To my friends & family,
To my friends, family & community,
I have been considering how I might wish to connect with you and what would make even the thought of being on a zoom/phone call manageable. I understand why people who are grieving isolate themselves-- it is a form of self-protection. There are many ways that loving attempts to support a grieving person simply make a person feel either invisible or angry or burdened. What's missing in our culture is language, tradition, and ritual on how to be with grief. I was on a zoom call a month ago and after twenty minutes, I just lost it (meaning I left the gathering and cried for half an hour). No one reached out when we didn't show up on time (holding details is difficult right now), no acknowledgment was made of Hunter's absence, and when I left no one asked what happened or how I was doing. My inclination is to avoid such a painful experience going forward, but that perpetuates isolation and the feeling that something is wrong with me because I'm mourning the loss of my only child.
Nothing is wrong with me.
Without grieving, I will never be whole again. And unless I'm willing to have this conversation, I am not leading us to a new way of companioning those who have lost a loved one (or a job or home or marriage).
What goes through my head is 'just bow out, you don't want to bring people down or make them uncomfortable, they'll have a better conversation without you..." But this implies that my presence in the circle is irrelevant, which I actually don't believe (ok, sometimes I believe this, but I also know better). If I assume my contribution to the circle and to this world is unique and valuable, then I get to choose-- Do I have the courage to stand in my truth? Am I willing to tell you what I need to feel safe in this raw place? Will I shrink back and hide my wounds from the people I love, or will I allow you in and decide to trust you?
Losing Hunter is the hardest thing I've ever traversed; dealing with grief in a world that doesn't know how to honor and make space for it adds to the challenges. I have an amazing community-- friends that have brought food, helped us finish the remodel we were in the midst of when Hunter died, cleaned, sent cards and gifts and encouraging, meaningful words-- and I think only two people in four months have asked me to tell them about Hunter. And no one has asked what happened on the day he died. No one. Not even my therapist. Yet, it is well documented that the way through grief is to be heard as you tell the story of what happened over and over until it loses its grip on you. I need to talk about my loved ones that died. All of you can talk about your children, their lives are ongoing. I am now developing a different relationship with Hunter-- which is also valid and important and quite interesting, actually.
I feel so tender in writing this. I don't want to take the easy path of isolating myself until I have reached a point of not caring if you or anyone in my life asks about my grief, about my life without Hunter, or about who my son was and is to me. I hope I never reach that point. What's true for me is that acknowledgment of my loss goes a long way. Understand that it is difficult to share without an invitation, without a sense of being welcomed with whatever I may be feeling or need to say.
Here's what would help me want to participate in a conversation (zoom, text, email, in-person):
1) Someone offers to be my point person-- you check in with me before a meeting or gathering, see how I'm doing, ask what I need (as it has likely changed). It's easier to think of communicating with one person rather than many when I am this raw.
2) Make intentional space during a call or gathering to honor Hunter. This can be as simple as lighting a candle (I can do this or one of you can or all of us can) or saying his name.
3) Invite me to talk about my grief, about Hunter, about how my life has changed.
4) Don't avoid or feel bad about talking about your own children-- I can handle it as long as my own child is also acknowledged.
5) Understand that this need to honor and talk about Hunter will not magically end someday. Every mother I've spoken to who has lost a child has told me this is one of the hardest things for them-- Other people in their lives stop asking or talking about their children. They are afraid (I believe) that asking will make it harder, but it's quite the opposite. Feeling my loss is invisible is what makes it excruciating to interact with friends, family and community.
As I write this, I am afraid that I'm asking for too much. I've often felt like an outsider-- unable to tell funny stories and banter when I am feeling so deeply (like when I was going through my first divorce or my mother was dying or I was trying to get pregnant or was dealing with the extraordinary stress of owning a flailing business while trying to be a steady anchor for my anxious teenager). I haven't always been brave enough to say what I'm feeling. Yet here I am, in my 60's—my parents and child and some friends are gone. There will be more loss. I want to be honest. I want to belong. The only way I know how to do that is to open the conversation, to stand in what I know is true, and to pray you will understand.
