THE HEALING POWER OF GRIEF: The Journey Through Loss to Life and Laughter Part I

 Note: Our Guests for the Healing the Grieving Heart show this coming Thursday have graciously sent us exerpts from their new book. We will post them over the next few days. Thank you Gloria and Marilyn for making this wonderful book available to our readers. Drs. Gloria and Heidi.

From THE HEALING POWER OF GRIEF: The Journey Through Loss to Life and Laughter (Sourcebooks, Inc.; ISBN 1-932783-48-2) by Gloria Lintermans & Marilyn Stolzman, Ph.D., L.M.F.T.,

 On May 22nd at 2:20 in the morning my husband died. As I was sleeping in an armchair by his side in the hospital, his nurse gently woke me with the words, “He’s gone.” Reaching over, I put my hand on his arm, stunned by the coldness of his skin. As my world shattered into a million fragmented pieces, I softly sobbed, my head falling slowly until it rested next to his on his hospital bed. After a devastating battle of two and a half years, the ups and downs of fighting disease, his body had finally given out. The fight was gone; we’d lost the war.

My sister, who had traveled from the east coast, had been by my side in the hospital during these final weeks. Sensing my need to be alone for the last time with my precious husband, she tiptoed out of the room to make whatever arrangements were necessary at the nursing station.

After a while, the nurse explained that she needed to prepare the body for transfer to the mortuary. Body?! Rick was now a “body.” A few minutes before, he’d been a person. My sister walked out to the parking lot with me, her arm around my waist for support. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. As we reached the hospital parking lot, the warm Southern California sun began to rise, yet I felt cold, a chill I was afraid would never go away. We drove home. All I wanted to do was sleep, yet I could only weep.

In the blink of an eye, my world was completely out of step, or I was completely out of step with the world. I felt totally disconnected to anything but my sadness. Once home, I heard the phone ring, but wouldn’t answer it. My family offered food, but eating was out of the question.

I needed to decide what Rick would be wearing for burial. Although he’d lost 60 pounds from his 6’2,” 200+ frame during his illness and nothing fit properly, I still chose the suit he wore when we were married, his favorite tie, and bedroom slippers so that his feet would be comfortable.

The next day my son, sister, Rick’s two daughters and I went to the mortuary to choose the casket. As I stood in front of the selection, tears ran down my face. I couldn’t believe that what was happening was real; it felt like such a horrible dream. My family gathered around me, wanting to comfort me, to take the sadness away. Nothing helped. Finally I made a selection and we met with the mortuary director to complete the paperwork. Did I want the body embalmed? No! And no makeup! And a closed casket! After all the suffering my husband had endured during his illness, the tests, the surgeries, the pain, I didn’t want to subject him to anything further. I was numb, yet angry, all at the same time. But who was I angry at?

The funeral is a blur; I had only enough energy to weep. Thinking to offer consolation, people would say: “Take comfort that he’s no longer in pain.” I would nod, all the while thinking to myself, but he’s gone and that’s worse! Time and time again I found myself in the position of having to take care of peripheral friends who thought they were taking care of me, but I kept my rage to myself.

     As they should, in time, my family had to get back to their own lives. My sister returned to the east coast, all the while saying, “If you need me to stay longer or to come back, just let me know.” She wanted to take care of me and would have stayed as long as I asked her to, but I knew somewhere in all my numbness that no matter how long she was there, this was a pain I had to deal with alone and, on some emotional level, I think I believed that if everyone around me got back to their own lives, so would I. But what I hadn’t considered was that my life was now irrevocably changed, my day-to-day life and my couple future.

Trying to take care of what needed to be done was exhausting. I felt confused, nothing felt real. Going through Rick’s belongings was something I couldn’t even think about, much less do. I had lived alone years before we met, but found the darkness of night took away any defense I had against the overwhelming sadness. For weeks I slept with lights on all over the house. Yet, no matter how much I slept, I never felt rested. A debilitating weariness was ongoing. I joined a weekly bereavement support group, not really knowing why, sensing it was something I needed to do. As one day melted into the next, I had no protection from my sadness or the feelings of disconnect from the world I’d known.

 

Common Questions

Will the pain ever go away?

 Will I feel better?

Why haven’t I been able to cry yet?

Why am I afraid to leave my house when I used to be active?

Why am I running all the time, filling every waking moment with frantic activity?

Why do I find it impossible to accomplish even simple tasks, or even get out of bed?

Why do I find myself breaking down in embarrassing places? Why can’t I have any control over my emotions?

Why don’t I have an appetite? Or, why can’t I stop eating?

Nothing makes sense. Am I going crazy?

Why am I so forgetful?

When I have the energy, how do I set new goals?

How do I even begin to know what I want?

What am I going to do with the rest of my life? Does this feeling of numbness get better?

I’m not used to traveling alone and taking care of myself. Will I be afraid forever?

When I get sick, how will I take care of myself?

When should I discard my spouse’s clothing? When should I stop wearing my wedding ring?

How should I talk about this to my young/grown kids?

I hate feeling so dependent on others; will I ever feel capable again?

How can I deal with the first birthday, anniversary and holiday after losing my spouse?

Why do I feel guilty about being happy again? Why do I feel disloyal in thinking about dating?

I’ve been told that the one-year mark ends the mourning time, but I don’t feel that way. In fact, I feel worse than at the beginning. Why?

What future is there for me beyond the feeling of unending, unchanging desolation?

How will I know when I’m ready to date? When is it too soon?

Am I forgetting my spouse if I begin dating? What will my children say? Why am I hesitating and troubled by uncertainty?

Am I going to spend the rest of my life lonely? Feeling like a fifth wheel with our old couple-friends, how can I have any kind of social life?

Will I ever be able to remember the joys, hopes, memories … smiles … without feeling sadness?

My husband was abusive to me and we had a horrible marriage. How do I mourn a loss that I’m not sure is even a loss?

Facing your loss head on is difficult because loving is all-encompassing; love took most of your emotional energy as you embraced your spouse. We cared that they were fulfilled and well. We wanted to protect them and make them happy. We were devoted, so much so, that losing this loved one, felt crippling. And so, when they are gone, we need to learn how to transform this energy into something positive. Not a “substitute,” but a conversion from a “we” to an “I.” Not in a selfish manner, but as a way of refocusing, we ask “How do I live my life in a positive way without you … not losing the memory and loving feelings of you, but incorporating them and going on? What tools can I find? How do I learn to heal in a way that’s positive and energizing instead of depleting?”

Grieving is a process that unfolds during the 24 months after the death of your spouse. At the beginning of your mourning, it is not uncommon to have limitless questions with answers that feel completely out of reach.

Yet, despite the overwhelming pain, you instinctually know, somewhere deep within your heart that: “I need to stay alive, alive in a way that supports me and the “us” that was. I must seek a new emergence of myself after visiting the ‘dark.’ I sense that this awareness comes from the realm of my feelings, not from the sphere of my thinking.” This is your beginning, to mourn and to heal.

Disaster looks us in the face and we survive. We hardly know how we do that, but we succeed. Underneath all the pain, there are elements of faith and trust, an “I can’t lose” feeling, and the energy to go on and survive.