I just want to feel real love
In a life ever after
There’s a hole in my soul
You can see it in my face
It’s a real big place
– Robbie Williams 2002
May 10th, 1997
Even now, I’m still not sure how long is deemed to be a typical period of mourning, or grieving, or at what stage bereaved people are supposed to feel better. It takes a very long time, that much I do know.
The trouble was that none of my colleagues had the faintest idea. It seemed that after a couple of months nobody asked me how I was any more. That was strange, since I felt worse inside than I had done just a few weeks after Jenny’s death.
But as the major logistical problems of childcare and simply getting out each day had been more or less fixed, if not yet permanently solved, then perhaps I did give the appearance of gradually starting to make forward progress.
Short of staging an elaborate cracking-up exercise in front of the management meeting, or running past the coffee machine sobbing loudly, there wasn’t much I could do to make people see that things weren’t going well.
I’m sure that everyone simply wanted me to be recovering, not necessarily believing that I was ‘over it’, but hopeful that I was on an upward curve.
It didn’t feel like it, and often I felt angry that anyone could possibly think life was getting easier. It seemed bloody tough to me.
Self-pity again, but it didn’t seem unreasonable, not then.
At home, there was always so much to do, but little in the way of challenging variation beyond whether or not to press ‘repeat’ on the CD player or to select ‘fast coloureds’ on the washing machine.
At least dyeing all my shirts purple might have drawn some comment.
Maybe even my friends thought that life would be improving by now, and although they were wrong there, I did receive a few invitations around then.
That was a welcome development, since I had hardly left the house during the week — not for months. I had so often felt frustrated and isolated through long evenings at home, with no chance to escape even for a walk.
I was away from the kids at work all day, and I knew I’d feel too guilty to leave them in the evening, just to enjoy myself.
But I did go out, eventually, and so I must have reconciled that somehow.
: : 
: : 
: : 
: : 
: : 
8 responses so far ↓
Split Second Single Father // 18 June, 2009 at 00:03 |
I think this is something we all struggle with. I didn’t want people to ask how I was doing, but at the same time I wanted them to recognize that I was still hurting (and still am to an extent). The people who did ask were ones I was unwilling to let in as I had never shared personal details of my life with them before my wife passed and reasoned that I had no need to do so now. And the people I might have considered telling had, for the most part, stopped asking. It’s a precarious balance, but one that I finally managed to maintain, as you did.
Hope you’re enjoying your visit on this side of the pond.
Roads // 19 June, 2009 at 09:02 |
Many thanks, Split — and I appreciate your perspective exactly.
Handling work is tricky. You need some flexibility and consideration from your colleagues when you have a young family to look after single-handedly and are fighting the emotional exhaustion of grief at the same time. A run-in with fate and death make it hard to concentrate on the relative trivia of the latest crisis in the office with quite the same focus or concern as you might once have done.
And yet, for a host of reasons, including the desperate need to keep working as the sole breadwinner for that young family, you have to keep going and put in a professional performance, within new limits and as best you can.
As you imply, it’s just about impossible to balance all of those priorities at the same time — there’s just not enough of you to go round, and there’s a lot less of you left to give, for a long time.
People in the workplace are generally sympathetic. But frankly they have no idea of the length or difficulty of the grief process. That’s one important piece of education which I am very keen to address.
Thanks for your best wishes, and kind regards from a still-sleeping Houston. It’s going to be another fantastically hot and sunny day.
Seafront // 19 June, 2009 at 13:13 |
Roads wrote…People in the workplace are generally sympathetic. But frankly they have no idea of the length or difficulty of the grief process. That’s one important piece of education which I am very keen to address.
I really must disagree with you here Roads. The grief process is different for everybody isn’t it?
The work environment surely is THE place where those who have lost loved ones have the ability to ease themselves back into some sort of normality.
As an example, I once worked with a guy who lost his wife in a car smash. He was in the same vehicle and walked away without a scratch.
I remember him saying to me that he found it unbearable to be at home, and his wider family and friends were supportive if naive about what he was going through, but work was the only place where he felt kinda normal. I think co-workers owe it to this sort of person to be as normal as possible. The bereaved have everything around them at home to remind them what they have lost, the workplace can be the only place to get away from this.
SP
Lori // 19 June, 2009 at 16:02 |
You are in Houston??? Welcome, to hot, steamy, muggy, buggy, Southeast Texas. I have my feet in the baby pool, my grandchildren were visiting this past week. Have a great trip!
Roads // 19 June, 2009 at 18:23 |
Thanks, Seafront — it’s good to hear another view. You’re right that in some aspects work can provide a sense of stability when all is crumbling.
And it’s contradictory — but the truth is exactly as Split describes it above. You want those around you to carry on normally and with as little fuss as possible, whilst still recognising and acknowledging that you are hurting.
The reality, at least as I discovered it, is that very early on most people simply stopped asking how things were going. Either because they forgot entirely about what had happened, or simply and naively assumed after a couple of months that all was well once more.
I think it’s more than possible not to make a fuss, whilst still showing thoughtful consideration and concern. Knowing you as I do, I’m sure that’s likely to be the approach that you would take — and the fact that you had this conversation with your colleague shows this very clearly.
However, that’s much less common than those who would ignore the situation completely, or pretend it had never happened, simply because it seemed some time ago and anyway far too difficult to discuss. That’s much more commonly how people approach this, inasfar as they have any thought-out approach at all.
Good on you for your concern. I’m sure your colleague was very grateful.
Roads // 19 June, 2009 at 18:28 |
Hi Lori from the TX,
Thanks, and yes — I’m in sunny Houston, but only for a few hours more.
Just a flying visit, and then it’s back across the pond for some cooler weather and a hundred mile cycle this weekend. Having struggled mightily through a run even at dawn today, I just can’t imagine how tough a long ride would be in the summer Texas humidity…
Author // 1 July, 2009 at 07:17 |
Grief is one of the hardest things for other people to understand, As you so rightly say, some folk can’t handle your grief, so they repress it, or avoid the issue, or try to cheer you up and hope you move on. But Grief will move on will grief is ready … and no amount of willing it to, changes that.
Roads // 2 July, 2009 at 12:07 |
Thank you, Jan — and you’re exactly right. One of the reasons that few people understand grief is that it is rarely discussed, because it is uncomfortable for many people to confront the realities of loss. We prefer to skate around difficult subjects, and the problem with this is that it tends to isolate the bereaved.
A more open approach is critical to changing attitudes. This book has important work to do. Many thanks again.