As the first anniversary of my son’s death approaches … on the 2nd of June he will have been gone for one whole year … it becomes increasingly obvious that I’ve not done the greatest job of proper grieving.
Not that there is a wrong way or a right way to mourn; individually and culturally, there are as many ways to deal with death as there are people who die, and that’s about 10,007 humans per minute on this planet, so a lot of variety.
Death rituals can be part of the process when folks are lucky enough to be afforded the luxury of time to conduct them, when death happens by ones and not by thousands and in situations where the rituals themselves don’t deplete resources to the point of costing more lives.
It occurs to me as I write this, that today’s post prompted my first Google search of grief .. an indication of just how not right I’ve been doing this, and in the course of composing a fucking blog post attempt to face my grief, I’m compartmentalizing, as I’ve done from the time I was told my son was dead.
I know why I went to great lengths to encapsulate each wayward bit of grief, then swallow each whole without letting anything touch the sides. There was so much to do … get Sam and Cj sorted out so I could fly to the other side of the planet. That started it. There was no time to fall apart when packing and making sure my kids and my house and my animals would be cared for for the month I would be away, and getting myself from one airport to another had to happen, and being alone meant just that; there would be no one to hold my hand on a 16+ hour flight, and transiting in Dubai could not happen in a puddle.
Once I arrived, there was more to sort out … more than anything I’d ever considered I’d have to consider … the details of death. Jaren’s dad was there, going through this all, too, and my daughter and her family, and much of my family, and friends, all trying to cope with the loss of him.
Again, a reasonably rational mind was required.
I would go through the motions, do what needed to be done. I would meet with Jaren’s dad and stepmom, my daughter and her husband and others as we all tried to understand this sudden tragedy. I went through what was left of Jaren’s apartment, attended memorial services and let others arrange for his body to be transported to the Northern California town where we would have the funeral.
And at the end of each day, I would go to my room, cry and tell myself that if I fell apart, I would not be able to get myself back together.
Once up north, I stayed with my mother, picked out a casket, wrote stuff for the funeral. I hadn’t been in Red Bluff, California in more than twenty years. It was where Jaren was born.
Since Jaren’s dad did not object, it was decided that he would be buried where much of the family has gone, right beside my father in a lovely little cemetery in the foothills. I wandered the grounds for a while, talking to my son and hoping he was happy with the choices made for him.
I spent time with my mother and some dear old friends, and each night I went to my room alone knowing that there was more to do the next day, deciding again the time was not right to slip into grief.
There’s no doubt that I was afraid. Falling apart in an empty room seemed too much like standing on the edge of a dark precipice knowing no one was there to stop a leap, or to catch when I hit bottom.
So, I didn’t. And it got easier. Much easier to keep swallowing the pill instead of chewing the bitterness of it and experiencing all that nastiness.
Now, almost a year has passed and what I find is that through the process of getting good at keeping the pieces of my grief well separated, my whole bloody life is fragmented. I can no longer grasp big pictures, but only shards of here and there. When I find a sliver, I can gaze at it, examine it, ponder it, but I can’t see where it fits.
This doesn’t work so well.
And it seems bottom has hit me whether I jumped or not.
I’ve been told recently that I need to grieve, to move myself higher up my priority list, to start doing things that make me happy again. Okay. But how do I do that? (Writing has been suggested, and I’m feeling shitty enough to go with that thought, hence this post.)
It seems to take far too much energy to talk to people, to explain, so I shut down and stay home. If I lived somewhere else, I could join a support group or go into therapy, but those aren’t options here.
It’s so frustrating being this sad and not knowing how to grieve.
Some random thoughts …
On my facebook page this morning, a photo of Jaren posted by his friend Francisco under the heading: He’s still here. In the photo, he’s playing the guitar that now sits downstairs in my office hopefully protected from this climate by the case on which he had written in duct tape, “No talent”.
I started crying one day, and Cj said to me: “Mommy, you’re sad. Did Jaren die again?”
When Ernesto is here I feel better … or maybe I’m just diverted … but he’s not now, and it’s worrying that I’m so crap at being alone.
A collection of my short stories:
I'm in this one, too ...
And I'm in here, as well ...
Paradise Preoccupied 
I know what you mean about people grieving differently with 5 siblings and my Dad all dealing with the loss of my mom in such different ways. I hope you find something that will help you through this. Maybe an online support group. My Aunt lost her son years ago and she found a support group at her church and met new friends there, that has helped her a lot. People that have gone through similar are good to talk to. Hugs
Support groups on this island don’t really exist. People just get on with it, apparently …
there really aren’t words to cover this topic Sandra. but do know that you are most definitely not alone. feelings are tricky, frequently inaccurate. they fade in and out. the wave analogy is the closest. realize that grieving is a life long process, so give yourself permission to just let it come and go as it does. reach out to others when it is unbearable. another thing that helps is: ignore the temptation to run from your worst feelings. step toward them, grab them and wrestle them to the ground! fight! don’t let the bad stuff scare you, kick it’s butt!
Sandy, it was great chatting today. For being soooo many miles away you are still on top of all the haps here on the mainland. It seems that no matter how people deal with grief it is such a personal thing . . . you know in a room full of people but still all alone. I always think about and talk to my Dad as if he is still here and ask for advice on different situations. Just knowing him and how he thought gives me a reasonable answer to the question. I truly hope that time helps heal the wounds from your loss. Just remember the things about Jaren that you love and remember him that way! . . . .I don’t have to ask what happened it’s in your words!!!
People we love, people we lose,
Never replaced, never lost.
People we love, we still love after they’re lost
Be strong and be thankful
Be glad for the time spent together
People we love we never lose!! AJD
What what what? I’ve only read one post and you may be being funny but… do you seriously think you’re not grieving right? Do you really think there is some other way to do it?
Perhaps you are a very powerful person, a god even, but I know of no mortals for whom this is true, that there is a system, or a quota, or any way to control or compartmentalize what is an organic, natural, and physical process that overwhelms us and usually breaks us a bit.
Please tell me you are kidding.
Also, if there IS one right way, that way is through others who have been there. Do you know, for example, GlowInTheWoods.com? That’s just the tip of the peer iceberg… LMK if you need navigation help.
hugs to you —
Supa
Grief is personal and how you grieve is how you live. Sometimes it seems you’ll never get it out and other times you’ll never keep it in. Maybe you can do something just for yourself at a special place you have. Maybe write a letter to Jaren and then burn it with incense letting the ashes fly away with your grief. You’ll always grieve and that’s OK.
Sandra, don’t beat youself up about how you’ve grieved…it is a personal experience, and is as individual and unique as the son you mourn. It sounds as though compartmentalizing was the only way you could deal the devastation you suffered. You dealt with the agony of losing Jaren better than most people could have. The fact that you were on auto-pilot a lot of the time when you were taking care of the heartbreaking details of Jaren’s final resting place, was the only way that you could function. You somehow managed to survive by the super-human effort it took for you to get through that awful time. And I for one, having witnessed it, admire and respect and love you all the more because of the amazing way you handled it. You’ve survived this last year by doing what you had to do in order to live through each day. You’ve managed to go on even during the times you thought you couldn’t. I think you are a living miracle, someone I look up to, and if I could be half as brave as you are, I would be a much better person for it. xoxo
V, you were a great help to me at that time, and continue to be, and I am so grateful for your love and this friendship that has gone on for close to 40 years.
I’m not beating myself up here, but trying to put the pieces back together again.
Sandra, I live in Red Bluff and found your blog awhile back. Among blogs I read regularly is this one: http://ropeburns.wordpress.com/
It is all grief-related, the journal of a woman who has lost her beloved spouse. I found her through this one: http://gettingpastyourpast.wordpress.com/, her primary blog, and one I’ve found helpful.
Perhaps you’ll find something in one of those that will help you as you walk this anguished path. Others can only walk beside you to catch you and hold you as you cry: only you can figure out where it goes.
Blessings.
Thank you, Beth. I will certainly read …
Each person has their own way of grieving—I’ve been through the hellish process so many times since 2006 I sometimes wonder if it will ever stop! April 2006 hubby died(superbug)August 2006,sister,brother-in-law and nephew die in car crash, September 2008 daughter dies.and early this year a very dear friend who helped me pick up some the pieces and kic start life into me,passed away.I think the only thing to do is to take each day as it comes and try to make the best of it.–and have a good cry now and again—once I learnt to cry, things got a bit easier. Courage