If you go to a counselor while you’re grieving, chances are you’ll hear about the five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. You may or may not be told that these stages rarely come in this order and often cycle around. Your grief may be more like mine often is: denial, anger, anger, anger, anger, or as I like to call it, "Hulk sad."
Your counselor might not warn you about the numbness. They might not think to tell you that halfway through a shower, you’ll stare at where your fingers clutch the loofah and think that someone else is in the driver’s seat of your brain. They might not mention that horrible sobs will come out of nowhere and then dissipate a moment later, leaving you red-eyed and dizzy.
You might not be told that grief lingers. You don’t reach “acceptance” and then stop grieving. At least, I don’t. I think that I’ve accepted that this person is gone, and then the continuous ache deep inside me flares into terrible grief. I hear “Sweet Caroline” and want to call Grandma Nadine so we can listen to a Neil Diamond record together. I see a package of Oreos and want Grandpa Art to eat the cookie part after I’ve licked all the cream.
I post a Facebook status and wait for Aunt Linda to comment. And wait. And wait.
She’d been sick for a long time. I’d known for a while that she would probably die this summer. But I wasn’t prepared. I don’t know how to be prepared to let go of someone I love.
When Mum told me on Thursday, I was at work at the daycare. I cried in front of my kids. I’d like to say that I cried in front of them because I want them to know that crying is a natural part of grief. On some philosophical level, that’s true. But I wasn’t thinking about teaching life lessons. I wasn’t even thinking about the cadence of Aunt Linda’s voice or how she sent me every article that reminded her of me. I was caught in the raw first moment of grief.
Later, I cried thinking about her grandkids missing her; cried for my little cousin, who’s 8, the same age I was when I lost my grandpa. I can’t speak to how other kids that age process loss, but I remember certain moments clearly. I remember the fear and frustration I felt when Grandma cried. I remember sitting in the kitchen, the only child in a room full of adults, being offered stale chocolate chip cookies. I remember hearing my mum on the phone in the other room, saying, “I think Kirstin’s handling it pretty well.” I remember thinking, Do I really look OK?
When I got on Facebook today, after almost a week away, the app reminded me to wish my aunt a happy birthday. I don’t know what to do with the vacuum of space where she used to exist. Knowing the stages of grief doesn’t make losing her any easier.
