Finding grace in grief
“Did the Chinese pay you to scare the hell out of me?”
The question was directed at the oncologist who had just given my friend some very bad news. Perhaps the doctor was aware that her patient was running an academic institute that researched Asia. It’s unlikely that she knew Lily’s no-holds-barred sense of humor.
One of my dearest friends, Lily, has now passed away. Her last message to me read, “You’ll hear from me.” But that was it.
Ever since her diagnosis a year and a half ago, Lily and I had talked openly about how the cancer first responded to treatment, and then didn’t. She never shunned uncomfortable topics. But in those final weeks, when she took longer and longer to respond to my messages, she was, as it turned out, planning her departure from this world, down to the details of her own funeral. That, too, was so her: autonomous and resolute.
Pain. It hurts a lot to have lost her. No more of our sleepovers. No more laughing together over her incredible knack for seeing the funny side of just about everything. No more of our shared reflections on geopolitics, our own inner musings, or the best care for the flowers she had in pots on her tiny terrace, I in my garden. No more enjoying each other’s cooking (there is no one who could say the word “scrumptious” as scrumptiously as she could), receiving her choice of odd, “very handy” kitchen utensils, or raising a glass to life.
Healing
Feeling this pain so sharply, I’m reminded again why many people have the urge to avoid it. Pills, wine, distractions – anything to stop feeling it for a while. The lure of these escapes is that as long as you rely on them, the pain stays away. Or so it seems. For a long time, that used to be my own coping mechanism: suppressing the pain and moving on. But I’ve learned the hard way that avoidance isn’t the same as healing.
Unhealed emotional wounds keep draining your energy. They dim the color of how you see life and how you relate to others.
In some countries, openly expressing grief is normal. There are even “professional mourners,” usually women as far as I know, who cry and wail with you over the loss of your loved one. In the West, we prefer to keep our emotions in check. But acknowledging and expressing grief, if possible together with others, are essential steps toward healing.
At Lily’s funeral, many people were present. Beautiful words were spoken, the music she loved was played. We embraced each other. Tears flowed freely.
And yet, I was left with a lump of despair in my throat. For weeks, even before she died, I had been seeing Lily in my mind’s eye and hearing her voice in my head. That didn’t get any less. Tears kept coming at unexpected moments. Yes, I wasn’t avoiding my pain, but I continued to feel lost, as if something was left unfinished. A sudden stabbing pain under my shoulder blade immobilized my arm, and my throat began to ache.
I’ve come to know that my physical symptoms often signal something deeper. So, I turned inward and listened. It soon became clear what was going on: I wasn’t only feeling incredibly sad. I was angry.
Mantra
My instinct was to suppress these rising feelings. If we’re inclined to hide sadness, we stifle anger. Anger is taboo. Of course, Lily didn’t choose this outcome. It would be so unfair to be angry with her. And so selfish of me. Ugh!
And yet. One of my mantras is that we need to make space for anger, because it isn’t there for no reason.
You see, by leaning in to emotional pain, I’ve found that it always has two aspects: the “we” and the “me.” In this case, the “we” no longer exists, and that’s what causes my grief. And this loss happened to “me”, without me having any say in it, which is what causes the anger. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to her, dammit!
Reluctantly, I gave myself permission to kick the big pouf in my living room, swear out loud, and pour my heart out to Lily. Before long, I realized just how deeply my anger was rooted in love. Anger gave way to compassion.
The pain in my shoulder and throat melted away like snow in the sun. My heart is still heavy, but deep inside, I felt a stir of laughter. If only Lily could have seen me with my pouf, she would no doubt have lifted that heaviness with a perfect, hearty joke.
Each time we saw each other, Lily gave me a few of her favorite wooden dishwashing brushes. I must have a lifetime supply of them. Now, each time I get to the sink, I can’t help smiling as I wash my pain away, dish by dish.