I did not think that grief was a thing that could be actively "managed." Yet it can be repressed, acknowledged, accepted, embraced, or encouraged and when you combine those grief experiences flowing in and out on a daily or weekly timeline it becomes a management challenge. Learning to "live with it," recognizing the "new normal," are ways of describing grief management that all become annoying. (Currently I'm annoyed with the word "grief," yet I haven't found a better word that describes sadness, anxiety, and emptiness following an intense "loss.")The management process is constantly running in the background, and may be the reason that grieving parents feel that they aren't fully "there," and they cannot think as clearly or suffer some memory loss.
When I feel like I am managing the sadness and loss, I feel like I am "okay." I may go up and down, but I know how to stop from going too deep. I know when to pull up the reigns and do something different to escape from the abyss. I remember someone in grief group sharing that she felt that she was usually okay, and she knew that there was this place in her gut that if she went there she wouldn't make it back, so she just stopped before getting there. She just didn't let herself enter. At the time, along with most people's grief reflections, it didn't make much sense to me. But, now I understand. Grieving parents try to learn their limits, and to manage triggers and activities. This same parent fell into a difficult spot that lasted several months after attending the wedding of her son's fiancee. It had been almost five years since his accident, and she was thankful to be remembered, to continue to be a part of the life of someone who also loved her son deeply. She thought she could handle it; but she was wrong. She had to leave and suffered for months following the event. There are times when we need to be able to say, "No, I'm not up to doing that right now."
I knew, for instance, that going to Lev's high school graduation would be a bad idea. It was nice that they recognized him and wore buttons with his picture, but I no more wanted to attend it than I wanted to shove needles in my eyes, perhaps less so. Usually, I have some limits, established either by Liana waking up, or by my just being aware that I can't let myself go there. Recently, when cutting sugar and starch from my diet (for no particular reason) I realized I sometimes used sugar/sweets to pull myself out of the "grief pit." Instead of trying to find other strategies, I decided I already had a good strategy. As long as I'm not excessive, a little caffeine or sugar or baking to regulate my emotions is probably better than trying percoset. I have read that some people try to envision god throwing down a rope and pulling them out of the pit. I favor ice cream.
But, this year, sometime after New Year's I felt barely able to manage the grief. I didn't really notice it for a while, just slowly slipping for a month or so until the range of emotion that I could feel is more limited and on the lower spectrum. I didn't feel that I could control it and I felt still "okay." It all depends on the definition of "okay." Okay means I can be with Liana and be "okay" and still have the heaviness of the loss on my shoulders. It's like living in my own private fog, and sometimes it is comforting because I feel closer to Lev in the fog. I considered writing about it, but was too busy trying to hold it together, and writing seemed like it might just make it worse and worry anyone who might read it.
So, how did I fail in grief management? I think after three and a half years, perhaps I thought I wasn't as fragile as I am. I'm pretty good at looking like I'm doing fine. I even feel fine a lot of the time. But, returning from vacations is always hard. Coming home and not having Lev here is devastating. I always expect him to somehow find his way home as well. He hasn't yet, and as the months pass it has been longer since I've seen him, so it doesn't get easier with time.
Getting back to my poor skills at grief management, I began working on the winter newsletter for our Compassionate Friends group, which I always find difficult. Reading other people's stories or poems about grief I find just adds to my loss. I am perhaps too empathetic. Then, I started reading the news, which I usually avoid. I am drawn to stories of death and loss, especially of children. Again, excess of empathy. I felt the urge to read a grief book, as sometimes there is comfort in sharing the loss, in knowing that others moved, "Beyond Tears." Again, a mistake. In this particular book, each chapter started with another story of loss, and I grieved for each of those parents, yet I couldn't stop reading the book. It was a compulsion, and perhaps unhealthy. I also volunteered to do a little photo project for our baby pre-school class. Due to the advances of technology, whenever I get onto my computer to go through photos I inevitably look through photos of Lev. Some of them are incorrectly dated, so they show up in more recent years, and sometimes I just somehow click on something and go back to old photos. For some reason, in January, my computer opened up to actual photos of Lev dead. The part of me that lives in denial definitely does not like seeing those photos. There are times when I may want to embrace the grief and look at them, but this would not be one of those times.
Knowing when to embrace or repress the grief is an important part of managing the grief. Sometimes the sadness and loss is expressed as anxiety, and then it can actually be relieved by looking and photos and crying. I believe the anxiety is caused by a disconnect of our daily lives and our whole lives. It can be easy to go along, choosing a shampoo, washing dishes, reading Brown Bear Brown Bear as if the worst thing imaginable hasn't happened. But, actually it did. The gap between completing mundane life tasks and recognizing that your child is gone forever and you cannot fix it can cause a disconnect which creates misplaced anxiety.
The other thing I did was, in an effort to move on from reading the grief book, I decided to write about Lev and his death in a similar style as in the book I was reading. I thought if I completed that task then maybe I could continue writing about having a baby after the loss and that it might be good for me. So, I did it, but it was rough emotionally, and it's not ready to be shared. It was probably not a wise choice to do at that time. In the middle of my depression I also helped a friend by attending a memorial/recognition of the twenty years passing since her teenage son's death. Of course, I'm glad I went, it was sweet and insightful and devastating. This is my life, and it is hard.
So, after poorly managing grief by reading about grief, writing about grief, looking at photos, and dieting I realized that I needed to pace myself and just watch some stupid television shows or bake a cake if I feel like it. I need to give myself permission to say "No" when I don't feel up to doing something, or when I think it won't be good for me. I need to recognize the grief and let it flow through, and know when I need to just watch a movie, read an engrossing novel, or go rub Liana's head.
In writing this I feel the need to add, that Yes, I know I am lucky we have Liana and Jaal. I know parents that have lost their only children (childless children) and are now no longer parents and will never be grandparents. Yes, that is more difficult. Having other children helps to manage grief since they bring joy and purpose. A belief in God and an afterlife or reincarnation would help to manage grief yet I haven't been able to get there yet. One thing I have learned in attending grief groups is that grieving parents have more in common than they have differences.
This is too long of a reflection, and I hate to edit writing about missing Lev because it is painful and seems trite to edit it, so I'm going to send it as is.
Some day I'll finish and send my other writing, but that day is not today. I will give myself permission to never finish it if I so wish. For now, maybe I'll go bake a cake while the baby naps.
