Once upon a time, not so long ago, I was a capable person. I could multi-task the heck out of 14-hour work days, juggling dozens of to-dos with efficiency.
I would go to the hardware store for item X and, while there, also remember to get items Y and Z.
I could form sentences and find all the right words.
I could follow a logical argument, and question the gaps.
I am no longer this person. I hope to have a functioning brain again, someday, but for now I’m learning to live with this constant fog clouding up my synapses.
At first I thought it was lack of sleep, like back in the “baby brain” days after Isaac was born, but I’m clocking 9-10 hours a night. And it’s not life exhaustion, like when I was balancing farm administration work with a full-time job. Isaac and I have it pretty easy these days.
Then I read some grief books, and we talked about physiological grief in my bereavement support group, and I realized that my brain hasn’t stopped working, it’s just preoccupied.
At our most basic level we are animals and, even though I know Brock has died, my brain is having trouble grasping this.
Apparently my brain has put a big pot of “where’s Brock?” on the back-burner of my thinking-stove. It’s trying to reconcile 11+ years of memories where Brock was always nearby, with the present reality of no Brock.
Making the Connection
For months after we lost Brock, I couldn’t get past my memories of those last four days. In some ways, those days were beautiful and perfect. But it was horrible to know that Brock was trapped inside his paralyzed body, unable to communicate. I can still see his eyes, always slightly open and glazed. I kept feeling like he was trying to tell me something.
These memories terrified me: what if that was how I would always remember Brock? What if those final four days overwrote all the happy memories of our decade together? What if, instead of remembering a brilliant, funny, energetic man, I could only hold on to the weak, helpless, dying man he’d become?
So I fought against those memories of the end.
But maybe my brain kept bringing me back to those four days because it needed to understand that Brock had died. It was the connecting memory, between Brock being alive and present, and Brock being dead and gone. I was consciously avoiding thinking about that time, while my brain needed to relive and dissect the experience, in order to reconcile the loss.
The Side Effects
With my brain busy wondering where Brock has gone, I am operating at half capacity. This leads to the brain fog, and also to constant exhaustion. I’m not tired. I just don’t have much energy. All my energy is going into solving this riddle of figuring out why Brock isn’t here.
I find myself saying (usually to cashiers, when I mess up paying for things) that I haven’t had enough tea yet, or that I didn’t get enough sleep. It’s easier to offer those excuses than to say “my brain is confused because my husband died.”
Memory Therapy
One way I can help my brain reconcile itself to Brock’s death is to share memories. It reminds my brain that the past is not the present. But sharing Brock-memories is not always an easy thing to do. It brings the mood down, to remind people of his death. It makes me feel vulnerable. If I cry, that’s healthy for me but makes others feel uncomfortable.
Here’s the flowchart:
- Something reminds me of Brock.
- I decide whether I’m comfortable enough with the people/situation to cry, should that happen.
- Assuming I’m in a safe space, I share the memory.
- Moment of awkwardness for all involved. Others wonder what to say next: do they change the subject or respond to the memory? I half-regret sharing and feel very sad about Brock’s death.
- They usually change the subject. I don’t cry.
For the record: I’m not better than anyone else when it comes to these situations. I’ve been on the receiving end when someone in mourning shares a memory, and all I want to do is give them a moment of silence and then move on. It feels cruel to dig deeper by asking questions, or to risk saying the wrong thing.
But know it’s a compliment to have someone share a memory with you. They feel safe with you (see flowchart above). They’ve risked feeling vulnerable with you, and knowing they might cry in front of you.
Sharing memories is important to reconciling the loss, and helping your friend’s brain re-focus on the present. You’re helping them by listening.
As for how to respond in a way other than changing the subject, I’ve come up with some ideas. (I have yet to try these responses myself.)
How to Respond When Someone Shares a Memory of a Deceased Person
Share your own memory of the person, if you can.
“Do you want to talk about that more? I can listen.”
And, for bonus points, if you want to help someone you love who is grieving, create a safe, private space for them with no time pressures, and then share your own memory. Open the door and see if they’re ready to walk through it.
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Heather:
I absolutely LOVE what you’ve written here.
Thank you Also (especially?) for the last bit of advice to people (like me) who honestly don’t know how to respond or get past the “awkwardness.”
My memories of Brock – not surprisingly – center on our mutual interest in politics. I was absolutely fascinated by the writing he did in his last months.. I still re-read some of those emailed blog posts even today because I found his clear thinking to be so refreshing… (although I trust you won’t be surprised at the notion that I didn’t always agree with him – and still don’t.)
But special memories indeed.
Hang in there kid. As someone who’s gone through several bereavements (although admittedly none involving a spouse), I can tell you that while it sounds cliché, time is a great healer.
The memories get better and more focused, and the grief does eventually fade. Although the strangest things will bring it back.. for no apparent reason at all.
Just know that people love you and wanna do the best for and by you, even though sometimes they don’t know exactly how to do that.
Best….
It means so much that you take the time to read these posts, Al, and think about them and respond to them. Thank you.
I love what you’ve written here, Heather. I didnt know Brock but I remember his face from seeing him with you. To me he looked like the proud farmer.
I especially like the message you’ve given people, and me. I know from an intellectual perspective that it is helpful for others to share their loss of a loved one but when you haven’t lived it, you forget.
Thank you for the piece,
Kristine
Thank you for taking the time to read and comment, Kristine! I really appreciate it.
Not long after my mother died, I found myself in the supermarket in front of the cheerios, overwhelmed with one of those Ninja Grief moments. I left my basket (no frozen foods) in the middle of the aisle and hurried out of the store to my car, where I cried all the way home.
Upon thinking about this over and over, I decided that we live in a sick, sad society, where death, rather than being a part of life, is hidden away and expressing grief in public is a shame. I long for the days when bereaved people wore black clothes or black arm bands to signify to the whole world that they were suffering grief.
Since that incident, I carry kleenex with me. And if I want to cry, I cry. And I tell the cashiers that I am crying about my Mum, and amazingly, they cry too, or the people behind me do. It can be cathartic.
I think of you quite often, Heather, although we do not know each other well. This does pass and the sweet memories will rise to the top, and the funny ones, too. I promise.
Thank you so much for writing, Sharon. I’ve had those same random moments of grief, and also revelled in the freedom of being sad in public. There’s a wonderful book called “The Mourner’s Dance” by Katharine Ashenburg about how different cultures handle grief — the black clothes, the arm bands, the cut or torn clothing, “sitting shiva” in the Jewish world, etc. I think you’d like it. I think I wear my wedding ring as a symbol like that, because it makes people ask about my husband and then I can talk about him. Thanks again for commenting and sharing your experience.
When my 32 year old husband took his last breath after struggling with cancer, my entire world collapsed. I didn’t had the guts to look at his face i was just holding my sleeping 2 year old’s ears tightly so that he cant hear me crying. I feel i haven’t mourned enough. I always feel a heaviness in my chest all the time but i am unable to express myself to anyone. Mostly because people(Parents) around me are even weaker than i am . So even little things take a toll on their health. I lost touch with all my friends or may be they started ignoring me since they don’t know what to do. Sometimes when i get a chance to talk to someone , I unintentionally keep talking about the memories of my late husband. I always get the responses you mentioned in your post. Either they get all awkward or they change the topic telling me to move on. I feel that I make everyone uncomfortable around me. Slowly I just closed myself in a shell trying to pretend to be okay. But I never feel normal. Everywhere i look it just keep reminding me of him. Tears well up at random moments, so I hide my face or come up with some excuse.
I thought of going to random chatroom to find someone to just talk to about these things. But then thought why would anyone want to listen to these kind of sad things that too about a stranger.
I finally feel at ease I came across something i can relate to.
I need to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You not only took an initiative for yourself but you are also motivating people like me. It is okay to be sensitive. I am normal. I am not the only one in the world going through this. I am not alone.
Thank you so much !
Love from India
I am so grateful you took the time to comment and share your own experience, Charu. Thank you for reading.
I’ve been writing about my experience with grief for a few years now. While I started writing in order to explore and articulate my own experience and thoughts and feelings around Brock’s illness and death, I was surprised and happy to realize that many of us are thinking and feeling the same things. We just don’t talk about illness, death and grief much in “normal” life, so people like us feel like weird outsiders. But there are many of us walking the same path. You’re not alone.
Thank you again for taking the time to write.