DON’T FEAR GRIEF
Lisa Brady’s f iance was killed in a dreadful accident 13 years ago, thrusting her into a spiral of sorrow. In this deeply personal account, she has one message: There is hope
IT SEEMS it has taken a global pandemic to open up a conversation of which we have become accustomed to avoiding. No, I’m not talking about death – we are well-versed in that, even obsessed with the minutiae of a departure from this world, whether we dare to admit it or not. The pomp and ceremony of an Irish pre-Covid funeral is something quite spectacular, swathes of the living coming together in warmth and conviviality to bid a final farewell to a person they loved.
Grief is the subject we remain deeply uncomfortable with. More insidious than the preceding emotion of shock, it tends to make its presence known when the funeral is over, the first carefully placed bouquets start to spoil and the messages of condolence cease.
It creeps from your heart into the pit of your stomach, gripping your body and clutching your breath, suffocating any joy. It’s as if something is trying to squeeze the very life out of you, such is its ferocity. In its early stages, it does not quell, and you may feel like you are drowning in tears. It is so huge, so overwhelming, so frightening – and we simply don’t know what to do with it, which adds to the torment.
Now Covid has put paid to not just the lavish, traditional ways we mark a passing, but also the presence of people, and it is people you need, to help get you through it. You need to reach out, accept help, and as a society we need to welcome it, and stop brushing it away.
Grief is a deeply isolating experience as it is, and this year, that state of aloneness can only be intensified.
So there’s no better time to pay attention to it, and learn to get more comfortable with loss.
I’m including myself in this by the way, as although I’ve had personal experience with earth-shattering grief, it still makes me want to recoil in terror.
THIRTEEN years ago, my heart was broken. And it was a devastation so great, I feared I would never recover from it. It was a beautiful day, on that Friday in September. Myself and my fiancé Edwin, or Ed as everyone called him, were on a motorbike, high in the French Alps. We were due to enter the Italian border that evening, and in this particular spot, close to Val d’Isere, all you could see were verdant valleys, cerulean lakes and majestic mountains. At times it felt like you could touch the clouds.
We had plans. For that day, for the rest of our lives, but there were bigger ones in place. For this breathtaking vista would be the final one Ed would see.
The memories are there, 13 years later, wild and strong when released from a hidden place in my heart. I’m still fragile when it comes to uncovering them. Even though so many years have passed, it hurts.
I was spared the horror of witnessing his death, as I had dismounted the bike to answer the call of nature. He promised he would return in five minutes, and went back up the mountain pass for a ‘burn’; making the most of those hairpin bends.
They would be his last words to me, to anyone.
I waited, and waited some more, for him to return. But he never did.
Ed was involved in a high speed collision, and his life was extinguished in seconds. The accident also claimed the life of another man. As I stood, scuffing my boots in frustration at the delay, I was oblivious to the unimaginable horror that was taking place a mere kilometre away.
As I said, there were bigger plans in place.
For me, it seemed, it was to continue on this path of life. And initially, I didn’t want to. The guilt I felt, that this decision I made to get off that bike, was almost unbearable. Surely, if I hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have gone back up? Why was it his time to die, when I didn’t even have a scratch?
As time went on, I came to look at this in a different way. For whatever reason, it was not my time to depart. There was more for me here. Today, I am married to a wonderful man, Owen, who acknowledged and understood my situation when we met. Readers of this paper may know that we have two beautiful daughters, who fill our days with joy (and drive me scatty too). I am happy and I feel blessed, and incredibly lucky to have this wonderful life.
But there were times I didn’t think I would make it. Especially in those early days, when everything seemed too loud, too bright, and by the same account ominously quiet and dark. Grief is so intense, so utterly overwhelming, that it can be truly terrifying, and initially, all I wanted to do was run, to escape it.
I went to grief counselling about four weeks after Ed died – which is far too early to begin this part of the process, as you remain in shock for a long time after the death of a partner – but I honestly just wanted to hurry things up, so the pain would stop. Grief however cannot be rushed, and in this world of instant gratification, where discomfort is to be circumvented at all costs, this realisation was like a hammer blow. Was Ed’s death not enough? What had I done to deserve this?
I wanted to shed my skin. I couldn’t sit still. I was exhausted, but wired. I eat little, but drank too much. I shopped incessantly, for things I didn’t need or even want. Strangely, I became afraid of the dark, and of being alone in a room. These are normal reactions, but at the time it felt like I was possessed by a malevolent force.
I didn’t know who I was anymore. Every part of my life was linked to Ed – our home, our friends, our families.
How did I even begin to learn to live again? I felt I wasn’t really there, just simply looking in on the world, balancing precariously between the living and the dead.
I would wake up in the mornings and for the first few minutes I’d forget. Then I’d remember, and the tears would start. And oh, the crying. From guttural sobs to a slow, silent trick le–it was a constant. It didn’t matter where I was – at my desk in work, on a plane, in a restaurant. The tears flowed freely on a whim. My face became a mourning mask. I was a panda-eyed, red-nosed, miserable version of my former self. Grief is not fun, and neither is it pretty.
WHEN you’re grieving, you’re totally exposed and vulnerable, and it’s almost painful to be seen. I felt every memory and emotion that came with it, was visible in a ridiculous fluorescent speech bubble over my head.
At times I felt embarrassed, mortified even, and although my amazing family and friends, Ed’s family and my wonderful work colleagues gave me so much support, dealing with grief, especially in the first year, is like wading through quicksand. What doesn’t help is society’s deep uncomfortableness with grief, especially the prolonged sadness. We are used to quick fixes, to constant positivity, to whoosing away anything disagreeable. It’s okay not to feel okay, but try and be quick about it. Grief is dismal, dark and depressing. It’s not that palatable on a long-term basis.
I remember an acquaintance crossing the road to avoid me, and another blanking me in a bar. Some people would well up, or offer such stilted conversation, picking and choosing their words so carefully, that I found it impossible to speak to them. There were times that I, the bereaved, ended up consoling those who hardly knew Ed. I didn’t want to be alone, but the thought of having to make conversation that made sense was exhausting. I grew to detest the looks of pity; they were probably worse than being ignored. I was the very sad elephant in the room. I felt if one more person helpfully said ‘Time is a great healer’ I would scream – I probably did – it was the last thing I wanted to hear. I didn’t have the patience for that.
Could they not understand I just wanted to be seen as Lisa, not some tragic figure?
Over time, Ed retreated from the forefront of my mind, and now the time we spent together and t he memories of our relationship, reside in my heart. When you notice this shift happening, that’s a sign you’re progressing on this incredibly difficult journey, and it comes with a sense of guilt. That goes too, eventually.
I’ve come to look at grief like a scar. At the beginning there’s this unsightly, gaping wound that seems to take forever to heal, no matter what you put on it. Then very slowly, it starts to become less noticeable, and you’re left with this silvery sliver of flesh, that is just part of you. You can never be the same again. You have changed, on a cellular level. There are huge emotions felt with grief, and once the initial intensity subsides, and you gravitate towards the land of the living again, you can see the gifts it has left for you. Empathy, compassion, resilience and fortitude are waiting, like silver linings on the blackest of clouds.
I used to think that because I went through such a traumatic loss, that I would be well-placed to say just the right words and offer unrivalled support to others who are bereaved. But everyone’s grief is their own, and even though you have been t hrough something t hat’s devastating, you can’t assume similar feelings. Also, life can get in the way. I have two small children and am not as able to drop everything in a moment’s notice when needed, much as I would like to.
THERE have been many other funerals since Ed died. One of myself and Owen’s best friends passed away at the age of 40 from cancer three years ago, leaving behind two small children and a partner, and I stumbled over sympathies to her devastated parents. I felt incapable of words in the face of such an unfathomable loss, after months of suffering. Their beautiful, darling girl, gone.
Over the years, some of my close friends have lost parents, and, for me, this is an unimaginable grief, albeit one that I will face, if the natural order of life plays out. I recall trying to console them through their tears on different occasions. Everything I seemed to say sounded trite and contrived, so the last time I found myself in this situation, I did something else.
I listened. I spoke little, but I heard it all. By cutting through the small talk and platitudes, you get to the real stuff. The ugly crying with tears that engulf, the ragged breath, the rawness of heartbreak. And then, sometimes, through the nonsensical broken sentences, the flicker of something – joy? – from a beautiful memory, before the tears come again. One day, those tears will be replaced by a rueful smile, in remembrance of what was, and acknowledgment of the love that remains.
But you have to sit with it, whether you’re grieving or offering support. It’s hard to do this as it’s awkward as all hell. It requires deep patience and tolerance. Sometimes, all you can do is breathe. Don’t be overly concerned by meaningful phrases. Let them talk about their loss, about the person they’ve lost. Or just be there, ask them how they are doing, that really is enough. The times we are living in have made the tactile part of grieving difficult. The hugs, embraces, a hand to hold, someone to wipe your tears, someone to have a cuppa with or to raise a glass – these are limited precious commodities at the moment. My heart breaks for those who live alone and are in the depths of this pronounced pain.
But there’s always support, someone there to listen to you, even if you’re not saying much. If you can’t spend time with a loved one or a friend in person, ring them, text them, keep up that communication.
These are unprecedented times, and it’s essential that you don’t cast yourself adrift completely. After some time, a holiday might be a nice distraction – I was lucky to take a few different trips following Ed’s death – but again, Covid will likely dictate your options. Even if you can’t get away, being in nature can help take you out of yourself, so a beach trip or a woodland walk or simply to feel some sun on your face might give you glimpses of reprieve. Let the tears – and the laughter – come. Feel it all.
There is only one guarantee in life, and that is death. Grief will come to all of our doors. So wouldn’t it be great if as a society we finally accepted and embraced this, in all its terrible beauty? If we developed a blueprint of support as a nation, especially during this time, and encouraged an openness about it, drawing out conversations, dispelling the shame?
REALISING that people are not going to bounce back after the month’s mind, that people will cry for months, and lash out in anger, and make and cancel plans, and desire space but are in dire need of a re-connection to life?
To realise that in grief, you are learning to live again, and this takes time. To show bereavement – all of it – unfiltered and real. This week, in the wake of the devastating loss of her son at 21 weeks, Chrissy Tiegen has made inroads here on social media, showing her cradling her child in tears in hospital on ‘the darkest of days’. By exposing her grief, she will have helped break the taboo for the countless other women across the world who have gone through the worst of the worst, of losing a child.
Why do we continue to stigmatise grief? It is the most natural thing in the world, and the final, lasting, testament of love. We should be proud of it.
My advice to those navigating the inky blackness of it right now i s to reach out – and hold on. There is light waiting for you.
The Irish Hospice Foundation’s Bereavement Line is open to all who have experienced the death of a loved one during the pandemic, Covid-related or not. The number is 1800-80-70-77, and the lines are open Monday to Friday, 10am-1pm.