And I do mean just a few; bear with me
Grief. Anderson Cooper has been talking about it for well over a year, and now says that he realized he hasn’t grieved yet. Stephen Colbert has talked about it for years, and continues to talk about it (sometimes with Anderson Cooper). President Joe Biden talked about it with Anderson Cooper this past week. The war in Gaza, the attack on Israel, the latest mass shooting, the lingering effects of the pandemic–more talk of grief. And this year more than I’ve ever noticed in my own lifetime, the holidays feel like everyone is noting that somewhere, someone, is grieving. Grief, especially traumatic grief (is there any other? I’m not sure) is news.
In one way or another, for the last four-plus years, I’ve been talking about grief. And just when I could talk about my parents without (explicitly or implicitly) talking about grief–more grief.
In my mind, for the past month, I’ve been writing about grief. Unwritten or sometimes scribbled notes, thoughts, phrases, rhymes. But nothing on a page, in a sentence. I’ve been similarly stuck with any other writing–it’s all been scribbled and lost, or remained in my head to rattle around. That is, until finally I had to address my Kind Over Matter post deadline (skipped, then much extended, and even then, late).
I did not want to write about grief. I actually wanted to write about Christmas. I’ve been trying to be—if not excited—at least in a pleasantly anticipatory mood. I purchased a few thoughtful presents. I put up some Christmas lights. I decorated a live floral arrangement from the Memorial with sparkly red Christmas bows (B, my cat, approves—picking off one each day, like an Advent calendar, and batting it maniacally across the floor while Cooper cowers on the bed). I even planned a day trip to a Hill Country town that “does” Christmas, and I looked forward to writing about it. And when that day came, I just couldn’t. I slept, and I needed it. And so my much-delayed blog post was not about Christmas. I tried not to write about grief. But it was all, each word, about grief.
Before writing anything new, I think I need to get just a few ruminations on grief into print. I hope they will become less intrusive this way. They are not complete thoughts—and they are not even terribly thoughtful, I’m afraid. But while everybody’s talking about grief, I might as well, too.
Grief makes one vulnerable
I mean, literally vulnerable. It puts a person closer to danger.
I don’t just feel vulnerable–I’m at more risk right now. I don’t pay attention to things–like that the porch is wet, and therefore slippery (I fell, but luckily I had a good tuck and roll). I left my purse in the restroom of Kohl’s on “black Friday” (I was shopping for something to wear to Dutch’s Memorial service, and so I was distracted, but thankfully I remembered before anyone found it).
Driving helps me, for some reason–it’s soothing, it gets me out of the tiny house–but any time a person spends time on the road they are in danger. Especially if they are still learning the unwritten rules of the road in a place, or if they are upset.
My blood pressure is high, I’m assuming from stress; my blood sugar is doing crazy things, because I’m eating or not eating at crazy times. (Yes, I’ve been to the doctor, a plan has been implemented.)
I’m convinced grief can kill, at least indirectly. I’m being very careful with myself.
Friends help
Thank you, friends.
Some spirits linger; some move on
I’ve had this conversation with several people, and I suspect most of those several people think I’m a little crazy, especially given my sincere lack of religion, but I still think it’s true. In fact, I have a lot to say about spirits, but I will keep it brief.
My Grandma Ode sat at the foot of my bed occasionally for years. My parents hung around for a long time. I distinctly felt (not quite but almost saw) my father one night in a tree. My parents (and their odd spirit-world avatars) visited my dreams and nodded at me from passing cars until fairly recently. Dutch, however, is nowhere to be found. Perhaps he’s hanging around Allison.
Perhaps repression isn’t such a bad thing
Let it all out. You have to talk about it. You need to work through it until you come out on the other side.
I think there’s too much to let out. If I tried this, I would never be empty–I’d be the opposite of empty–some sort of black hole, sucking in energy and matter and burping out grief (Did you know black holes burp? You need to for the metaphor). If I talked about it until I couldn’t, I’d be talking until the end of time (unbearable for all parties involved, I’m sure). And there is no other side to come through on.
I am sure actual psychologists and psychiatrists have a far more nuanced understanding of what it means to work through or “process” (this makes me think of sausage) grief, but I think pop psychology is unhelpful on the subject.
I am now going to contradict myself
Nonetheless, I feel better now that I’ve put down a few scattered, truncated thoughts, at least “better enough” so that I should be able to write something else, without the above intrusive musings.
Maybe it’s even time I share a novel excerpt. (Maybe.)
I will leave you with cow pictures, because why not?
Here are a few spectacular longhorns that have appeared on a nearby property (they also have camels and emus and teeny tiny pigs).