They Had A Good Life

I know, but it doesn’t always help me to hear that in my moment of deep grief.

 A friend of mine told me that she was on her way to a memorial for the husband of someone that she knew. She looked at me and said, “But he was in his 90’s, so you know.”

As if the grief should be less, somehow. As if the pain of losing a 70-year marriage would not be as excruciating. 

It’s hard to know what to say when someone loses someone dear to them. Words fail us, yes? And yet, we try, in our compassion and wanting to express our caring. We try. We may even ask how old the person was, as if to then know how much grief would be expected or appropriate. 

There are things that I have said to those in grief, and then, when on the receiving end, I realize (at least to me) that those same words don’t feel soothing or comforting at all.

They had a great life. Or they had a good long life. 

That may be true, and I feel grateful for that. But, in that moment, what that phrase can do is to shut down my expression of my grief. To tell me, in a subtle way, that I should be grateful that they were around as long as they were (I am) and imply that somehow my grief should not be as intense.

Really?

My grief is intense. My loss hurts. My pain is deep. Deep because I was blessed enough to have them in my life, to love and be loved by them for so long. I will now miss that presence and love with my very core. The length of their life does not make my pain less. I don’t want to feel as if I must tone down my grief.

I do not mean in any way to discount the intense grief of a sudden and unexpected loss, the grief of a young life taken too soon. Those are unique types of grief that can feel so very inconsolable. 

But we also don’t need to discount grief that comes with an elder who has died. Yes, it was their time. Yes, they may have been blessed with many years of life. And yes, the grief is still intense. 

I think we all struggle with intense emotions. We all struggle with what to do with grieving and that whole painful process. We are not taught the sacred art of sitting with one another in our pain, sitting beside each other, simply being in the moment together. 

A simple touch can help sometimes. Other times not. Grieving is an individual thing. It’s also something that we all share. Each person may need something different and unique to them. 

Mostly I think that we all need to be seen and heard for what we are going through in that moment. 

I still can grieve deeply even if someone lived to a good old age. 

Because someone was old doesn’t mean that I was ready to say goodbye, or that I am going to grieve any quicker or lighter. I feel what I feel. And it’s ok. It’s ok. 

I wish I had wise words that would be perfect to say to someone in their grief. I don’t. I do appreciate it when others try to reach out. I appreciate their concern and kindness. I am aware of the kind intentions behind whatever someone may say to me in the moment. And I express my gratitude for that.

And I appreciate it when someone can simply be with me, to acknowledge my grief, and to not feel compelled to say anything that they think might be comforting. Because in that moment, for me, there is no comfort to be had. There is only the deep pain of loss, of grieving, which takes its own time, has its own path, and will not be directed, diminished, or rushed.

When we lose someone, at the moment it can feel like it was never enough time with them. We don’t need to add any rules or diminish our feelings and sadness. They are gone. And we are grieving. It’s ok.

Maybe we can also learn to give that to ourselves, to realize that grief will run its course. We don’t have to judge ourselves or meet any expectations of the length of time or how much we grieve. We can learn to accept whatever feelings come up, give ourselves the time that we need, give ourselves permission to be who we are and feel what we feel.

We can learn to sit with pain, to sit with our own discomfort and feelings of powerlessness. We are powerless, and we can hold each other’s hands, hold each other’s grief, hold each other’s hearts. We can let others know that we are there beside them in this great mystery and unknown. In this ending and goodbye, with this hole in our hearts that feels as if it will never be filled again. We don’t have to know what the perfect thing to say is. There is no perfect thing to say. There is only the moment, only the grief. Only the shared experience of being human, of being mortal, of endings.