Grief

How long does grief take?

As a therapist, I have been asked that many times by numerous people. The answer is that the time required is different for every person who must experience it. And we all respond to losses in different ways. But how long will it take for me? I can't help but wonder as I observe myself, immersed in grief, yet with a lighthearted relief that I have survived a very painful experience. It seems to me that there are worse things than a death. Death is a clean-cut finish and it can be grieved because it will not change. It is final. Resolution and closure are appropriate goals.

I heard some stories yesterday in which grief has gone on and on. People were in a sort of emotional limbo, trying to figure out how to proceed. Yet they were fearful that if they pushed forward, they would lose opportunities or hope that there would be any change whatever.

There are things worse than death.

One man asked to speak with me after the seminar. Stepping into a darkened hallway, he sobbed out, "My wife died three months ago. I had to watch her suffer for years. It was so awful. ...I'm so raw and it's so painful!" I knew that wasn't why he wanted to talk with me, but he couldn't hold back this crucial information. When he saw that it was fine for him to express himself, he cried and sobbed as he explained what had happened. He had been overwhelmed trying to take care of patients whose lives were in shambles, and who could not or would not respond to his attempts to help them. He was clearly so wounded himself that he could not cope with the pain of his patients. He wept for several minutes and we stepped further into the shadows to give him privacy. I was so touched by his sorrow. It would have been second nature to gather him into my arms and hold him. But I just held his hand, listened, stayed with him, and shared his desperation.

Later, as I was getting ready to leave, a woman approached me. "I'm going to start crying and I don't want to, but here goes..." And she burst into tears. We moved into a darkened area and sat down on a bench in the church reception area. Her marriage was in trouble. She didn't know what to do. It was surrounding an issue that she could speak of to no one except her counselor. She could not hold back, and she gasped and sobbed for several minutes as we spoke together. When she finally stopped and regained her composure, she thanked me over and over for listening. Her self-imposed isolation had been broken, and the buildup of her pain had been relieved somehow just giving words to her experience. I prayed for her and she went home.

As both of these people left the building, they turned and looked back at me. The man smiled warmly and gratefully. He looked lighter. The woman was embarassed about her red eyes and only nodded as she left. It is an intimate gesture to share such deep grief with another person. I had been honored to be invited into their experiences and glad I could help relieve some of their pain.

This morning when I woke up I couldn't get out of bed. My body is telling me what my mind doesn't have awareness of: that I am grieving myself. How long does grief go on? Why is it that there is no easy way around it? When I had major surgery, I cooked a meal the day I got home. I was driving the car in a couple days (against medical advice). It was easy to bounce back. But this insidious thing holds on and shows itself in unexpected ways at unexpected times. It's pervasive enough that it has made me reevaluate every relationship that I have and every life goal and value that I possess. It's something that makes a person want to run away, to do rash things, to throw off everything that doesn't contribute to happiness or life in significant ways, to start over in some major way, to burn bridges.

In my mind's eye I see the eyes of these weeping souls of yesterday. I know that they went home afterward to put one foot in front of the other: babysteps toward the light. Their tears have warmed and instructed me. Their tears were not in vain. I can do the same.