It’s my loss and I’ll mourn how I want to. And, no Christmas wasn’t so bad after all.
Your Christmas tree. Pink of course!I’m breaking from the letters I was writing to reminisce about the five days we spent together, the letters where your beauty and light shined to the world through my memories of you. I promise to get back to that.
But, something else has entered my heart. That’s how you’ve been teaching me to write, from the heart. It’s so freeing.
Since you, and only you, can really know how I feel right now, I want to talk to you about how people deal with grief. I’m not losing my mind. I know you’re gone. But, the changes in me, the way you made me a new person, I think that’s how you remain. Your energy and beauty remain. This is how I best talk to the new me.
Seems everyone has an opinion and a lot of people have been clamoring to give their opinions about how to mourn. I’ve been told it’s okay to do this, that or the other. I’ve been granted permission to feel this way, and urged to not feel some emotions like guilt. Guilt is naturally going to crop up. You died on my chest after all.
No good way to grieve exists. Understanding that helps me feel sympathy for those giving the advice. They want to help but can’t. Frustrating, I’m sure.
I’ve been told that this deity wanted you. Personally, I don’t know what any deity would want with a little baby. That practicing this or that faith will make me feel better. But, I believe that all religions are beautiful at the core. I’m so moved when someone says they think of you as an angel watching over them. How sweet. I also smile when a Buddhist friend tells me your energy will be reborn. I find peace thinking of you as never really leaving.
But, in the end Cora, I think everyone grieves differently and thinks of you as being in a different place now. And, that’s okay. We all handle tragedy in our own way.
I know where these opinions, so often passed as facts, are rooted. People grieve for you with me. People who held and loved you. People you never met. People I never met. You have touched everyone who hears your name. They cry, too.
Moms and dads think of their own child. This becomes almost too much for them. Non-parents sense my pain and can barely bare it.
I want to comfort them as they begin to sob or I see them fighting to hold back tears. They can’t make sense of this tragedy.
I’m lucky. I never tried to make sense of this. I knew there was no reason for this. I would go mad trying to figure out why this happened.
So, yes, sometimes these people say kind of seemingly stupid things. I easily ignore them. In fact, I feel so badly for them. They hurt too, Cora. Their verbal stumbles arise from their deep pain. Sometimes something happens that goes beyond words. Emotions and feelings don’t happen in words. How can we describe them exactly in words? What I feel, and what everyone else feels are beyond words, just like you are out of this world beautiful and bright beyond words. But, we all feel like we must try to find the comforting sentence, and this leads to sometimes silly conversations. I’m fine with that. Talking about what happened to you is good for me. Trying to come close to describing our pain is natural.
I remember foreign exchange students in high school explaining how silly they viewed the American greeting of “how are you?” I remember one German teenage girl telling me how confused and offended she became when Americans asked that and then failed to listen or care about her reply. She thought they genuinely wanted to know how she was feeling and how life was going. When Americans ask how are you, we don’t take the time to really listen to the reply.
For the first time, I get what the exchange student meant. I feel a big ball of anxiety form on top of my chest when people ask me this simple question. I wonder how they want me to answer. Am I supposed to give the standard American short answer that will be ignored by the asker? Am I supposed to break down at tears and release all my emotions to show the person how I really am? I usually just say “you know” and shake my head, looking at the floor the entire time.
I don’t judge the people who ask how I am. I would probably ask too. Many feel awkward themselves, quickly adding after their question, a qualifier like “I’m sure not good.”
People don’t know rather to call or not call. I think they worry they’ll call, and I’ll answer at a time that’s bad for me. Many of my closest friends don’t call. Others I used to view as acquaintances touch base often. Some imagine themselves on call to my grief. They told me to call any time after all. But, what they don’t know is it takes a lot of effort for me to call. Right now any small responsibility seems like a heavy burden. Sometimes, I wish they’d just call so I could see their phone numbers pop on my Blackberry and know they were thinking of me.
Many people think they know how I feel. Sometimes I’m presumptuous and I think I know how other people feel. Just as we can’t really describe some feelings with words, we can’t know exactly how someone else feels. I can relate to their pain. They can relate to mine. We lean on each other, but can never know for sure. I ignore them when they say “I know how you feel.” I don’t resent them for saying so. I just act like they never said it. I hope they ignore me when I say I know how they feel. We can never know for sure.
For days leading up to Christmas, family and friends added qualifiers to their Christmas or other holiday talk. Saying this time of year MUST be hard and constantly asking how I was managing.
I steadied myself for a nervous breakdown of epic proportions. It never came.
You died only three weeks ago. Each day brings new difficulties. Every day is especially hard. But, Christmas day brought a bit of relief. Time with family was more cherished. Family members seemed more patient. Used to be the Brite girls were known for their Christmas time squabbles. This year, there were none. My cousins and aunt soothed the soul like never before. I never remember a better tasting Christmas dinner. I felt no pressure to spend a certain amount of money on gifts. I managed to give a few presents, but only because I felt moved to do so.
This was one of the best Christmases in memory. And, that’s okay.
There is no right way to handle grief, Cora. I wish for magical soothing words to make this all better. Or, that if I prayed or chanted or hoped this would get better.
Everyone grieves on their own time. In their own way. And, that’s okay.
Love,
Mom
