To all LS members,
I read a beautiful tribute in the Ottawa Citizen yesterday, written by Janice Kennedy. It was a tribute to her mother who passed away at the age of 86. I wish that I was so eloquent, and although I cannot quote the full essay, as it is very long, I have summarized it, as I feel that it speaks to each and every one of us, and what we are going through.
"There is a stark and unyielding logic to death: we all die, and we all have to deal with it.
Grief, however is less straightforward. In our world, with its unspoken assumption that death won't happen ( at least not to us-and not to those we love ), the culture of grief is bound by a complicated set of unspoken rules. Grief at its blackest and most withering is expected when death arrives in a sudden upheaval of the natural order. Moderate grief is acceptable when death has surprised no one, but still upsets the natural order, claiming someone before what we consider his "time." Modest grief is the only socially acceptable response when the death is expected, is fully part of the natural order of things, and completes the circle of a long and full life.
I always considered the word "heartbreak" a maudlin bit of hyperbole, until the evening the funeral people came to take away my mother's body. My sister and I held on to each other, sobbing as they carried her out of the door, and we kept repeating, "Remember, that's not really her." But it didn't help a great deal. We understood , finally, how you could still live and breathe when a hole had been blown through the centre of your being.
And so I miss her profoundly, which I suppose is what you call grief. I know that I am also grieving for myself, in a way, I'm grieving for my sadness. I'm grieving for the fact that I will really die, too, a dawning knowledge I don't think I had ever understood outside my rational self.
Does grief make you irrational? I am still assailed daily by a sense of disbelief, and my instincts still turn toward a lifetime's worth of old habits.
They say it takes a year. They say you have to go through a full cycle of all the gathering touchstones of family life-birthdays, Christmas- before you emotionally accept the absence of your loved one. I have my doubts. I can't imagine life ever feeling normal again when that warm presence is forever missing.
My mother had a good death. I believe that. She went the way we would all choose, assuming death is a willed choice. The pain lies in the finality of the farewell. All the good things about my mother's death don't change the searing reality of her absence, she who was always such a sure and loving presence in our lives.
For some time after my mother died, I felt completely at odds with life around me- quiet, filled with soft thoughts, vulnerable in a world that seemed hard-edged, jangly, occasionally toxic. For an uncomfortably long time, I was mentally sluggish, trying to get myself in gear while the engine kept stalling. I felt as if I were swimming in molasses. The disconnect no longer feels quite so profound, but it hasn't disappeared either.
At times I feel as if I'm wrapped in a pall of sadness, and I feel twinges of guilt if I catch myself laughing or thinking about lively, or even ordinary, things. A mood has taken me over, a mood at odds with the world I live in, and it is unsettling.
I can only imagine that these things are universal, that some psychologist or grief therapist could catalogue every thought and emotion, predicting when I'm going to move on to the next stage. But it all feels fresh and original to me. And raw. There may be a template for my emotional journey, but it doesn't relieve what I feel.
Anyway, I'm not even sure I want it relieved. This is between me and my mother. Painful as it is, grief is a link."
The essay ends with Janice standing by the lake with Molly her yellow Lab, watching the mist dissipate and two loons gliding, forming perfect vees.
" By my side, Molly assumes a position of uncharacteristic calm. We stand there, the two of us, perfectly still. For as long as we allow the moment to last, we are briefly and quietly at peace."
I wish all of you peace, as brief as it can be. Nicole