Grief

I have tried, and failed, to write this blog post five times. In fact, this is the scariest thing I have ever written. I want to write about grief. A cheery Christmas blog-post about grief. You. Are. Welcome. But precisely because it’s Christmas, ‘the most wonderful time of the year’, I think it might be time.

In September, my (our) dad, Michael, died. Since then, I have struggled. There is a (sort of) famous axiom that grief cannot be presented on the stage. When I hear that, part of me rolls my eyes and part of me gets it- but I think the attitude that lies behind it is a little dangerous and extremely unhelpful. Grief is central to our existence, to our human experience (‘all that lives must die’), so why put it on some platform of untouchables? In my experience, grief can be incredibly isolating- it’s a real effort (for me) to remember that we’ve all lost someone or something important to us. It’s one of the great human truths; we will all lose, we will all know that pain at some point. So why make it holy? Of course, there’s a lot of mystery around grief, especially in death, what happens to us when we die, are we still around, in some form, if not, where do we go? A shit-storm of uncertainty. But the loss is certain. I have found it to be true however, that we all experience grief in totally different ways, and that can be scary; we want people to be alright, whether that means grieving in the same way, or getting through it.

So here’s what I know helps- talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, dance, talk, talk, and talk. Even if your sentences barely cling to any sense, verbalise it, vocalise it, express it in whatever way you can, to people you trust. And listeners, you don’t need answers, just keep eye contact and stay there. And what about worry? Naturally we want the best for the people we love. We want them to be through the sad and painful bit, onto the new perspective, lessons learnt, finding energy and joy again bit. As human beings, we aren’t so good at the sticky bit in the middle, the sadness, the exhaustion, the loss, the anger. But, what else are you meant to feel? Hope? Some days, sure. Gratitude? Yup, sometimes. But I suspect if I went around thanking my lucky stars that it’s Christmas and I am young and healthy and loved, you’d doubt I was really facing reality. We want people to be ‘better’, but even that language isn’t helpful, because all these emotions are as much a part of life as any other. So, all I can say is, it’s painful, but it’s so, so normal. I’m pretty sure 50% of my therapist’s time is spent telling me that what I am feeling is totally normal. So let’s take this idea of grief as something exceptional and call it something else, normal, part of the life-death deal.

Other things I know- grief is not something to get over. My grief represents the love and the relationship that I have with my dad. It is huge. It has a weight to it, a shape to it- I think of it as a big triangular stone that sits behind my belly button. It’s a sort of tomb I suppose, a marker of what I am carrying, the pain of it, absolutely, but also the love, the luck, the significance of it- what we have lost and what we have known. I figure I have two options with this belly-stone 1) ignore it, let it fester, get cold, grow mould and damp 2) polish it up, good and proper, make it gleam. Out of respect for my dad, and myself, I choose the latter. My grief isn’t something to get over, it’s not going anywhere, it might feel less pronounced one day, I’ve really no idea, but it’s a badge of mine, the kind you’re presented with at some life-ceremony you can’t remember accepting an invitation to; I didn’t choose it, but I’ve got it now, so I’m looking after it, good and proper.

And what about Christmas? I actually suspect I’ve always felt a bit funny around Christmas- forced cheer sits uncomfortably with me. There isn’t much space for grief though, in a traditional Christmas narrative, so here’s my idea, let’s make some. Some concrete things I recommend for people experiencing grief: keep warm- hot water bottles, slippers, soup, blankets, armchairs. Read, learn and connect to the inner-thoughts of other people. Be honest, talk about it, cry about it. And if you’re a friend or family member- buy any of the above as a gift, make sure there’s plenty of milk in the fridge for tea, listen, listen, sit and listen. Trust them to lead it and stay there, with them. It might also be helpful to find a way to mark what or who you have lost at Christmas, include them- whether it’s making a photo album, creating a playlist of their favourite songs or doing a food-shop in their honour (dad’s mainly consists of crystallised ginger, dark chocolate, eye-wateringly expensive nuts and German biscuits- a man of refined taste). And know that, like life, the sadness will not be forever, it will come and go, and we’re capable of holding lots of other things all at the same time. And most importantly, you are not alone.