2020 vision: Reflections on an overwhelming year of grief

Later this week, it will be one year since my Dad died. I can’t be with my family to mark this day because I’m in another state to say goodbye to my father-in-law who is also dying. There have been times over the last year where grieving and the expectation of new grief have filled my world, like suffocating expanding foam. Other times, it has drifted to the back of my mind for a little while. I could almost forget that Dad was gone. But not quite and not forever.

After a year, I’ve been reflecting on how grief has impacted me and those around me. I’ve also been thinking about the different forms of grief we experience. Death is not the only loss, as the pandemic has taught us.

Nothing can prepare you

My father’s death was sudden and unexpected. The shock and trauma of his death reverberates through our family still. Perhaps it always will. None of us were prepared to lose him. We weren’t ready for the tidal wave of grief that hit us. But I don’t think this state of unpreparedness relates only to sudden loss.

My father-in-law has been terminally ill for over a year. He is now in the final stages of his motor-neuron disease. We know that he is dying and we do not have much time left. Despite this awful ‘heads up’, I don’t believe anyone is really ready for the end. How can you be? While they are with you, its hard to imagine them gone. The finality of death is hard to grasp until it has actually occurred. I think the experience of grief will be different in this case. But it will still catch you unawares.

I’m not a psychologist, nor am I trying to be in these reflections. Perhaps someone with more knowledge would tell me that you can prepare for grief. But in my personal experience, that’s not the case. Each loss effects you differently, based on a whole host of factors. I may be more aware of my emotions with this second loss, coming so close on the first. In reality, I don’t know how I’ll feel, or how my husband and in-laws will grieve. It’s so personal an experience.

There’s more than one kind of loss

I’ve lost my Dad. My husband is losing his. Traumatic as these losses are, I’m realising that these aren’t the only ones we’ve had. They are by far the most painful and life changing. But we’ve experienced loss in different ways over the last twelve months.

We’re grieving for the children we haven’t had, and may never have. It’s a different loss, mourning someone you’ve never met, who never existed. But being stuck in the limbo of infertility, facing a potentially childless future is a grief of its own. I find I swing through similar emotions regarding infertility as I do around my Dad, albeit in different intensities.

Then there’s the loss of all the experiences we hoped to have in 2020 and 2021. The birthday parties, engagement parties and weddings we missed. Nearly 300 days of lockdown meant even the ability go out for a date was restricted. For me, this loss pales in comparison to the others. But it’s still something I miss. I wish we had been able to carry on our normal lives, building memories with our friends and families. The ability to socialise and travel would have been so helpful in healing from grief. Instead, we were stuck in our small apartment, with limited contact with other people for much of the last year.

If there weren’t darker clouds in my sky, I think those losses would be sharper. As it is, I still feel the disappointment and frustration of losing a year of normality.

It’s hard to find words to describe the process of grieving

Even ‘process’ doesn’t really work. Process implies there is a set of steps with an end goal in mind. But I’m not really sure how to describe my grief and how it is unfolding. I won’t ‘get over’ the fact that my Dad isn’t around anymore. But I hope that I won’t always be so sharply hurt by it.

I know there are clinical terms and definitions, and I understand they are useful and necessary. That said, I don’t always find they apply. Or maybe I just don’t feel they’re adequate to describe this awfully confusing feeling. I love words, but they fail me in this arena. I find it hard to comfort my husband as he begins grieving. What can I say? I know something of what he is experiencing, but it’s so totally different at the same time.

When grief was fresh, friends, family and colleagues tried to find words to comfort us. Bless them, they tried so hard. But there really is nothing to say, and that’s nobody’s fault. We all want to provide comfort, but we know we can’t understand what this person is going through. We know that everything we say seems trite in that moment of anguish.

My advice, if I can be so bold as to offer it, is just to listen. Give your grieving friend a place to pour out all their incoherent feelings, thoughts and tears. You don’t really have to say anything. Just sit with them as they grieve. Offer a hug, hold their hand. Cry with them if you want. Certainly, I appreciated nothing more than when dear friends gave me this space, although I know it would have been awkward and intense for them.

I’m surprised by how much guilt follows grief

‘If only I’d called more often’

‘I can’t believe I’m forgetting him’

‘It’s starting to feel normal without him. How can I be feeling that so soon?’

‘It will be a relief when he’s free from this awful condition. Wait, am I feeling relieved about someone dying?’

Guilt has been a close companion to my grief. That surprised me. It probably shouldn’t have. I’m a classic perfectionist and love feeling bad about not doing everything ‘right’. But, as I said above, nothing prepares you.

When you lose someone, it’s very easy to beat yourself up for all the things you didn’t do or say. As time passes, guilt can rear its ugly head about the fact that you’re feeling better, or that life is taking on a new normal. None of that is productive or necessary, of course. But that doesn’t stop it from cropping up, especially in weaker moments of exhaustion or even boredom.

It has also been a part of our infertility journey. There are certainly some benefits of not having children. We have more time for each other. I can sleep in on weekends, and have plenty of time for hobbies and exercise. Money isn’t an issue. There are times when I am grateful for these benefits, and that helps me feel less sad about the children we don’t have. Often, that’s when I can start to feel guilty for enjoying such ‘shallow’ pleasures instead of being prostrated with grief for our lack of babies. Again, not helpful or healthy. I’m working on acknowledging and understanding these feelings. I’m just surprised by how prevalent they can be.

Never be afraid to ask for help

I put my hand out for help recently, because I realised that I wasn’t handling my various griefs well. Honestly, my husband had to push me pretty hard, pointing out that I wasn’t my usual self. Listen to those around you when they say things like this. It’s very easy to get so caught up in grief that you don’t even realise you are struggling.

Please ask for help. There are plenty of good mental health professionals out there who can help you. But don’t stop there. You can put your hand up at work and ask for help there too. Maybe you need to reduce your work load or take some time off. Ask family and friends for help with cleaning, chores or baby sitting. Get in touch with your network however you can. Sometimes you just need someone to bring around a huge lasagna or an oversized batch of sausage rolls.

I’ve found that people can really shine in dark times. My family and friends were amazing in the depths of my grief. Food, cards, flowers, prayers flooded in. They reached out to give myself, my mum and my siblings space to share, cry or be silent. Later, there were surprise hampers or social events that helped pull us out of the dark. 

People want to help. Don’t be afraid to ask them. Think about how you would feel, in their position. A certain amount of awkwardness exists, when confronted with such raw emotion. But we still want to be there to help, however we can. Give those who love you a chance.