Today is Mother’s Day. It is a day of joyous celebration for many. We take stock of the gift of life, of our origins, of lessons learned. We are offered the iconic brunch, special gifts by those who love us, flowers and jewelry made of elbow macaroni. So much sweetness is a delight for those of us who are blessed to be surrounded by our munchkins, partners, parents, and friends.
This greeting card moment is very well and good, and I am so appreciative of the lengths my family has gone to in order to make me feel honored and adored today. But there is another side to it. It was not so long ago that Mother’s Day felt to me like the worst possible day to endure. It was my rock bottom. From the outside, it can be difficult for some to understand that days like these – days that feel like the whole world is happy – can be deeply troubling for those who have been left behind by loss. Truthfully, holidays with any sort of specificity like this can be poisonous for the grieving.
I would love to tell you that five years after my first husband died everything is hunky dory and all traces of anguish have melted away into the bliss of new beginnings. But that would be a big fat fib. I love my life now without reservation. We are blessed beyond measure. I will say this again and again: it is because of my experience of loss that I can appreciate today so profoundly. With that experience, of course, comes latent pain. It just does. I have developed some skills over the years to deal with that pain, with the support of many amazing people. While the list of coping mechanisms is long, they generally can be summed up in these categories:
1) Be honest. In the beginning, I spent an inordinate amount of time and energy running from grief. With three young kids, a job, a house, pets, family and friends, I felt like there was simply no room for me to fall apart. I pushed through it. I avoided it. I medicated with drinking and socializing. I worked a lot. I worked out a lot
. Anything I could do to not face the demons of agony that lived in my gut during those first couple of years. It was straight up survival mode.
Guess what? It caught up with me. When it did, I would crash so hard that I could barely breathe. I had serious, real physical responses to the weight of the sorrow of whichI refused to let go. After a few brutal rounds of fighting the grief and failing miserably, I began to give in to the need to speak honestly about it. It took a little figuring out, but after a while I was able to discern to whom I could spill my guts without judgment or mess, and to whom I could not. This safe circle allowed me to spew all of the emotional toxins that I would carry around; it became a process that was and is essential for healing and clarity.
Just like we process out waste after a meal, so too must we release the emotional crap. Yep, I said it. Identifying people who will listen with compassion is a must. Be they friends, a support group, a therapist, an online community who shares an experience or an interest (my circle was and is made up of all of these), if they allow you to safely purge your stuff, then allow them to listen. If you don’t have safe people in your life now, find them. Check out this website for a place to begin: www.soaringspirits.org.
2) Be present. Mindfulness teaching tells us that pain often comes from the discrepancy between our expectations and our reality. (I am not a Mindfulness instructor. For more on this wonderful school of thought and practice, see my amazing friend Maria’s website: mindfulnesstrainingsrc.org if you are in Western NY, and http://www.plumvillage.org for a sense of the whole approach). When we are grieving a profound loss, the grief is not just for that person. We grieve for all that we hoped and dreamed would be with that person but is no longer possible. It is natural and wonderful to dream with the person with whom you share your life. When that person is no longer there, the dreams die too.
.
As the shock of loss begins to fade into the routines of the new normal, it is incumbent on the ones left behind to begin to live in the present reality without our loved one. This is a practice that takes patience, compassion for self, and good old-fashioned time. It involves an awareness of the world going on after yours has stopped, and making the choice to rejoin it again. It means making peace with your broken heart, and accepting that your life will never be what you thought it was going to be. It means choosing to believe that it can be something else in this very moment, and the next, and the next. Slowly, the practice of living for the present day becomes a habit. Even on the days when I struggle to be present, I know that I have done it before, and that I can do it again tomorrow.
3) Begin new traditions. When Peter died, many of our little family’s routines did too. The rituals that we practiced together were tossed away because they were too painful to hold on to without him. Slowly, a few new and lovely events have become cherished new traditions. Now, rather than dread these markers of loss, I actually look forward to some of them.
One of these traditions, quite happily, is Mother’s Day with my dear long-time friend Allison (see #1). With a near 20-year history, Allison and I became single moms at about the same time, and we both have boys around the same age. We decided a few years back that we would celebrate each other on Mother’s Day rather than wallow in solitary misery. We carried on this tradition today, and we are all so glad to be each others’ chosen family. As she was leaving this afternoon she said “isn’t it great that we have built this family together?” It certainly is.
4) Remember gratitude. I know this can sound trite, but it really does work. Finding even the smallest detail for which you can feel grateful may serve as a stepping-stone toward new growth. Feel the beauty of the sun on a spring day. Find the hope in a child’s voice. Experience the simple relief of a warm bath. Anything that can bring you a bit of peace in your day is worth notice if you can find gratitude for it.
Another dear friend and fellow widow likened early grieving to writhing like a worm on hook: there you are impaled and wriggling, staring your life in the face, at the mercy of forces greater than you, totally vulnerable and seemingly with no recourse. I found this analogy quite accurate. So find little bits of solace, however small or brief, that can help you heal and become well.
5) Be compassionate with yourself. This is super tough. Many of us are taught that displaying emotion is weak, and that mistakes are unforgivable. But that is utter nonsense. It is human to experience times when we need shoring up, when we fail miserably, and when we fall apart. In grief, the pain is sometimes so
overwhelming that we act out or behave in ways that we would otherwise never consider. This is a bitter truth, but a truth nonetheless. If we are to find new life after loss, then we must be kind ourselves. Ask yourself if you would judge a friend in your position the way you are judging yourself. Chances are you would have compassion for that friend. Remember that when you start in with the self-flagellation. And repeat steps 1-4.
There is no cure-all for grief, but we are built to endure. I woke up this morning with every reason in the world to be happy, and I was. I was also a little bit sad, and that is OK. I have learned to accept that allowing for vulnerability is a path to greater self-knowledge, and compassion for others too.
Happy Mother’s Day to all who are open to happiness on this day. To those who are not, please be gentle with yourself. Have faith in your ability to love again. If you didn’t have the capacity for great love, then you wouldn’t hurt so much. If you have done it once, you just might have the courage to give it another shot someday. In the meantime, know that you are not alone.
Widowsill 