Grief is like a hole from which there is no escape.
With each loss, the hole deepens
And it becomes harder to claw one’s way back into the light.
Grief isolates the sufferer from loved ones,
As everyone must find their own way through the gloom
Back to acceptance and peace.
Grieving is a part of life as much as is celebrating beautiful moments. I have recently mourned a great deal.
Losing my friend Karen two years ago was a huge loss. I endured that loss with little to no support from family and friends.
When I heard she died, I posted it to Facebook. My post enraged her two sons who wanted to tell their relatives in their own time on their terms. I am not FB friends with any of her family, and my post settings can be read only by my friends, so how could I expect that her family other than her sons would see the post? Her sons struck out at me viciously. I was excluded from attending her memorial service, and they cut me off forever. They have been a part of my life for over thirty years, and all of them lived with me at some point. I loved them. I was always there to do for them and gave them thousands of dollars over the years and even a car. That brought home another form of grief- grieving the loss of the living.
Karen’s death made me come to grips with my mortality. I resigned all my volunteer positions and took a trip to Indiana to reconnect with my own family. My relationships with my sisters in Indiana have always been a struggle. There were so many years when they refused to have anything to do with me- sometimes for decades. One would think that I had done something monstrous and cruel to be cut off like that by my family, but that is not the case. I have always loved them. They won’t tell me why, but in the past, they offered reasons. “I think that I am better than everyone else” because I completed college and went on to graduate school. All of us dropped out of school as teens. I chose to go back and educate myself. They made other decisions. When we were younger, I encouraged them to go back to school too. They resented what they interpreted was me “looking down on them.” No, I just wanted their lives to be easier! But I am off point. This writing is about grief.
In November, my dog died. Truth be told, I put him to sleep. He was sixteen years old, deaf, and almost completely blind. He had become disoriented and suffered from loss of bladder control. I was his only attachment in the dark and empty silence that had become his world. Other than his complete and unconditional love for me, he had no quality of life. I had to let go- for him. I miss him terribly and cry as I write this. I loved him so! Losing Erin was a significant loss. My own life is so much emptier with him gone.
There is no one I touch- no one who touches me. There is no one to hold me or put their arm around me. I go months- years- without significant physical human contact. My only physical contact with others comes two nights a month: when I meet with my Red Hat group or when I attend a flotilla meeting. I feel increasingly cut off from others, isolated and alone. Erin was not human, but we touched every day, and that touch reinforced my humanity, my ability to love and be loved. I am liked by a lot of people such as my fellow Auxiliary members and my Red Hat friends, but that is not the same as being loved by someone. After Karen died and I resigned my offices within the Auxiliary, they did not call to say that they missed me or ask how I was doing. We are associates and not friends.
There is another living person of whom I grieve the loss. A few weeks ago, my foster brother died. He was the same age as me. It stunned me. I had planned to attend his funeral and made airline reservations. I thought I would stay with my son and see my grandsons while I was there. My son declined to let me stay at his house. His wife did not want me there.
I have always had a tenuous relationship with my oldest son. Lies his father told him to which he continues to cling created the first problems. Jealousy of his younger brother made everything worse. He called Tod my “Golden Boy.” Tod was more accessible to love, and Tod loved me back without resentment or reservation. Michael never loved me freely and without reservation. I spent decades walking on eggshells trying to fix what was never whole. Then, in about 2013 in a moment of pain and despair I said something so utterly hurtful to Michael that no matter how often or how sincerely I apologize, he and his wife will not forgive me. I have done everything I know how to repair the rift between my son and me. I must now accept that nothing I do or say ever will. I grieve the loss of the son whom I dearly love.
What is it about me that others in my family find so completely offensive? Tod had his views. He said I intimidated others because I was like “a force of nature.” Tod thought neither he, his brother or my sisters could “measure up to me.” When I am not flailing myself for being a sinner, I dust off his words and cling to them.
No, I am not that big. I’m just that resilient, but even in my ability to pick up and move on, I feel my losses. It gets harder and harder, and I sometimes wonder if I can do it again or wonder why. I feel alone and isolated. If I am not connected to others through love and affection, what is the point? To quote John Donne:
No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were:
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.
dottieriley 