I had another night of tears and pain in place of sleep which suggested it was time to write a bit on grieving and how to react to it. I’m becoming something of an expert. There are, no doubt, many experts out there, far too many. But for the most part, I’m not running into them. Count yourself lucky. You do not want to be an expert.
Most people I interact with do not know how to deal with me, how to speak to me. They (or is it “you”; English pronouns are tricky things) lack empathy for me. Again, that’s lucky. No one should ever want to empathize with me, but, I’ll give them (you?) a few pointers that you may be able to apply to how you react to others who are grieving as well.
I’m not writing this for other experts. If you’ve lost a mate (or a child, which is something I know nothing about), ignore all this. You don’t need me giving you pointers. Though, interestingly, I have found a distinct difference between the genders. Grieving women have dealt with me little better then everyone else. They’ve talked about time and recovery, both concepts that are foreign and unwelcome. Grieving men have spoken about pain that never improves and life that never gets better. The men understand me. Unless you are a grieving woman who feels all is lost, don’t try to correct me—it doesn’t help.
So, to those pointers:
DON’T ASK ME HOW I FEEL.
You don’t want to know how I feel. That question creates an awkward moment with no good answer. But here, just once, I’ll answer it because it may help you understand the things I do.
My life is 95% sorrow and 5% anger. That’s it. Those are my emotions. I may smile. I may chit-chat, but that’s what’s under it. I feel no joy. There are no good moments. There are less mournful and more mournful. More mournful is bad. Letting it out, expressing it, “letting myself feel it” is bad. Anger is worse because it always comes with more sorrow. You will not make me feel good.
A friend asked me if I wanted to live and was shocked to hear I did not. Emptiness, pain, rage. Why would I want to live? (And for all that is holy, do not try and answer that. Huge pointer there.) I have to live because I am keeper of my wife’s legacy. I envy those grieving who do not have such responsibilities. There is nothing I want to do. There are things I need to do, so I do them, but I do not enjoy them.
On September 27th, standing over my wife’s body, I knew if I was a god, I would have burned this world. I’ve said since that now I wouldn’t, but that I look fondly on the image of the world being destroyed that day. I don’t know if that is true. I have a feeling I’d destroy it now as well.
I get by focusing on work that needs to be done—work related to her, and by distractions. Distractions are hard to come by, since reminders are everywhere, but sometimes I can find them in a movie or a trivia game. Take away the distractions and more importantly, the work I focus on, and I’d be a puddle on the floor.
That’s how I feel.
DON’T COMPARE YOURSELF TO ME BECAUSE I AM COMPARING MYSELF TO YOU.
All grieving is different, or so say all the psychiatrists and councilors. But they all agree to one universal: Never say “I know how you feel.” In simplest terms, it’s because you don’t. After all, if you did, you’d never have said that. Along with that go all the after-clauses that explain how it is you know how I feel and that often flow in on their own—the comparisons. You know how I feel because of the tragedies of your own life. You know because your cousin died, because a friend died, because your mother died. You know because your husband left you for another woman, because you fell into despair when you lost your job.
You don’t know. And your pain is not my pain. See, here’s the thing, chances are, I do know your pain. And if I don’t, don’t correct me—it doesn’t help. I listen to everyone complain. Facebook is a great place for that. I see all the agonies of your life and I’d trade with you. I’d trade with all of you at once. You take my tragedy, and I’ll take all of yours. You lost your job. You got beat up. You are sick. Your body aches. You are in constant pain. You feel oppressed. You feel threatened. You were threatened. You are treated unfairly. You were mugged. You lost all your money. You crashed your car. You are dying. It all feels trivial to me. I’d love to be sick, oppressed, threatened, and dying. Give me those, and all the rest, and give her back to me.
As I said, 95% sorrow and 5% anger.
DON’T ASK IF THERE IS ANYTHING YOU CAN DO TO HELP.
This is another one that most of the experts agree on (Google it). It assumes I know what I need, and that I can think of it now, and that I have a clue on how to get to next week. I don’t. I do need your help. I need a lot of help. But I don’t know for what, and I’m not comfortable asking. It’s much better to offer something specific. Then I might just be able to figure if that is something I need. It also means it is actually something you’re willing to help with.
DON’T TELL ME I SHOULD FEEL LIKE X OR DO X, BECAUSE SHE WOULD HAVE WANTED THAT.
I suppose the person who says some variant of that is trying to be helpful, though it sounds like a lecture from a stereotypical 1930s schoolmarm. It isn’t going to make me less sad to be told that my wife wouldn’t want me to be sad. I well know she wouldn’t want me to be sad. As for the version “You need to pull yourself together and go on; that’s what she would have wanted,” which I have been told, that one’s just wrong. It assumes what she would have wanted, and I know that far better than anyone else. What she always wanted—what I wanted—was for us to die together.
DON’T TELL ME SHE’S IN A BETTER PLACE, IT’S PART OF A PLAN, ETC.
Just…don’t. Ever.
DON’T TELL ME IT WILL GET BETTER IN TIME.
Maybe it will. I don’t think so, but maybe. Women who’ve suffered a loss tend to back up that time makes a difference. Men seem to say the opposite: that it never gets better. I really don’t want to hear your take on it. To me, it’s insulting. “Sure, she was your life, a wonderful, remarkable girl, but hey, a few months and you’ll barely remember her.” Time should make no difference. It may, but it shouldn’t. Will it? Better to let time answer that, and not you.
DON’T EXPECT ME TO GET OVER IT.
The old rule was two years for mourning. And women got veils. Veils would be brilliant. Don’t know how to work that on a guy, but worth a shot. Now-a-days, people seem to expect things back to normal in a matter of weeks. I’m supposed to be fine and able to deal with the world. I’m not fine. And two years is a nice start, but I tend to think forever is a better time frame. I’d like people to speak to me normally, about what they are doing or that movie they liked or their vacation. Those are good distracting subjects. But I’m not normal. I may not be able to do normal things. Her death might be a thing that happened in the past for you, but it is always with me.
Without the work I do to focus on, I couldn’t get through a day. That was the subject of my last Men’s Support Group. Everyone there was surviving purely by finding things to focus on just to make it through that day. And for some, it has been years.
DON’T TAKE IT PERSONALLY.
I’m broken. That’s what this does. And you can’t fix me. You can’t make me happy. Don’t get upset that seeing you doesn’t make me feel better. Don’t be upset if I can’t do something, if I can’t be there, if I can’t find hope with you. Help me, if you wish, to what extent you wish, but do not become ticked off if I cannot be what I was, or if your presence cannot bring back better times.
DO TALK ABOUT HER.
Not about her being in a better place or her dying or what she’d want, but about her. What you did with her. That funny time she got cake in her hair or that horrible time she was on stage and couldn’t speak. What story of hers you liked best, what you were doing when you heard that podcast of “Trixie.” I like to hear about her.
Everyone grieves differently, supposedly. These are does and don’t for dealing with me, but they are a good jumping off point for dealing with anyone in similar circumstances. Adjust accordingly, or as best you can. There’s more to say. There’s always more, but I’ve used up my resources for the day. Time to focus on work, and try and get through this day.