I’ve been to a couple of Compassionate Friends meetings recently (a support group for parents who have children who have died) and listened to speakers who specialize in grief and loss. Both stated at the beginning that neither had personally experienced their child dying, and I appreciated their honesty and acceptance that though they have lost other important people in their lives, they can’t begin to know what parents go through.

I don’t tend to get a lot out of listening to speakers since they tend to say things that I already have thought through or dealt with. What they can’t do is provide a remedy for the agonizing pain that still frequently strikes and breaks my wounded heart anew. However, by listening to others who are grieving, I have learned that I’m fortunate compared to so many others I’ve met (it’s hard to think of myself as fortunate now that my daughter died, but there you have it). Before Jess died, I’d already been deeply involved and spent most of my life doing what I call “my homework,” the deep internal work of questioning and challenging my beliefs and behaviors that brings about healing, strength, and clarity. Sometimes with a counselor, sometimes through religion or spirituality, but mostly on my own just constantly thinking, thinking, thinking, I’ve healed the old wounds and worked through so many of the life’s puzzles.

I’ve always been a thinker; in fact, I’ve often been accused of thinking too much. But that’s ok because all of the thinking I’ve done throughout my life has taught me to see the world differently, to catch the nuances that so significantly impact meaning and outcomes, to pick up on things that most people are absolutely unaware of. That’s what I believe clairvoyancy is all about (although there is a spiritual dimension as well). The world around us and within us is constantly sending us clues, but if we aren’t attune, we miss the messages that profoundly determine outcomes.

The other result of my homework is that I would consider myself a very authentic person by nature. I simply cannot pretend to be what I’m not. Perhaps I am just genetically predisposed to openness. As I’ve always said, “What you see is what you get.” You can take me or leave me, but my integrity won’t allow me to behave counter to who I genuinely am.

I’m not meaning to toot my own horn here. My point is I figured out on my own that I’ve been furious over my daughter’s death–at the world that appears so trivial now, at the old “god” I worshipped when I was younger, at my daughter for her part in her death, at the universe for not keeping whatever bargains I thought I had made to keep my children safe. And I figured out early on that probably 80 percent of my mourning is for my own lost life and identity rather than for what Jess won’t have the chance to experience (sounds selfish, but I think she’s fine wherever she is–or isn’t…I, on the other hand, will never be the same). I figured out immediately that I wasn’t going to pretend for anyone that my grieving is done or that I’m better than I am. I will withdraw from people, situations, and conversations, but I won’t pretend that I’m all hunky dory in my life now. I realized quickly that I couldn’t control my grief, shut down the pain, lock my feelings in a closet for more than a short time and then only when absolutely needing a mental break from the constant questioning and pain. I have to live my life authentically, and right now this means answering the constant, “How are you’s?” with “As good as I can be,” “Not great,” or “I’m ok right now.”
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What I’ve seen and heard from many others is that they cannot authentically grieve and be with their true feelings (especially the anger and pain) because all their lives they’ve been trained to behave well in public, to please everyone else, to not make waves or cause displeasure. And most people aren’t comfortable with this sort of grief. They want us to get better, or they want to be able to fix us. They can’t just stand by and listen without saying silly things like, “God wouldn’t have let this happen if He didn’t know you could handle it;” “Your daughter wouldn’t want you to be sad! You need to be happy for her since she’s in a better place;” “You’ve just got to realize that so many people love and need you.” Sound familiar? Have you ever said these things to people facing great sadness in their lives? We probably all have said something trite at one point or another.

And so now, when these desperately grieving parents have to face the greatest challenge and loss of their lives, they’re having to be false, to paint on fake smiles, or agree with some stupid comment made out of ignorance. They have to swallow the suggestion dished out to them by well-meaning family, friends, coworkers, and church members that their time of grieving has expired, and now they need to “move on with their lives.” Like that’s ever going to happen or even a possibility!

Fortunately for me, I have the inner strength and belief in myself to say “No!” to anyone trying to force a cure on me. And I have no problem, if pushed, saying a few other choice things. Mainly, I just walk away. The truth is that for each of us, we’re on a journey, a solo one. Even our spouses, if we have them, aren’t with us because in our hearts, we’re alone with our pain, our brokenness, our questions, our grief. It’s just me and the voice in my head. I’ve got to live with this heartache, and I’ve got to continue the journey on my own. I don’t know what will happen, or who I will become, if I have a rich future ahead of me, or if I will live a dimished life because of Jessie dying. The deck hasn’t been fully dealt. All I can do is be true to who I am right NOW and be open to what I may become in the future.

In the meantime, I tend to be the dissenting voice in the meetings, the one saying, “You bet I’m angry!” when others have declared that they’re becoming kinder, gentler, more accepting people. While that could be true for them, I know there are plenty others there who are struggling and who simply don’t have the strength or permission to speak up for themselves. I want to encourage everyone to be authentic, to allow themselves to be real with their grief, and to tell others the way to the exit if they can’t accept this. If we are to survive this journey–and perhaps even grow through the pain–we have to be real, we have to continue to do the homework, painful and lonely though it may be. There is no easy way through this nightmare of loss.