I am trying desperately to hold on to the memory of how you felt in the physical world. Scents are beginning to fade, traces of you are diminishing. What holds us together now is pure faith, faith that memories will be enough to see me through when reaching out into the empty space around me fails.
The early days of grief are a sacred space, like peering into another world, with one foot in this life and one in the next. You are so close I could almost touch you...almost. We continue to exist in that space between here and there...for now. But one day, this holy fog will lift.
I know it’s just your physical body that's gone. At least that's what everyone tells me. I am supposed to take comfort that...
"He's always with you."
"He's in your heart."
"He's watching over you."
The phrases sound so warm and palatable, don't they? Capable of serving the antidote to grief on our prettiest Sunday brunch platter. I can't tell you how many times I have offered these very phrases to a grieving person. I've written them in cards, commented on posts, and said them over the phone, every time with nothing but the best of intentions and a genuine desire to provide comfort to someone I know is suffering.
Now I realize, while culturally expected and accepted, these phrases are are dismissive to the process. I believe you are with me, I know you're in my heart, I sense that you're watching over me. There is absolute emotional accuracy and even comfort in these sentiments. But...grief is not just emotional, it's physical. I wasn't prepared for this. It's not something I experienced when my Mom died. But there is an intense physical response to losing you (my husband, my partner, and the love of my life). The constant physical longing to be with you is exhausting. It affects sleep, eating habits, and memory, and with it brings real aches and pains in my chest and throat. Sometimes I feel my skin get hot and hyper sensitive with restlessness, like being pricked with a thousand buzzing needles.
Physical side effects from grief are actually quite common and can include:
- Increased inflammation
- Extreme fatigue
- Depleted immune system
- Increased blood pressure
- Sensation of being electrified with energy (probably what I'm experiencing with my skin)
- "Broken heart syndrome" - causing a form of heart disease similar to a heart attack
Here is my perception on why this might be...
Any one of us could close our eyes right now and know what an apple would feel like in our hand, even if we're not holding one – familiar and obvious, anyone could do it right? Much like amputees are said to still feel their missing limbs, and often that feeling comes with pain. The brain keeps the memory active as if it hasn't been lost. The brain and body know what they should be feeling, even when it isn't there.
"Researchers don’t know exactly what causes phantom limb pain. One possible explanation: Nerves in parts of your spinal cord and brain “rewire” when they lose signals from the missing arm or leg. As a result, they send pain signals, a typical response when your body senses something is wrong."
(Source: Webmd.com)
Grief's equivalent to physical amputation is loss of a loved one. And just from my own experience, I am going to say mainly with loss of a spouse or loss of a child - someone you are used to smelling, touching, and hearing for a good portion of the day, every day. But here's the thing, if you look at me, you can't see what's been amputated. I'm not missing a limb, I don't have any visible scars, but my heart knows something is not right, something is missing. So unfortunately, I can't trick myself into fully accepting that you are still with me, even though I 100% believe it...because my body knows otherwise. It's hard-wired to understand the physical loss. It's sending signals out to hold your hand, smell your hair, hear your laugh. I should still be able to feel you, but I can't. I miss that place where my body could exist in the shadow of yours - protected, warm...home.
I could summon up the feeling of your hair through my fingers right now, as easily as I could call up the apple. The soft, thick strands in my hands as you slept on my lap. The feeling is right there within my reach. "Rub my head," you'd say, as you'd curl up next to me. I can close my eyes and feel you grab me in a hug, or lay your chin on the top of my head. I remember what it feels like to land in your chest, burrowing in for comfort. Your bristly go-tee on my forehead, your cold bony feet on my legs in bed (man I hated that), your laugh that could shake the house. In this sacred space of early grief, you are my phantom limb. I reach out for you, but the pain signals are my only answer.
The other day I saw the slippers you last wore. They were peaking out your closet, so I picked them up and smelled them. A couple days ago I found one of your hairs in the bottom of the bathroom vanity drawer. I quickly got a piece of tape and taped it to the inside of my journal. Did I mention that grief makes you do really weird things? But I am afraid you are slipping away.
Over time, the familiarity of your touch will fade. The memory will become harder and harder to conjure up, making way for numbness in place of what you used to feel like. I will call it up one day, and memory will fail me. What then?
Grief is awkward, and hard to witness, even harder to go through. Much like in the amputee scenario, we need to recognize that it takes a long time for the bereaved to reach a "new normal." I have to accept that I am a different person now. It takes daily work and intention, and learning to live all over again with a part of me missing. And guess what? Some days I don't want to do it. I'd rather feel sorry for myself, climb in bed, and give up on life. I can't do physical therapy for the piece that's been amputated, so I go to a mental health professional, I started working out, I journal and write this blog, I cry when I need to and reach out to friends, and I talk about you...I talk to you.
We all grieve differently, but what helps me is when people acknowledge the journey involved, even when it's not pretty to watch. It helps when they acknowledge the pain even though they can't see the "amputation," when they let the grief be grief and recognize I'm working through it, not around it. Tell your grieving friend "He'll always be with you," but follow it up with, "but I understand that may not be comforting right now. I know you are in pain."
You are with me, but you're not with me. My brain knows it, my heart feels it, my memory is trying to catch up. I hope it never does.
