Reshaping long-term grief

Comment: SpiritLinks

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How can I procrastinate writing this week's column? Let me count the ways: There's always food to cook or bake or nuke, which makes for dirty dishes – to wash or not to wash. I could grab another cup of coffee or tea or lemonade – fresh squeezed is best, of course. Bathroom break, yet again. There are comfort snacks right out of the pack; back and neck need to stretch; phone calls to make or answer; and e-mail, of course  – it's been only 5 minutes but the message I've been waiting for may have come in. There are teeth to floss, nails to file, face to exfoliate and hydrate, lips to un-chap; hands to moisturize. If I'm really desperate I could convince myself I care that I may be missing breaking news: The evolution vs. consciousness debate has been resolved; nah, that's old news. Exposés of the sexual habits of politicians, the undoing of Britney Spears' sobriety; weather-related catastrophes caused by global warming; Bin Laden captured.

 

I don't suffer writer's block in the sense that I don't know what to say. In fact, I can't write the words fast enough to tell you all that I have on my mind and in my heart. I have columns planned for 10-15 weeks in advance. But, sometimes a week comes when unexpected interruptions yank me off track again and again until it's too late to organize my thoughts or pull together the research on a topic I had scheduled.

 

Sometimes I get the feeling there is a force luring me away from my intention and toward a specific topic. Such is the case this week, the week of my son's birthday, March 9th -- of my son, Adrian, who died February 25, 1987. Best laid plans disrupted. What is happening here? I kept asking as one thing arose and then another. Yesterday I gave in to the draw that feels like a plot to distract me from the column I wanted to write. Finally, I waded willingly into the emotions to head off having a rogue wave tow me under as I tried to flee.

 

I didn't want to share this time. In past columns I've written about my loss, my grief, my connection with my son's spirit, honoring his life, and respecting grief. I wanted the feelings to be compartmentalized – over there. Yet, here we are again, you and me. Perhaps you too will glean some gem from my sharing. Perhaps you too have found that when we ignore an opportunity to learn something, we blink and run smack dab into it again.

 

"Twenty-one years, aren't you milking this too long?" Some say. My answer is always the same: For as long as I live, I am Adrian's mother. That does not change by his death, only my role is different. My arms are empty, but not my heart. I am fortunate to feel a profound connection with my son's spirit. That comforts me, yet, it does not diminish the ache for his physical presence, nor the tragedy of his life cut short. I will always feel that the movie ended in the middle.

 

Not every bereaved person feels the same. Each survivor is unique, each loss has its own dimensions and depth. Yet, for those who've experienced great loss, there is a knowingness. I remember believing I understood grief before my son died. I was compassionate; I had great empathy for suffering; I was so naïve.

 

The feelings of the bereaved are unimaginable. They should not be imagined. They should be respected, tolerated, acknowledged, accepted and encouraged (with professional help if willing). Denial is futile. Repression floods the body with toxins. It may take years, maybe even decades, but trying to suppress the agony of loss will eat away the heart and brain, muscles and limbs. To sing, to dance, to run will never have the quality they once did until we sing our grief into harmony; dance our pain into joy, run the heartache to the finish line. Grief energy must be changed from the ugliness of torment into creativity and re-birth of new life. The rock in my brain, the twist in my gut must be coaxed and coddled and restructured into health.

 

When grief beckons, the more I resist, the more it persists. The stronger my avoidance, the greater the sense of loss. I will never "get over" the loss of my son. Yet, I can choose to incorporate the grief into my life. I can choose to keep re-shaping the clay into a form that pleases my eyes, one I can touch without flinching, one that mends my heart and brings peace and joy to my soul.

 

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Diana deRegnier is a freelance writer and writes the weekly column SpiritLinks for UPI ReligionAndSpirituality.com from the San Francisco Bay Area. Her articles appear in numerous Internet and print publications. Diana is also editor and webmaster for the non-profit program www.SpiritLinksNewsletter.org for spiritual explorers of any or no religious affiliation. © Copyright 2008 by Diana deRegnier.