Why good grief?

Grief makes us uncomfortable; it's a process of healing through time. Many of us, at least somewhat, are prepared for the grief roller coaster that, in the U.S., seems to be defined by the first year after the loss of a loved one. Roller coaster... hmm... maybe not. More like a consistent battering of waves along a shoreline. One moment the water seems calm. The next, you're tumbling over and over, trying to get your bearings as you wait for the next wave of grief to hit. It doesn’t erase, but it transforms.

We don’t spend nearly enough time in this country talking about grief. We avoid it, even when it involves people we know and love. It makes us uncomfortable. We don’t know what to say and worry if we do say something that it’ll be wrong or inappropriate. So, we tend to say very little.

Many have written or spoken about how to handle their grief. They go out, try to meet with friends, go to the grocery store, then get the car serviced, feeling as if they are wearing a sign on their back that no one can see. The sign reads, “I’m still grieving. Can’t you see?” Grief is kind of like that. You feel beaten up on the inside, but on the outside, there’s a veneer. A smile. A nod. A, “Hey, I’m doing OK” kind of look. It all feels very isolating. I wish I had that sign sometimes. On the bad days, in particular.

I still miss my mom. I still want to call her when I get in my car and am out driving on the Post Road or walking the dog around St. Mary’s by the Sea. I still want to tell her when something good, bad, or awful happens in my life. I still wish I had told her more about how much I admired her before she died and that I had been a better daughter and insisted on flying out to California to be with her and my dad more before she died. But she always said, “No, you don’t need to come out here. You have your life in Connecticut and a family to take care of.” What she was really saying was, “I am so sick and declining now I don’t want you to see me.”

So, I didn’t go out to California until the day my brother called and told me, “You’d better get here if you want to see Mom. She’s going fast.” I almost didn’t make it before she died in my arms in the hospital in Laguna Beach less than 20 minutes after I arrived.

The grief I feel now feels different than it did the day she died, yes, but it still stings. I wasn’t there. What I took away from how Mom died is that I don’t want my transition to be like that for my family. I want them with me, to see me as I welcome a release from this body that has been trying its best to kill me for the past five years. I think of dying as taking off a pair of too-tight shoes.

– Lynda Shannon Bluestein