Grief Brain
The summer solstice is tonight. An annual event that is observed in many ways by different cultures, different religions. Not really a big holiday here in the states, but if you go on the internet, there will be no shortage of posts about how people are going to observe it—even celebrate—the summer solstice. It’s renewal, it’s romantic, it’s self-care, it’s pagan, it’s ancient. But all I can think about is that it’s an extra long day to miss Annie.
I know, I know . . . there are a quick half dozen responses already on your tongue for the purpose of making me feel better about this. “Go to bed early” or “use the day to honor her.” I know it’s well-meaning and thanks, but save it. This is where my brain goes with this stuff.
The ways in which grief changes one’s thinking are legion. Take language for example. Words and phrases that are repeated over and over again suddenly take on a very different meaning. At some point in the last several years, I started taking note of all the words or phrases that elicit a tremor of sadness or pain when either I use them or hear them used. Most of them I’ve stopped using myself, but I can’t make everyone quit saying “deadline” when a proposal or an essay is due. (I say, “closing date” now.)
Others that momentarily stop my heart are:
“I could have killed him!” (or her, or them). – Please don’t say this about a naughty child or spouse or sibling to a person who has lost a child or spouse or sibling.
“I almost died!” – But you didn’t, and my daughter did, so . . .
“Knock ‘em dead!” – No, don’t do that…leave them alive. Just do a great job.
“Any last words or final thoughts?” – Just another reminder of death. Maybe stick with “any thoughts to wrap up?”
I can’t stop people from saying reasonable words and phrases that don’t have such a grief-laden meaning to them. Actually, I think it’s kind of great that someone can say, “That chili was to die for!” without it feeling a white-hot blade in their gut. (Or, maybe they did.) Nobody should have to monitor their exclamations of surprise, disappointment or delight like that. I’m glad people don’t have to think the way I do about such words.
But then there are the things that people say to someone who is grieving a loss. It is an awkward transaction, I know, but perhaps, if they know that their well-meaning words are having the opposite effect, they could figure out something else to say. Things like:
“It’s your “new normal.” – No thanks, I’ll take the old one back please.
“They’re in a better place.” – No again—the better place was the one they were in.
“Wait until you turn the corner” – There’s a corner? Is there a bar at that corner??
“Put it behind you.” – I’ll put you behind me . . .
Grief brains are doing a lot of work, often without the attached human even aware of it. Reprocessing vocabulary is but a minor task when you compare it to rewriting my former understanding of what I thought my future would look like. I can’t even trust myself to be on the lookout for potential landmines. I was writing a text to the arborist about the Japanese Red Maple we planted with Annie’s ashes because I was concerned about some discoloration on the leaves. I wrote, “Let me know what I can do to keep her healthy and alive . . .” and tears filled my eyes as I realized I wasn’t able to do that when she was here. I promptly erased it and wrote “safe and growing” instead.
On the longest day of this year, I’ll be alone, at the family cottage in Maine, with Annie’s tree, willing it to thrive. And I’m going to miss her the whole day long. That’s about as much as my brain can handle for one solstice.
(There is a great essay in the Grief Like Yours anthology titled What Not To Say When Someone Dies by Mary Camarillo. You can get your copy here.)
I hate it when people who still have their spouses say “at least you had the time you had with him” I truly want to scream at them
Thinking of you dear Cindy and your beautiful Annie. Oh to spend the longest day of the year with her, xoxoxo.