Grief Graffiti

In his book, “A Space in the Heart” (which I highly recommend), Larry Carlat asks his wife, Caryn, how she’s changed since their son’s death. She replied:

For reasons I can’t explain, there are days when I wake up and things are very routine. I brush my teeth, shower, work, my son passed away, I have to go food shopping, mundane things like that. And then other times, I’ll be in my car on my way to yoga, and it feels like I’m having an out-of-body experience. Profound sadness and disbelief and hopelessness. And then after a few moments, I move on.

I know how to handle my grief now. I have more control over it, but if I allow myself to “go there” it is still very raw. More than anything, [my son’s] death has given me a new perspective on life. I feel like my patience with minutiae is nonexistent, and I compare my loss to everything. Therefore, I find it hard to be compassionate. When someone tells me about an inconvenience in their life, I think to myself, “Wow, how lucky are you that that’s your biggest problem today!” By the same token, I’ve become completely vulnerable and empathetic to people who are suffering what I consider to be “real” loss. I want to hug them a little longer. I want them to know how much I understand their pain and that they are not alone, that life changes and the pain changes with it. 

Finally, the happiness of my living son is paramount to me. I am acutely aware of how I feel about peace and joy for him. As for myself, I’m not sure what the point is in anything most days.

I know these feelings well. It can be so confusing & often feels like I’m taking “one step forward, one step backward”. To know that this is normal & part of the grief process helps. Larry goes on to talk about this dichotomy in grief & makes a list of the parts:

“One part of you knows that you must go on with your life, while another part doesn’t ever want to get out of bed.

One part of you feels like you did everything possible to save your child, while another part takes you to task for not having done enough.

One part of you believes that you were the best parent a child could ever have, while another part questions how you could possibly be the best parent when you failed to keep your child alive.

One part of you accepts the reality of your loss, while another part remains lost in disbelief.

One part of you acknowledges that love never dies and that grief lasts a lifetime, while another part wonders how you could possibly continue to live like this.

One part of you understands that enduring the worst thing that could ever happen to a parent makes you a stronger person, while another part asks how you can be stronger when a piece of you is missing and can never be replaced.

One part of you has begun to process your grief by facing what scares you the most, while another part simply ignores it.

One part of you has stopped crying all the time and feels a tiny bit better, while another part suffers an intense sadness that will never go away.

One part of you doesn’t allow the loss to define you, while another part feels like the poster child for bereaved parents who are endlessly pitied.

One part of you is slowly letting go of denial, guilt, anger, and fear, while another part is drowning in an ocean of sorrow.

One part of you has been able to experience joy again, however short-lived, while another part feels terribly guilty about it.

One part of you has become a warrior, while another part is exhausted and ready to give up.

One part of you is hopeful that you’ll survive your tragic loss as so many have before you, while another part is certain that nobody has ever experienced the depth of pain you’re living through.

One part of you is certain that nothing can ever hurt you again, while another part is an open wound that will never heal.

One part of you takes great comfort in your faith, while another part admonishes God for taking away the most cherished gift He ever gave to you.

One part of you is becoming yourself again, while another part feels that the best part of yourself is gone forever.

One part of you has stopped torturing yourself by asking unanswerable questions, while another part stays up all night trying to answer them in vain.

One part of you needs to be strong for your other children, while another part secretly fears for their lives.

One part of you has changed and evolved with your grief, while another part is scared that if you change too much, you’ll lose the connection with your child.

One part of you senses that what you’re feeling is exactly what you should be feeling and that you’ll feel differently in the future, while another part views the future as meaningless.

One part of you realizes that juggling all these complex and paradoxical feelings is just part of the grieving process that you can hold opposing thoughts at the same time while another part, after making a fuss, reluctantly agrees.

One part of you concedes that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, while another part still wonders how to become whole again.“