only we got a second opinion from another doctor…

·         If only we had tried to be a better person toward them…

Secretly, we may make a deal with God or our higher power in an attempt to postpone the inevitable. This is a weaker line of defense to protect us from the painful reality.

4. Depression
Two types of depression are associated with mourning. The first one is a reaction to practical implications relating to the loss. Sadness and regret predominate this type of depression. We worry about the costs and burial. We worry that, in our grief, we have spent less time with others that depend on us. This phase may be eased by simple clarification and reassurance. We may need a bit of helpful cooperation and a few kind words. The second type of depression is more subtle and, in a sense, perhaps more private. It is our quiet preparation to separate and to bid our loved one farewell. Sometimes all we really need is a hug.

5. Acceptance
Reaching this stage of mourning is a gift not afforded to everyone. Death may be sudden and unexpected or we may never see beyond our anger or denial. It is not necessarily a mark of bravery to resist the inevitable and to deny ourselves the opportunity to make our peace. This phase is marked by withdrawal and calm. This is not a period of happiness and must be distinguished from depression.

Loved ones that are terminally ill or aging appear to go through a final period of withdrawal. This is by no means a suggestion that they are aware of their own impending death or such, only that physical decline may be sufficient to produce a similar response. Their behaviour implies that it is natural to reach a stage at which social interaction is limited. The dignity and grace shown by our dying loved ones may well be their last gift to us.

Coping with loss is a ultimately a deeply personal and singular experience — nobody can help you go through it more easily or understand all the emotions that you’re going through. But others can be there for you and help comfort you through this process. The best thing you can do is to allow yourself to feel the grief as it comes over you. Resisting it only will prolong the natural process of healing.

Amen.

So, I’m not spinning anymore, but I am stumbling. And, as long as I’m not alone in that (although I wish I was sometimes, so that no one else in the world would be feeling this way) I’ll be ok.

Yes, sometimes I feel depressed. But, one thing I have that I’m grateful for is a willingness to push forward anyway. I don’t close the blinds and climb back into bed, and I don’t put my head in the sand. I cry when I need to, I fall when I need to, and I talk openly about my stumbling so that the people around me aren’t shocked when I grab onto them as gravity wins the arm wrestle.

If you’ve caught me in the past 10 months, and especially if you’ve let me pull you down with me, thank you.

And, thanks in advance, because it will likely happen again.