A new lesson in my journey
How a reflection on grief gave me the opportunity to reflect on my grief
58 years and I’m still learning
Last Tuesday was the 29th anniversary of the car accident that took the life of my first wife, Jennifer, and our unborn child. I poured my thoughts about grief into one of these notes and hundreds of you have reached out and commented. It’s been so gratifying.
But the day was so incredibly different than any in the last nearly three decades and I wanted to share what I learned with all of you since you foolishly signed up to tag along on this ride.
I told you about how grief is a journey that seems to ebb and flow. I expressed how grief and trauma have a way of letting you think you are okay then kicking down the door to grab your attention when you least expect it and, for me at least, when you should expect it but don’t.
For decades I carefully locked it all away and told myself I was “handling it.” When I say “handling it” I mean trying to power through it all telling myself I was fine and then hurting myself more, avoiding the reality, and sadly, all too often, flushing many of my values and opportunities when the trauma decided I was lying to myself.
This year I decided not to just “handle it.” Well, at least not like I have for 28 years or so.
Handle it
Traditionally, that term handling it meant a range of activities from actively and aggressively acting like it wasn’t a big deal to actively and aggressively doing things to distract me from the meaning of the day. I desperately wanted to be okay and be happy with the second lease on life I had created with a new wife and four incredible kids.
I tried to handle it by acting like it was no big deal.
I was wrong.
So, this year I did that thing that George Costanza once on Seinfeld. I tried doing the opposite of what my instinct told me to do. For almost three decades I had tried ignoring it. Lightly acknowledging it. Diverting my attention. Seeking easy comfort to numb the pain. Whatever it took to not feel it all.
So, Tuesday as I woke and got hit across the forehead with pictures of Jennifer from her family as I laid in bed, I did the opposite. I cleared my calendar. I thought about her and her laugh. I cried. I went through old pictures. I cried again. I picked some pumkpins from the garden. I wrote. I reached out to a dear friend and moved our usual Thursday hang out to Tuesday night over our favorite brick oven pizza and wings and cider. Then I cried again
.I decided to feel it all.
After coming home from dinner, I watched the new episode of Ahsoka. Re-watched two episodes of my emotional healing show, Ted Lasso. Went to bed at a reasonable hour with dreams of happiness through the night.
I woke up healthy. Happy. Ready to carry on. I got back to work.
Old dogs…new tricks
I didn’t want to keep returning to my loss here for you all, but I wanted to tell you what a revelation it was to just feel it all. Let it come. Hug it close. It sucked. It was a mess of a day.
But you know what? This time it was just a day. Just one. It used to be a year. It used to be the whole month of September. Then it used to be a week. By embracing it and not fighting it I took away its power.
I think that maybe trauma and grief are like water behind a dam. The more you hold it back the greater the energy it carries when it’s released. If you just let a little out, then it’s like an absolute torrent. If you let it all out, there is a flood but then the water just flows naturally and life returns to normal.
For most of the last three decades I’ve desperately tried to control the flow of my trauma and loss of not just Jenn and our baby but my men and dear friends who died in the sands of Iraq. I tried to dam it all up and think I could just release the flood gates every now and then. Instead the water spilled across the top in the form of addiction, suicidal ideations, anger, and shirking my values in pursuit of relief from the drowning.
So, the journey continues, and I learned something for the first time even in my late years. There is a better way for me at this point. I guess all we can do is keep learning.
Thanks for being part of the easing of the reservoir by allowing me to share my journey with you.
Onward.
Synchronicity. Today (Oct 2) is the the day I received the telegram that told me my fiancé (and first love) was killed in Viet Nam. I was a military dependent. I was at my college, so I was fortunate. The cabbie delivered the telegram to the school office and the school Chaplain brought it to me. That same day I learned my first cousin was killed in the same battle. A week later I got the letter from Darv that told me about Frank joining the regiment and how they joked about it being a “small war.” This morning I woke up and while watching the deer finishing up the late summer garden in the back, I told my husband I was in a rotten mood and could not figure out why. He reached out and squeezed my hand and said quietly, “it’s October 2.” Angry “rotten” feelings slowly morphed to feelings of old loss, joy, love and blessings from the man who was lost to a FUBAR war. I open Substack and here you are. Wonderful article. I am 75 and still learning.
Thank you so much for sharing your day of grief and your journey with grief. We all face and have to figure out how to live with grief in our lives. It can be the death of loved ones, the end of a relationship, the loss of a job, the loss of a sense, the loss of idependence....
Your sharing the different ways you dealt with your grief and how facing it changed its power over you will benefit more people than you can imagine. Because you are a talented writer you've taken something that everyone goes through and given them a way to relate to it that they may not be able to express themselves. Thank you for this gift.