Tag Archives: support group

Helping Grief Become Mourning

Grief vs. Mourning

I think it was The Mourner’s Dance that first made the distinction (to me) between grief and mourning.

“Grief” is what we feel inside: sadness, anger, confusion, shock, denial … whatever those feelings might be.

“Mourning” is the expression of those feelings. The most obvious example is crying because we feel sad, but mourning can also be telling a funny story about a loved one who has died, or (as I did this week) signing up for a class because you know the person you loved would have wanted to learn that skill. Mourning is an action inspired by those internal emotions.

I find it helpful to distinguish between grief and mourning because it explains my own reaction to Brock’s death so well. There is huge sadness (along with many other feelings) inside me, but the shock and numbness I’ve been feeling make it almost impossible to let these feelings out. This hasn’t felt right or healthy to me, which is one of the reasons I signed up for a bereavement support group.

We read and discussed this grief vs. mourning distinction at the third meeting of my support group this week. We took the discussion further, thanks to our Understanding Your Grief workbook, as follows:

Grief is not a bad thing.

I know that there’s this big scary ball of sadness inside my chest, and it’s human nature to want to ignore it and (if possible) make it go away. Speaking of which, here are some quotes from our workbook, by Alan Wolfelt:

“You have probably been taught that pain is an indication that something is wrong and that you should find ways to alleviate the pain.”

“Far too many people view grief as something to be overcome, rather than experienced.”

But, according to this workbook, grief is not a bad thing: it’s a natural thing. Of course there’s sadness inside me: I just lost my life partner.  It would be unnatural (and unhealthy) to deny that sadness.

You can actively help grief come out.

Since this grief will erupt out on its own, possibly in unexpected ways and at unexpected times, I/we can choose to be a “passive witness” to this grief or an “active participant.” I don’t know about you, but I like the word “active” better.

In other words: instead of trying to smother that sadness and get rid of it, a “healthy” way to deal with grief is to let it come out, maybe even in a controlled, intentional way.

One of the best sentences in our workbook this week (which I underlined) was:

“You will naturally grieve, but you will probably have to make a conscious effort to mourn.”

Yes! That’s a prescription I can follow. I can accept responsibility for letting my grief out. In fact, I can find ways to remember Brock that are happy and enjoyable, not just sad.

So here are some ideas I’ve come up with over the past few days, to help me mourn Brock (and therefore express this grief bottled up inside me):

  • Make a “Brock and Heather” photo album of actual, hard copy photos, like what I made for Isaac.
  • Encourage family and friends to celebrate Brock’s birthday on March 31 by sharing a list of potential ways to remember and honour him (e.g. watch his favourite movies, dance to specific songs, quit your day job to follow your dream, etc.).
  • Find a way to commemorate our 12 year anniversary on April 2.
  • Ensure there’s a place in our house plan for a “Brock Memory Corner” (in addition to having his photos around our home) where I can put special items to help us remember him daily.
  • Once our new house is somewhat landscaped, sprinkle some of Brock’s remains in a safe spot, maybe with a chair or bench that we can sit on.

I also gave myself some credit because I already do proactive mourning things, including:

  • writing on this website;
  • sharing memories and Brock-meaningful moments on our In Memory of Brock McLeod Facebook page;
  • write to Brock in a journal (especially when I need to make a decision and wish he were here to make it with me);
  • keep photos of Brock around so I can see his sexy smile and smile back at him; and
  • share memories with Isaac of his daddy, and tell him stories that include Brock.

A big thought to end on …

I’m glad you’re here with me, reading along, as I go through all this. I appreciate your support and love.

More importantly, I hope reading all this will help you in your own life, because death and loss will inevitably be part of your life if it isn’t already.

I started reading another book by Wolfelt yesterday, called Healing a Spouse’s Grieving Heart: 100 Practical Ideas After Your Husband or Wife Dies, and there’s this horrible, excellent quote from C.S. Lewis at the beginning:

“Bereavement is a universal and integral part of our experience of love. It follows marriage as normally as marriage follows courtship or as autumn follows summer. It is not a truncation of the process but one of the phases …”

-C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

I don’t want to scare you or make you sad, but it’s a true statement that every love partnership will include a stage of bereavement (unless you’re lucky enough to die at the same time).

We’re all in this together.

I saw this picture on my sister’s fridge today. We took it during our epic Canada road trip in June 2016, at the Athabasca Glacier on the Icefields Parkway in Alberta.

The Poison is the Medicine

It’s probably horrible to refer to my kid as “poison,” but there we are.

I went to the second weekly meeting of our bereavement support group today, and one of the themes that arose is the need for those of us in mourning to be gentle with ourselves. Our brains might not be working properly, we might not feel how we think we should feel, and possibly our single goal for each day is to make it through the day. We are supposed to be patient with ourselves. Mourning is a multi-stage journey, and how we are today is not how we’ll be weeks, months or years from now.

My immediate response to this was anger and resentment. I often don’t feel like I have the luxury of being gentle or patient with myself, because I have a four-year-old son who is in the middle of major life transitions. Isaac lost his dad four months ago, moved with me across the province, started a new preschool and is surrounded by a completely different set of family and friends.

Most of his toys and books are buried in our storage locker, which he told me tonight makes him “frustrated” and want to hit.

The Poison

No matter how much slack I want to give myself during this grieving process, I never feel like I can let it all loose because I have a son to take care of and comfort. I can’t get drunk, spend the day in bed or subsist on crusty bread, blue cheese and salami.

Sometimes I crave a week of solitude, just so I can sit still with the loss of Brock and do whatever I need to, to get all this sadness out.

And, in fact, I could run away for a week. But Isaac would miss me. And my job, at least for the immediate future, is to give him some stability and structure.

The Medicine

THEN it occurred to me, as I ate my way through the tin of chocolate cookies at hospice, that while Isaac makes this whole grieving thing more difficult, he is also what is pulling me through it.

Brock and I planned this move to Invermere for Isaac. Regardless of all my own reasons for coming here, if I didn’t have Isaac to consider I would probably set off on the Appalachian Trail this year. I wouldn’t be building a house here, or settling in for the next 15 years. It’s comforting to have this plan. I don’t ever feel lost or overwhelmed with decisions, because they’ve already been made. And I like our plan.

If I didn’t have Isaac, I wouldn’t have to get out of bed every morning (he likes to turn on all the lights to ensure I’m awake). I wouldn’t have the structure in my days (thanks to his preschool and various activities) that makes it possible for me to write and finish my first ever mystery novel.

Yes, having Isaac in my life forces me to function at a level above where I would like right now, but he also helps me grieve Brock. He talks about his dad every few days, telling me stories or clarifying memories while we drive around or read in bed. These mentions are random and therefore I don’t have my defences up: he forces me to remember, and it’s painful. Making Isaac’s Christmas gift, a photo album of “dad and Isaac” pictures, was a therapy session unto itself.

It’s All About the Dose

I Googled “poison is the medicine” for kicks and it comes from toxicology, specifically its father Paracelsus, a Swiss physician born in 1493-ish, who wrote:

“Sola dosis facit venenum”

Which Wikipedia translates as:

“Only the dose makes the poison.”

I interpret this to mean that my regular outsourcing of Isaac to preschool, gymnastics, swimming & skating & skiing lessons, Aunt Evy and his grandparents is a good thing.

And I suppose the fact that I use that alone time NOT to eat salami and drink martinis and sob in bed, but rather to write and attend a support group and read mysteries, is a good sign.

Maybe the dose is exactly right.

The hardest Christmas present I’ve ever made: a photo album for Isaac of all his photos with his dad.