Six months ago my family lost the most amazing of men — my grandfather. We didn’t lose him at a concert, or in a crowd. We lost him in a way that meant he was never coming home.
We lost him in the most permanent, indefinite and sudden of ways.
A simple trip to the supermarket literally changed our lives forever. Balancing in a gray space between life and death for two weeks, my family was left in shattered pieces as we waited for any sign of progress.
How do you mourn a man who is absent but still breathing?
I was there when the surgeon told us the chances of recovery were minimal. I was physically there when he told us that we needed to seriously think about the future of our family. So, then, why did I feel like I’d been hit in the chest when my sister told me of his passing?
Nowadays, there are books, articles and guides on how to lose weight, how to love, how to raise a child — so why does the one thing we all experience, loss, have absolutely no template to follow?
In grief there are no ‘musts’ or ‘shoulds’. Death may be normal and grief may be normal, but when confronted with it, it feels alien.
Shelves are stocked with anti-aging products, hair dyes, gizmos and gadgets and we panic at any sign of unwanted change. The inevitabilities of life have become so fear-rearing that when we do have to face them, we barely know where to start.
How ironic that we reject the only concrete, definite aspect of our lives — death. It’s hard to grasp how final death is, to the point where we’re undeniably shocked each and every time someone is taken from us; as if we had no clue that such a thing could happen.
The night after my poppy passed, a huge thunder storm rolled in as quickly and quietly as he had been taken away. I laid in bed half wondering if the thunder wasn’t his spirit shaking the ground in anger as he watched us mourn, in anger from being taken away from us.
I guess that’s why people need faith so much, so they can take comfort in the thought of their loved ones never really leaving them. For many, faith provides a unique sense of security by reinforcing that those who are taken away no longer have to suffer the mundanity of the world around us. I personally don’t think I need that sort of faith. Poppy’s presence is all around me. He is gone, but he remains everywhere. He remains within me, and within everything that he held dear.
How exactly do we recover from such losses, though?
They say that time heals all but what exactly are we supposed to do when the hands on the clock have arthritis?
Time doesn’t heal all wounds, it masks them. Grief carves you, molds you into who you are. It reshapes you, often in two different ways. It can turn you bitter, and force you to let your losses overpower you or it can shape you into a gentler, often kinder version of yourself.
Grief sometimes makes it easier to see that we are all in unity as we all must experience such hardships.
We cannot reverse the clock, nor can we stop it from moving forward. Instead, we must learn to love, learn to forgive and we must speak with kindness. We need to realize that although grieving itself is a personal experience, that we will all, at some point, have to face the horrible consequences of loss and death.
It doesn’t matter how short or long of a time you spent with the one you love and lost; no cutoff word count will make the loss any easier. The pain and emptiness will still be there.
Never forget that you are allowed to grieve in any way you feel necessary. Make as much of an effort as you can to not reject the people who care for you through that process.
At the end of the day, I have no real answers — but I do know that all the questions, all the ‘what ifs‘ and ‘maybes‘ need to be removed from our minds. Life is unpredictable, unfair and at times extremely unforgiving, but it is still life. All we can do is try to understand that loss is the price of love, and if it is anything like the love I’ve experienced then it is a decent enough price to pay to have had such special moments together.
Just so very very true. Well written xx