When Is Grief Finished?

Does grief follow a predictable pattern of stages?

If you’ve lived on this planet any length of time then you’ve almost certainly heard about the stages of grief.  The idea is that grieving people go through a step by step process of experiencing denial, anger, bargaining, depression and,  finally,  acceptance.   You know the stages that are referenced everywhere – from literature to media?  We observe a grieving person vent their anger and we say to ourselves, “Aha, anger”, and we pinpoint where they are in their process of grief.

Short history lesson:  Those stages were presented by a scientist named Elizabeth Kubler Ross in the 1960s[i].  I’m sure she was a great scientist but her studies were very specific to terminally ill patients and she used a narrow sampling of patients from a specific hospital to reach her conclusions.  Still,  the results of this study have become world renowned and widely accepted as a grief standard.  

You know that a few months ago I was unexpectedly thrown into my own personal and horrendous acquaintance with unrelenting grief.  I lost my husband, Werner of 41 years.  His death was dramatic, unexpected and abrupt and the pain of the loss has been like none I have ever known.  Because the stages are so often referred to (even by well-meaning comforters) I’ve been thinking a lot about this and I want to say that it is my opinion that we need to move away from this framework for grief.

The concept of stages implies that there is a linear process to grieving.  Stage 1…..Stage 2…..Stage 3……We expect grievers to proceed through these stages and therefore look for signs and clues to reveal the progress.  However, stages imply movement and an ending point.  In Kubler-Ross’ theory, the final point is “Acceptance”.  

 So if you buy into this widely accepted theory you might observe a grieving person.  You might know and believe that grief is individual and that it takes long time, but you are looking for stages and (by implication) movement.   The assumption is that the grieving person moves forward toward some sort of resolution.  And our desire to see progress makes sense, because the forward momentum really fits with our Western obsession to find purpose, meaning, and personal growth. We like the idea that in anything there is a beginning point and an ending point and steps to walk in between. It’s so much neater and predictable that way.   With this in mind, we wonder if the grief that we observe is healthy or not and we may even suggest counseling or prayer if it appears  that forward momentum is hindered.   But I have grown to be wary of this incessant need to demonstrate growth and progress…. 

It turns out that real grief resists this kind of momentum.   It is not linear.  It does not “progress”.  It does not move forward from one step to another.    In actual fact, it is much more circular.  It moves up and down, back and forth.  Instead of moving forward it seems to loop around and regress and go backwards.  It’s not a “getting through” to the next stage and seeking to complete steps so that I can move on to the next.   Grief is never complete.  It does not arrive at acceptance.  The idea that I would accept what has happened seems offensive to me.   It feels dishonoring to the person that I have lost.  I don’t accept that Werner is gone and I don’t think I ever will. 

I don’t mean to imply that denial, anger or depression are not part of my experience for I have felt all of these things to an extreme.  It’s just that these emotions do not neatly progress through stages.  They loop around and compete with each other and fade only to come back.  There are days when I feel really angry and my thoughts always seem to find a target:  Werner, God, acquaintances….  There are other days when I contemplate the meaninglessness of life and consider, what is the point of it all?  Other days, I still can’t believe that Werner is gone and I repeat my mantra, “How can this be?” Surprisingly, there are days where I don’t think about it much – instead absorbed in the tasks of life – only to have the pain come roaring back at the most unexpected moments.  However, the fact that grief contains an intense increase of certain emotions is not the same as believing that grief progresses through stages to a point of acceptance.

It turns out that grief, is instead, a process of integration.   I integrate this new reality (my massive loss) into my life, my worldview and my psyche.  I am tasked with integrating my faith as well.  I wrestle with God’s place in it all.  How does his Love and grace fit with my present and future reality?   I am presented with the task of merging my life and my worldview around the unwanted reality that Werner is no longer present as he was. 

My integration is in no way a straight line nor will it ever be complete.  The level of integration sits in different phases of development and waxes and wanes. No matter what, life continues and grows around the gaping hole of Werner’s absence.   Thankfully, there are moments when it feels less painful and there are days when I feel more hope about my new reality.  On those days I know that I am loved and that grace will carry me through.  But inevitably – and always unexpectedly – I revert back to resisting my new circumstances with all my might.  Even as I acknowledge that I still have a future, I recognize that it is a revised future that is incomparable to the way that I envisioned it would be. 

The redefining gradually happens in spite of great resistance to doing that very thing.   Nothing in me wants this.  Instead, I desperately yearn to go back to the way that things were but I have no choice…for life propels me forward.   

I often feel an internal digging in of my heels. I envision planting my feet firmly on the floor and crossing my arms.  “This is completely unacceptable”….  “No, this is not what I want.”  Yet I am pushed forward by a figurative hand in my back.  I have no choice.  Sometimes, I internally clench my teeth and lean back even further.  Something about moving forward too quickly moves me away from Werner and I am not ready.  And other times I feel myself – ever so slightly – leaning forward because life is there, and I wonder what it might hold.

You ask, “Why does a framework of grief matter?”  It matters a lot to the grieving person.  If you are critiquing my experience or measuring progress then you are only adding another layer of pressure to an already impossible experience.  It matters because, in my grief, your subtle expectation of forward momentum increases that uncomfortable sensation of the hand in my back.    

Grief is by nature, a solitary experience and I don’t see a way around that.  The irony is that the presence of others walking alongside and demonstrating nonjudgmental compassion helps a lot.   I’m not looking for help to move forward and I’m not looking for advice.  Instead,  I am comforted by compassionate witnesses who display curiosity rather then certainty about my experience.   Knowing you care means so much to me.  We don’t have to talk about our loss all the time.  I welcome normal conversations; normal shared experiences and shared laughter.  At the same time it helps to let Werner be a natural part of our shared experience, remembering what the gift of his life brought to us and letting this loss be acknowledged.     Integrating the loss of Werner into my current reality will be a lifelong process but instead of a hand in my back, it is the arm around my shoulder that is getting me through.

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[i] Kübler-Ross, Elizabeth.   On Death & Dying.  Scribner, 1969.

What I Never Could Have Imagined

There are experiences in life that are unimaginable until they happen to you.  Much as you might like to predict what it will be like, you realize after having the experience that you, in fact, had no clue.  

Consider experiences like  

• getting married 
•  having a newborn baby
• parenting, or
• winning the lottery

Your preconceptions are weak predictors of the actual experience.  On top of all that, once you’ve experienced the full nuances of what it’s like, it’s impossible to describe it to those who are curious.  The experience resists a clear description. 

Here’s yet another scenerio I am forced to add to the list of “things-you-could-not-possibly-imagine-without –experiencing-it….even with the best explanations”.   “Sudden & unexpected loss of a spouse.”  To be clear, I could have easily lived a whole lifetime without becoming intimately acquainted with this one. 

Werner and I were going about our business on that June day.  Just having celebrated 41 years of marriage, it was a normal day much like many others.  In fact, the morning began so uneventfully that I have trouble distinguishing the memory of it in my recollection.  I know that we got up, prepared for the day ahead, discussed a few “to do” items, kissed and said, “I love you” to one another and went our separate ways.   

The day was going to be a good day because we were preparing for the next day’s travel to Chicago.   The plan was to meet up with our daughter and son-in-law in order to help with our two grandchildren.  For a week, Ali & Zach would be working during the day, while Werner and I envisioned uninterrupted time with our two cherished grandchildren.  I planned to walk the stroller all over the city with our granddaughter, Georgie, while Werner entertained his buddy-grandson Linus.  A trip to Wrigley field for baseball and hotdogs was on the agenda, along with playground time, walks, ice cream and wrestling.   Linus and Werner together were a match made in heaven.    We relished all these moments.  

However, we didn’t make it to Chicago.  Suddenly, out of nowhere on that day, , it all changed and the world shifted – never to be the same again.  In the late afternoon I stood helplessly in the middle of the street in front of our house and watched his life slip away when a massive heart attack suddenly took his life.  Inexplicably Werner was suddenly gone from my life and I was thrust into an experience that I could never have imagined.   

And so I am becoming acquainted with “what this is like”.  People ask me, “How are you doing?” I know they mean, “What is it like for you?”  I sense their concern but it feels like a loaded question.  The socially acceptable greeting, “How are you”, demands “fine” as our answer.  But I can’t say that.  The best I can offer, is “I’m ok” and hope they know what I mean.   I know their intent.  Those that care about me are asking if I am surviving.  They are asking if I need anything.  They are offering their help.  Their concern means a lot to me.   

“What this is like” is so hard to describe but I will try – not because you need to know, but because it is therapeutic for me to write it down.  As a therapist for many years, I’ve worked with people in grief.  While I still hope that at best I was helpful and at worst that I didn’t do further harm, I am now understand more about this experience that I couldn’t have imagined.  As you might expect, I have felt sadness, loneliness and even anger, but there is so much more.  This journey is complicated and tumultuous and the vast array of emotional experience has been surprising.  

THE SURPRISING EMOTIONS 

Bewilderment  

“What has happened?”   “How can this be?” “How can my life have gone this direction?”  (You might think that this sensation would come early on to be replaced by reality acceptance.)  I suspect eventually there will be some form of acceptance but not yet and not for a long time.   My new truth leaves me confused and unmoored.   My mind can’t seem to get around it – kind of like contemplating the infinite size of the universe.  

I am bewildered by the countless decisions and tasks that I am no forced to confront. For example, I now mow the lawn because it needs to be done (something I have never done in 41 years of marriage) and I can’t believe this is me, going back and forth, making circles of fresh cut grass.  The monotony bores me and I feel resentful at my new task while marvelling that Werner did this for all those years.  I am bewildered to find myself doing Werner’s tasks – things I took for granted.  The question comes to mind a hundred times a day.  “How can this be?” 

Astonishment  

When I broke the news to those who knew and loved Werner, in every instance,  there was an audible gasp followed by incredulity.  The news was so unexpected and so outrageous that it seems to resist comprehension.  This feeling of astonishment still overwhelms me.  

There are brief moments when I forget what has happened and I sink into the lull of everydayness but when the reality comes rushing back, I gasp   – sometimes to the point of breathlessness.  This reality that he is gone, never to return,  cannot seem to gain a foothold.  It doesn’t seem to lock in or take root.  

If you tell me that it will rain today and I believe that it will, this thought begins to consciously and unconsciously integrate my thinking.  It might influence what I wear today, whether I drive or bike to work, my lunch plans (patio or indoor dining) and even my mood.  The suggestion of a rainy day integrates itself into my thoughts and quite naturally influences my life.   

However, the astonishment of Werner’s unexpected death resists taking root.   It’s like the computer wheel that spins and spins – it is stuck.  It cannot open the new page.   For me, each new reminder brings more astonishment.  Sometimes it is mixed with incredulity and others with outrage.  

Despair   

“I don’t want to do this.”  “I cannot do this.”  “I’m not sure that I want to go forward.” These are the thoughts I am afraid to voice it out loud..  I don’t want anyone to think that I am giving up….and yet there are moments where am strongly tempted to.  But that’s not something you can express in any comprehensive way.  Sometimes I consider, “Why couldn’t it have been me”?  These are the moments where it seems like my demise would have been preferable, because being the deceased one must certainly be less painful then being the one left behind.   One moment I cannot go on another instant…… and then I do.  I go on.  I do the laundry, or I meet the friend for coffee or I show up at work.  Somehow,  I take one step in front of another.  I do the next logical thing, not because I want to but because I just can’t think of an alternative…. 

Numbness 

There is a numbness that overcomes me that denies me any feelings of clarity or definition.  Things are blurry, out of definition.  I wonder if I am in some sort of alternate reality.  I cannot comprehend what happened. Werner is constantly on my mind, and a thousand small things remind me of this great loss every day yet I cannot make sense of it. Six weeks later I still wonder if I will wake up and realize that I have been dreaming.  

 This numbness cycles amidst astonishment and jolts me back and forth. I can admit at times I am actually grateful for it as it gives me a reprieve from the relentless sad feelings.   

The numbness influences my sense of the presence of God. At the same time,  I am certain that God works through people.  The love of others is tangible and palpable and it  strengthens me and gives me a reason to keep going.   I find God in the love and concern that has been so lavishly expressed and I gratefully accept any offers for prayer. 

Impatience 

I have little tolerance for insensitivity.  In my heart, a shred of entitlement rears its head.  I don’t easily admit this – but it’s there.  In my life, everything has changed and my current circumstance is at the front of my mind. I don’t go 5 minutes without thinking about Werner with a sinking heart.   This great loss should mean something.   It seems like others should be more understanding or give extra grace because this is A BIG THING that has changed my life forever.   So should I tell everyone I interact with or do I keep it to myself? Mostly, I choose to keep it to myself, but it does leak out when I least expect it to.   There are moments when It seems wrong when others treat me as though today is just another day in a lifetime of days.  It seems like I should be wearing a sticker or something.  “Handle with care – grieving spouse”…… but then I wouldn’t want to be singled out in that way.   

In addition, I can’t tolerate attitude,  selfishness or preoccupation with first world problems.  It feels dishonoring to Werner – to the person that he was and the loss that the world has experienced.  Is my impatience with others a temporary narcissism?  Or is it –  deference to Werner, to his memory, to what he meant to the world?  I don’t yet know.     

Gratefulness 

I am overwhelming, immensely grateful for the outpouring of love and compassion that immediately followed the news of Werner’s death.  My family stepped up in ways that I have never before experienced and rushed to be present, to stand with me and our children and to help in tangible ways.  The outpouring of the church community and our friends was also, filled with compassion and concern.  I feel tremendously cherished and more then anything sink into the comfort of the outpouring of love for Werner and the person that he was.   I cannot even express what this kindness means.  The degree to which this carried me in these days of utter bewilderment is indescribable.   There are a thousand thank you’s in my heart that I say or think and each one comes with an overwhelming sense of gratefulness for this community, for this family.  How do people do this if they are alone?  I cannot begin to imagine doing this by myself.   

Resolve & determination 

All of these emotions come and go and often get mixed up.  I’m surprised to say that at the same time of my greatest despair, there is still a resolve to survive.  It’s a shred, but it’s there. Not only to survive, but to live and to live well.  I focus on my love for my children, grandchildren and my family and my loving friends.  I feel the slightest wafting of a desire to live and to live for the right reasons. I want to get through this.  I will find a reason to live – to follow dreams, and love my family and find a way to thrive.  I don’t know where my determination comes from –  because there are times when I can’t find even a shred of this resolve.  And then it returns – somewhere in the back of my mind.  Call it hope, call it vision, call it pig-headed stubbornness but it gives me short moments of reprieve from the relentless sadness that I feel.   

So you ask, “How am I doing?”  It’s a wild ride – like a roller coaster.  I am strapped in and the ride is underway so I can’t get out.  I’m in for the duration.   Werner is gone and I am destined to take this ride and there’s nothing be done about the speed and the direction.  Hate it or love it –it will take its course one way or the other.    

I’m aware of the irony of what I am writing….I’m trying to describe “what it’s like” after admitting that there is no way to describe this loss……but there you have it anyway.  Of course, in any situation like this, personal differences have to be considered and my personal experience might be different then another person’s.  At the same time writing is therapeutic for me and I figure that some explanation to you who have asked “How are you?” is better than none at all.    

Endnote: 

[By the way, Elizabeth Kubler Ross’s stages of grief have long been used as the standard for grief intervention.  Perhaps you are familiar with her 5 steps of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance).  You will see this model frequently referenced in literature and in media.  However, science has moved on from Kubler Ross (her studies are dated and her research was based on a very specific narrow population).  Hello world – We don’t have to move through 5 predictable stages.  Current grief studies show that grief is much more individual and fluid.  Rather than “moving through” stages, it’s rather more circular and largely individual.   Just look it up…..but that’s a topic I’ll write about another day]