I find people fascinating. The way we respond to life's ups and downs, joys and sorrows is a fascinating study in human emotion. Our joys are often transparent; it is our sorrows and our ability to grieve that I find interesting.
My grandmother died seven years ago. At the time, I felt like my childhood was over. Nana was gone. No more would I be able to visit her, have her pull open her refrigerator, offering me anything and everything that it contained. No more would I be able to hear her stories, or be in her physical presence. I cried with wild abandon; I cried as an adult forced to let go of childhood. Within a few days, I felt better. I was grateful for the times we'd had, the fact that, for a moment, she was able to know my baby, her third great grandchild. I was glad she no longer suffered from dementia, 'arthuristus,' and painful feet from too many years of wearing bad shoes while standing all day. I missed her, but I moved forward. I had a family to care for, work to do, school to finish. I knew she would understand.
Because she died at the beginning of the school year, my students knew of her death and my ensuing absences. And because they are young, they assumed I would come to school and act sad. Instead, I compartmentalized my grief and moved forward with each school day. Finally, a student, angered by my attitude, accused me of not caring that my grandmother had died. I was stunned. On occasion and in private, I still cried. I prayed for my Nana. I visited her grave. But my students could only judge based on outward appearances, and they didn't like what they saw. I learned that there is an expectation in our culture as to what is 'correct' grieving. Tears, wearing black, and being sad all the time are often considered 'correct.' Smiling, laughing, and moving on with life are not necessarily considered 'correct' grieving and people are often harshly judged if they recognize the fact that they are still alive.
When my mother died suddenly and unexpectedly, I became stoic in public. I put on my brave face and assured people I was okay. I did what I was expected to do, and I answered questions the way I was expected to answer. I smiled, I laughed, I tried to not show my grief because I figured that was best for me and those around me. My breaking point came almost a month after her death when I cried during a movie. Granted, the movie was sad, but my grief left me with wracking sobs and swollen eyes. As someone told me, your mother is your core. Who else cares about the minutiae of your day but your mom? My core was gone. My grief became my private shame. I would cry on the way to pick up my son but be finished before his school bell rang. I would furtively write in my journal, but close it up before my husband saw what I was writing. It seemed as though people avoided me at work, my grief was too palpable, to raw and I made them uncomfortable. No one likes confrontation with mortality. Now I grieve privately. I have my small rituals around my grieving, such as going to the cemetary with flowers once a month or saying a rosary for my mom once a week.
But watching others grieve is a hard process for me. Ironically, after my mother's death in January, several more staff members lost their mothers or fathers, a friend just lost her father, an old friend's father just died, and it seems as though my husband's grandmothers are both close to death. Death is busy on the periphery of my life. Watching people I know go through similar experiences has been fascinating. Some prefer to be stoic. Others are cynical and sarcastic. And some shed a great number of tears regularly. Observing the reactions of others leaves me angry and unsympathetic. The logical and rational side of me knows people have to grieve in their own ways, and there is no right or wrong way to grieve. Grieving is individual. But as I battle the anger stage of the grieving process, the irrational side of me responds quickly and harshly to others' reactions toward death. I find that even this is a process...working through my reactions until I can empathize and sympathize with others' loss.
Grief gives us new life perspectives. It's up to us to choose how we handle ourselves, our reactions, and our perceptions. Although I'd rather have my mother here, I've learned more about myself and how I react to death as well as life. I've learned that my life could quickly and unexpectedly be over, or I could live until I lose my memory and control over my bowels. Pable Neruda, in one of my favorite poems, once said, "The only thing you remember is your life."
Those words have put my life, my joys, and my sorrows into perspective.
