While the girls and I are experiencing a unique grief journey, we’ve all shared one challenge that I had not thought about but that I am sure others have tackled. We struggle when connecting with casual acquaintances or new relationships, unaware of our loss. These interactions often begin with the typical niceties that are fraught with peril for us, “How were your holidays?” Or “I hope 2022 is off to a good start for you.”
Responding, “Well, my father/husband died a few days before Christmas,” while accurate, often does not feel right. But neither does any other answer.
First, it almost doesn't feel kind to respond with our truth. Like we will make the person feel guilty for the asking. Of course, we don’t believe everyone should know about our loss. We are working hard not to let anyone see inside our shattered souls most of the time. However, each of us feels guilty when we don’t say anything, and we know our colleague/new friend will eventually discover our grief and maybe feel worse. Perhaps this is why Black Swans used to wear black veils and clothing - as a visual cue to their grief when there were no correct words. I’ve dressed primarily in black for the better part of the last 20 years, so this strategy is a non-starter for me.
Second, at the 6-week (today - but who’s counting?) mark, I am increasingly uncomfortable discussing Chuck’s grief with all but my close friends & family. It is undoubtedly the case that most folks expect grief to last a year. But for some reason, I have this weird feeling that I am approaching the point where people expect that I am not experiencing intense grief anymore. I suppose that there are moments when this is true - but there are many more moments when the suffering is the worst it has ever been. I can’t figure out if the perceptions I am worried about are those of others or my own. When my stomach isn’t hurting so much that I can’t think, the raging debate in my head is between whether it is worse to have the narrative of the sad, pathetic black swan OR the black swan who seems to have bounced back way too quickly. We’ve all judged that person who seemed to hold on to their grief forever. Or the person who seemed to move on pretty quickly? But I struggle to think of the grief-stricken Black Swan who struck precisely the right balance. Many people have commented that our society has a hard time talking about grief - maybe that is the problem, and while I am doing okay writing about it, I am much less okay with the talking.
Lastly, on those occasions when I have ventured to truthfully answer the question or name the elephant in the room - my perception is I have mangled it every time. Soon after my dad died, I realized that my mom was using her incredible humor and laugh to deflect attention from the moments when grief was threatening to overwhelm her. So, it should not have surprised me to discover I was doing the same thing. And, it won’t surprise anyone who ever tried to manage my media relations that my sense of humor can sometimes veer into ‘only funny to me’ or ‘not appropriate/funny’ territory. I have tried to claim a “Black Swan” privilege, but the truth is, even though none of my ill-considered quips have landed me on the front page, they have given me pause in talking a lot about Chuck and my loss.
Yet, silence or a non-committal answer (often the correct answer with the media) don’t always feel right either. This has led me to the same conclusion I came to in my debate about whether I would feel ‘better’ here on the farm or off somewhere else. The answer to both arguments is there is no ‘better’ just yet. Just different. Everything is different. Maybe that can be our answer? Different.
Well said. I think 2022 is off to a “different” start than other years. Grief operates on its own time, a unique watch for everyone who experiences it. My father passed 10 days after I got married. My mother was 49. It was indeed challenging to navigate two major life changes at once. Not everyone will or even needs to understand your way of coping.
I find the way I can speak without losing my composure is to say “my late husband” when I am talking about something with the family. If they know he has passed, it is a way to include him in our conversation. If they didn’t know they offer a quick condolence. Especially if we haven’t seen someone—it breaks that tension.