Stages, phases, tasks, storms and waves

In the 70's as a sociology major, I studied the research of Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross who had worked with people receiving news of their own impending death. She determined they went through stages, which, she wrote, often overlap, occur together and some reactions are missed altogether. The stages included shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance.

Later people mis-attributed this stage theory to any loss such as the loss of a parent or spouse, even the loss of a job or the end of vacation (I think far past the point  where the extension has jumped the shark). In his introduction to the re-release of Kubler-Ross', On Death and Dying,  Dr. Alan Kellehar writes, that it is only by overlooking this principle aim of Dr. Kübler-Ross’s book – that of the privileging the voice of the dying – that a whole industry of mythmaking has resulted. On Death and Dying was never a study of bereavement.  It was research and observation of individuals' reactions to the experience of dying Yes, those people grieve, but it is not the same as the grief of those of us who survive the loss of a loved one, and our experiences may not, and likely will not, match those she found in her studies.

Other researchers said no, its not just a series of steps the griever goes through, it's more of a curve.I don't agree with this picture.  I think it is far less linear than stages imply. The curve implies once you are done with shock, you move to numbness, then denial, then later depression, finding hope and finally loss adjustment.

  To me it's more of a squiggly line. I may move from loneliness to depression, then back to numbness and jump over to helping others, and so on again and again.

Others have shown a spiral, where your life entered a kind of tornado, and your new life comes out the other side. I've felt like grief comes in waves. Sometimes a tsunami like surge, other times just a gentle lapping at my ankles. But just like the ocean, you should never turn your back on it.

If you Google "stages of grief" you get over 23 million results. The number of stages range anywhere from 5-20

We all grieve in different ways and there is no one right way. Dr. Alan Wolfelt is an author, educator and grief counselor. His model includes needs, tasks that need to be addressed before reconciling with our new reality can happen. They don't happen in order, and you may need to come back to them again and again. He writes of the mourner's six 'reconciliation needs' which include:

1. The need to acknowledge the reality of the death 
2. The need to embrace the pain of the loss
3. The need to remember the person who died
4. The need to develop a new self identity
5. The need to search or meaning
6. The need for ongoing support from others

This model, for now, make sense to me. 

• Acknowledging the reality - In the beginning, my mind would play and replay the events leading to Jim's death. I was pretty sure I had 'acknowledging the reality' down. I never ever thought that Jim was not dead. I knew at a cellular level he was gone. In the groggy, floaty space of morning I never thought he was next to me. Yet, I sometimes had to remind myself, 'it is always going to be like this, he is never coming home.' And I still look at my phone to see if there is a message.
• Embracing the pain - Although I was raised in a family that did its best not to express emotion, I have been pretty effective in breaking that mold. In fact, even as I child I was teased for being the sensitive one. I discovered it is not a weakness to be sensitive and I am glad I can show my feelings. When I am sad, I cry, I give myself to loss, just as I gave myself to love.
• Remembering - Photos, mementos, even the Car, give testimony to a different form of a continued relationship with my husband. I cherish memories of our life together. Some people may try to avoid talking about him, or want me to put away things that remind me of Jim. They are afraid to bring up his name or his death for fear it will make me sad. As if I am not already. I remember many years ago I was out of the country when a childhood friend died in a motorcycle accident. I was afraid to mention it to his mother when I got back. Silly me, as if she could ever NOT think about it, not remember. When I did share my condolences, my shared memories were a comfort to her. 
• A new self identity - You confront your changed identity every time you do something that used to be done by the person who died. This can be very hard work and can leave you feeling very drained. This is the need that I struggle with the most. I still, in my heart, for now, feel that Jim is my husband and I am still married. I've read several books on grieving but it took me months before I could read one called Widow to Widow. I was not ready to call myself a widow. I am still married, just married to a dead man. Later, I could check the box for widow but when the form only had two choices I was so mad. It was a government form, so I couldn't say married, yet I certainly wasn't single. Who am I going to be? Yeah, this need is not met yet. This task is 'in progress' as they say.
• Search for Meaning - It is natural, when someone dies, to question the meaning of life...why are we here? why did this happen? what is the point? For me this is a life long task, one not necessarily linked to my grief. But really, when I am mindful, I think it is pretty simple.  We are here to love our selves and to love each other. To be happy and to help others be happy.

• Need for Ongoing Support - I am so very fortunate in this area. Despite my childhood's attempts to squelch all talk, or acknowledgement of anything emotional, my support system is amazing. Wolfelt says To be truly helpful, the people in your support system must appreciate the impact this death has had on you. They must understand that in order to heal, you must be allowed—even encouraged—to mourn long after the death. And they must encourage you to see mourning not as an enemy to be vanquished but as a necessity to be experienced as a result of having loved. I am blessed to have love and support from near and far.

Wolfelt tells us what I know to be true, you never 'get over' grief. You don't recover. The intense pangs of grief have subsided, but occasionally sneak up on me still. I will forever hold in my heart my memories of Jim, and I am able to make plans for the future. My journey will never end.  But I do believe, in time, we do (and I will) reconcile with my grief.

Something yet left to do.

Many years ago, just before my grandfather turned 90 he asked me, "Why am I not dead yet?" I told him 'clearly he had something left to do.'

After my husband died, I wondered the same thing.

At first it seemed inconceivable that I could survive the wrenching hurt that permeated my being. How could anyone? Yet I knew people that had, and did.  But I am not them. I could not imagine living another day without Jim. I suppose like anyone, I'd hoped we would grow old together and die in our sleep on the same night. I knew that wasn't likely. I knew by our family histories that the likelihood was that I would outlive him, yet I never really grasped what that would mean. I could never have imagined the emptiness, the profound sadness, the complete and utter hopelessness of my grief.  So how, when that grief was upon me, could I possibly live through it?

I really did want to be dead. I never wanted to end my life, I just simply did not want to be alive. Why was I not dead? I did not feel life, nor did I want to feel alive. In those first months my numbness probably served as a protective shield from the reality of my life ahead. But in the grey fog of those days, I just wandered, and wondered, 'why am I not dead yet?'  Heaven or not, I wanted this life to be over. If heaven is real, then I knew I'd be reunited with Jim. If the after-life is something where we just exist on another plane, I assumed I'd be on that plane with him. If we are reincarnated, then the sooner I died, the sooner I could start a new life with Jim in another time. And if there is no heaven, no after, then I would be together with him in the black nothing...and at least this pain would end.

I was pretty sure no one wanted to hear about it, and so I never spoke if it. I didn't want friends and family worrying about me any more than they already were. But in my heart there was darkness.

Later, as the searing pain subsided, to be replaced with more of a dull, ever present ache, I didn't want to be dead as much as I just didn't care. I ate because I knew I should, I tried to be social when I felt up to it, I returned to work. I slept. I slept a lot. I wasn't depressed, I have been depressed and this was something different. I was just sad. The life I'd loved, and come to depend on, was gone...over.  I continued to try to bravely put one foot in front of the other. I was in my 'fake it til you make it' phase. I finally did talk to my grief therapist about my feelings, and she assured me they were quite normal. She knew I wasn't suicidal, and so we talked about the sadness and emptiness.

But I still wondered, why am I not dead?  I had reasons to live...I love my family - of choice and of birth. I enjoy my career, although I found facing expectant 10 year olds day after day to be exhausting in those grieving days. I also knew that if Jim would here he'd metaphorically kick me in the ass and say, "why are you wasting your time? I'd give anything to have one more day to enjoy this thing called life! Get out there and LIVE!" We worked hard to save for our future and it has occurred to me that the future we'd dreamed of is now mine, and it is now!

I talk about it now because I think it is important to face up to the whole range of experiences that I had and continue to go through. I also hope that by my naming it, others who are or will go through a profound loss will see that perhaps these feelings are a normal part of grieving. Marc Brackett, of the Yale Center for Emotional Intelligence, says, “Labeling your emotions is key. If you can name it, you can tame it.” And Daniel J. Siegel, neuropsychiatrist and co-author Tina Payne Bryson write in their book, The Whole Brain Child:

“When (people) learn to pay attention to and share their own stories, they can respond in healthy ways to everything from a scraped elbow to a major loss or trauma. ...to put things in order and to name these big scary right-brain feelings so they can deal with them effectively…When we give words to our frightening painful experiences—when we literally come to terms with them—they often become much less frightening and painful.”

I no longer wonder why I am not dead. Clearly, I have something left to do. I know I have a lot of life yet to live and strive to live every day to its fullest, no matter how many days I have left. There are some days where all that means is that I just get up and get dressed, Other days, living life to its fullest involves an amazing adventure. And both are okay, it is all part of this journey I am on. My journey out of the valley.

I just want to hear your voice.

When Jim died, I never expected to find him in my bed when I woke in the morning.  I did not experience denial, at least in the 'stages of grief' way I'd expected. I did not think he was coming home. When I woke up that first morning after the day he died, and indeed every morning ever since, I just knew he was gone, dead, at least in the physical world.  I knew it in my soul, in my heart, in my very cells.  

As life started to begin around me and our family and friends went back to their routines and jobs, I tried to regain my footing.  It was extremely difficult to leave the house. Every time I drove away, tears would fill my eyes. I felt I was driving away from the place we'd been closest, and the last place he'd really been alive. And every time I came home to only my dog, I'd cry at the emptiness of our, my, home. I would curl up on his spot on the couch, where he'd spent hours during his illness. I felt close to him there. I slept on his side of the bed, on his pillow.  

I tried to imagine him in the bed next to me, but it was no good. I knew he was never going to lie next to me again in this lifetime. So it came as some surprise to me when I first left for a night away and got to where I was going, that I checked my phone, expecting a text from Jim to be there on the screen. When I'm away from home and something makes me think of Jim, I want to text and tell him.  When I am home and walk by my phone on the kitchen counter, I always stop to check to see if he's sent me a text. I know this is impossible, yet I still continue to habitually check. What is it about the phone? In every other way I know he's gone, but I still expect him to call.

When I go away for the weekend with girlfriends and we arrive at our destination, they call or text to let their husbands know they've arrived safely. And I just stare at my blank screen, no one to text to tell him I'm okay. When I get in the car to head home, I grab my phone to text Jim that I'm on my way home, like I did almost every day for 17 years.  And I stare at my phone...what was I thinking?

In the first two years of our marriage, I was traveling 70-90% of the time. A few years later he was gone 2-3 nights a week for work.  It got much better when he decided to work for Slalom and he hoped to wind down his career over the following five years or so. But no matter who was away or for how long, or how far, we would check in with a call or text at least two or three times a day.  Perhaps that's what it is about the phone.  It was always our connection whenever we were physically apart. So at some level I may be hoping that we can connect again. And so I check my phone. And stare, unbelieving, but knowing.

I'd like to say that this has gotten better over time.  Maybe someday.  Until that time....