I found myself in an unfamiliar late-night lounge bar, a place I wouldn’t typically visit. For years, no man had offered to buy me a drink except for my late husband. However, when a tall, mysterious gentleman surprised me with his invitation, I surprised myself by accepting. Just moments before, in a brief conversation, I had mentioned that my husband had passed away 19 months ago.
As we sat at the bar, this stranger asked if I was “emerging.” It was a question I had never been asked by my grief counselor or clinical psychologist. Most people simply ask the perfunctory “how are you?” which usually elicits an “I’m okay” response, even when that’s far from the truth. People mean well, but they often don’t know how to approach someone who is grieving. Many choose to say nothing at all, as they wish for us to be okay. They fear confronting the harsh reality of grief, afraid that it might be contagious. Grief is uncomfortable for everyone.
The gentleman’s unexpected question demanded a response. As I stared into the backlit display of spirit bottles behind the bar, I replied that I was still deeply affected by grief.
After our conversation, we both went our separate ways, but his question stayed with me. It nagged at me, compelling me to question whether I was still consumed by grief.
If I were to visualize my grief as a continuum, complete devastation would reside at one end. Theoretically, there is a lighter version of grief further along the spectrum. According to John Bowlby and Colin Murray Parkes’ four phases of grief model, it begins with a state of shock and numbness, then transitions to yearning and searching, followed by disorganization and despair, before reaching reorganization and recovery. When you are at the bottom, it’s difficult to imagine anything other than endless, overwhelming grief because everything seems dark and bleak.
I have progressed from acute grief, which I experienced immediately after my husband’s passing, to what is considered early grief, nearly two years later. I have immersed myself in a vast array of resources and learned that while grief is a universal experience, it is also deeply personal and has no specific timeline. Not everyone follows the widely recognized stages of grief proposed by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in her book “On Death and Dying,” and even those who do, do not do so linearly. (It’s important to note that Kübler-Ross’s stages were initially modeled for the dying, rather than the bereaved.) I understand that the only way to heal from grief is to allow myself to feel it, and that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.
The five and a half years of anticipatory grief during my husband’s illness did little to prepare me for the wave of actual grief that hit me when he passed away. As I watched him take his final breath, I held mine in, entering a state of surreal, high-functioning shock that lasted for weeks. Soon after, I would fall into a type of crying that words cannot describe. I was engulfed in sadness and sorrow, with a broken heart and soul.
As I sank deeper into this emotional abyss, feeling utterly devastated, I would occasionally find myself emerging, gasping for air, only to be dragged back down by overwhelming grief. It felt impossible to escape from its gravitational pull.
I had heard that, over time, the tsunamis of grief would subside and transform into more manageable waves. However, it was taking longer than expected, and I still have a lifetime ahead of me. The reality was so overwhelming that, at one point, I questioned the purpose of my own existence. Without my beloved, it seemed there was no reason to be here.
Grief is a profound experience because at its core lies love. Grief persists because our love persists. I experienced a slight shift as I passed the “year of firsts” – the first birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, and New Year without my husband. It is widely believed that the first twelve months are the most challenging, but the second year often proves to be harder. I believe the initial numbness we experience is the brain’s way of protecting us, only allowing us to process what we can handle. The anesthesia wears off during the second year, and we awaken to the harsh reality of our situation: we are living with a permanent loss and will continue to feel the phantom pain of an amputated limb.
Yet, there is still another life to be lived.
Despite actively grieving, I am also actively living. I have embraced new experiences, such as joining a choir and learning Latin dance. I immerse myself in work, practice yoga, and travel more. My social calendar looks different now, and I find myself joining friends in places like that late-night lounge bar.
Triggers are everywhere, and when grief strikes, we often desperately try to make it dissipate. However, we soon learn that grief cannot be rushed or escaped. If we are fortunate enough to occasionally feel joy – and I do – guilt often follows, accompanied by the fear that we are dishonoring the memory of our loved one. We become attached to our grief, as it feels like the only tangible form of love we have left for the person we lost. Letting go of our grief and no longer being consumed by it might feel like letting them go as well.
David Kessler, who co-authored “On Grief and Grieving” with Kübler-Ross, introduced another stage of grief. In his book “Finding Meaning,” he explores ways to find hope and love after loss by honoring our loved ones. One way I honor my husband is by living by his motto: “Make each moment count because you just never know. You only get one kick at the can.” It’s a work in progress.
Grief is an incredibly powerful experience because it is rooted in love. Grief endures because our love endures. Tears may fall as we mourn the person who shared our memories, and that is completely okay. Grief is fluid, and the waves of sadness will continue to crash upon us, but they won’t always pull us under. I am learning to ride the crest of these waves, returning to life with a glimmer of hope and the possibility of new experiences.
Yes, I am emerging.
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