Stay Raw

Posted October 5, 2009
29 Comments

jim and me with mom on mothers day in 2001

This past Saturday I was at my gym on the elliptical machine thinking about October’s 12for12k campaign. I remembered  how I used to play Johnny Cash songs for mom whenever she was in the hospital. I suddenly started crying – in front of everyone. My mom seven years ago but sometimes it still feels so raw.

Sad isn’t bad

I used to think the grieving process and baby shampoo had the same goal: No more tears. During the first couple of years, if I found myself crying, I’d think “This isn’t good. You should be over this by now”. Even after beating a dead horse into dust with therapy, the tears were still there.

Then one day, I asked myself: “What if I feel the hurt forever?” And with that question, the clouds suddenly parted like the start of a Simpson’s episode.

“Life is good” does not mean that death is bad

If I’m ok with smiling when I think of the birth of my son, why am I not ok with crying when I think of the death of my mom? Aren’t birth and death two sides of the same coin? Maybe it’s because our culture has a guy wearing a “Life Is Good” shirt pushing death on a gurney down an empty hospital corridor and shoving it in into a janitor closet.

In any case, I realize now that the grieving process is not about “getting over it”. It’s about processing the grief (grieving process, right?). Just as coal goes through a process to become diamonds, grief goes through a process to become compassion, appreciation and wisdom.

Processing grief = staying raw

So now when I think of my mom, my tears have a completely different chemical makeup:

  • I know with my whole life what it’s like when someone close dies.
  • Even though the days feel long, life is shorter than we ever imagine.
  • I cry, this is me. I don’t care if you call me a freak (more on this in an upcoming post).
  • My mom and I didn’t always get a long, so sometimes in my tears I feel angry.
  • But sometimes they’re also tears of forgiveness.
  • My tears also cleanse and refresh my appreciation for everything my mom gave me.

So for me, after I go through the “chemical grieving process”, death becomes a gain – not a loss. And this gain – this rawness – I can use as a weapon of compassion, appreciation and wisdom. In short, I stay raw.

What about you?

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  • John:
    I identify with you here. I had to deal with five deaths of loved ones in a three-week period recently. I turned to writing to help me mourn. Here is some of what I wrote:

    There has been a recurring theme the past few weeks in my life. Death and funerals.

    I still cry when I think about these unexpected deaths

    As family tragedy replaces my attention to work details, I turn to writing to mourn and remember. Tears fill my eyes.

    I am not confused by the dying, for I have seen enough dying to trust it. Nor am I confused by the grieving family, for death brings torment and families can collapse. Nor am I surprised by the conflicting prayers being offered, for people always mistake their desires for their God's will. In my grieving, I cry.

    Sending flowers, cards and attending services seems hardly enough after a lifetime of receiving love. Grown children and grandchildren often wonder if they are giving enough. We remember when we could only receive. Now that we can give back, we have families and responsibilities elsewhere.

    But that is the point, isn't it? We give to others what our parents, grandparents, relatives and friends gave to us. It isn't a closed circle of quid pro quo, but a linear passing along of grace.

    Our relatives join us in moving forward, showing us the path of aging, grieving and dying, so that when it is our turn, we know the way. As I write about it, I think about relatives and friends that have passed and I learn more about grace, grit, humility and kindness. As I recall their lives and the love they’ve shown, I weep.

    Weeping must happen. For dying hurts, and watching a loved one die hurts. If we hide in anger, blaming and endless medical questions, we deny our own humanity, we deny the grieving process, we deny grace, we deny the ability to move forward.

    Today I weep.
  • Jeff - thanks for this. I love how you describe what I would call a cycle of birth and death: "We give to others what our parents, grandparents, relatives and friends gave to us. It isn't a closed circle of quid pro quo, but a linear passing along of grace... I think about relatives and friends that have passed and I learn more about grace, grit, humility and kindness."

    "If we hide in anger, blaming and endless medical questions, we deny our own humanity" - this statement is the essence of what I was attempting in this post. Embracing my shadows expanded my life and has increased my capacity to care for another.

    Thank you, thank you, thank you, Jeff!
  • I think the first reaction folks will have is "what will others think if I do/feel/write this??" and they squelch it. But you bring up a great point. Emotions are human and sharing them is humanizing. And in a medium that can be, at times, sterile/impersonal it's important to show that there's a real person on the other end. It builds trust and dialogue.
  • remarkablogger
    Grief is like shampoo in another way: Lather, rinse, REPEAT.

    If you're not open and raw, then you're closed, contracted on yourself, and you'll make yourself sick inside.
  • Very good point, brother. Amen!
  • Grieving does put us directly in touch with what it means to be human. Our interconnectedness enriches us and yet leaves us open to the pain of loss. Having worked in hospice care for many years, I know that the process of grieving can feel long and dark. As you shared, however, there is also tremendous opportunity to grow in compassion, appreciation and wisdom. Thank you John for your thoughtful post!
  • You're welcome Nancy. One of my very first summer jobs was mopping floors at a local convalescent home. You can imagine how present death was in that environment. It was interesting how much they concealed death, by distracting other patients as the sheet-covered gurney was wheeled down the hall. I remember thinking about absurd the denial was.
  • KD
    I think we find ourselves compelled to "be over it" because the people around us don't know what to do when we have a "moment." For those that attend the funeral, it's all over after they've dropped off a lasagna and headed home. For those affected by the death itself, it's just beginning.

    I have had this experience with losing my dad, and I've also had this experience with a horrific break-up that pretty much shattered my life. It's been disheartening to me to have people be tired of it--I mean, the nerve of me to still be feeling pain, like I have the option to control it. So I mostly just grieve alone, and the rest of the time put on the expected front of being totally well-adjusted and happy. It makes me sad and angry that no one is strong enough or compassionate enough to be there for me. But I am definitely still raw much of the time. And the rest of the time I am actually pretty numb. Those are my two biggest emotions. These two experiences have left me with a very bleak outlook on what life has to offer before we're gone ourselves (and yes, I've been to therapy--years' worth after both events).

    I guess the one thing that gives me any kind of hope is that if I can still feel so raw after what most people would consider "enough time" has passed, it at least means I'm capable of feeling SOMETHING. And maybe someday that will mean I can feel happy about something if anything worth being happy about comes along.
  • I remember at my mom's funeral, I was a bit punchy and out of sorts. Whenever someone would say to me, "I'm sorry for your loss", I'd say "Yeah... don't let it happen again." At least I broke up the tension in the room.
  • I love this!
  • John, I had to give a little laugh inside when I read the bit about "you should be over this by now" - I expect that any of us who have experienced a major loss have all said those scolding words to ourselves at some point.

    We talk about the grieving process like it's something finite, and vaguely shameful. You know, take a week of work and go away and get it over with, then come back into harness like nothing ever happened. Weird. It's just weird, to treat a major part of life that way. You are so right, it's vital to acknowledge both sides of the life equation.

    And I very much like that last line of Michael's comment: "If you're not open and raw, then you're closed, contracted on yourself..." and Jeff's thought, too: "It isn't a closed circle of quid pro quo, but a linear passing along of grace."
  • There is no destination place in grieving (at least for me). There is however, a creative / spiritual process of creating an increasing amount of value for others.
  • The death of one's mom is the most primal death I can ever imagine. From her I was created, and now that place of creation is gone. I am a ship on an ocean with no ability to return to the shore.
  • Wow. Poignant...poetic...perfect.
  • Thanks, Jeff. I knew you'd connect.
  • stevedrake
    John, so many memories flood back ... No More Tears may be a goal but doesn't really work that way does it?

    My mom died in 1999 ... after 6+ years of Altzheimers ... we lost her mind long before we lost her body. Each of her five kids said a few words at her funeral. I couldn't make it through my "2 minutes" ... felt like an idiot.

    Dad died in 2001 ... 8 days after he played a round of golf. And, fortunately, we made it to his bedside while he was still alive.

    Between the two ... would take Dad's quick death over Mom's prolonged dieing.

    The hard part -- for me -- is when something happens and I want to share it with them. Whether an award or a neat sunset.

    And, have to admit that I feel a bit jealous of my wife when she calls her mom to visit. Right after mom and dad died, I found myself taking a walk while Barb talked with her mom. Didn't seem fair. Talk about feeling guilty!

    Death of partent is not only raw, but also makes you realize you're now part of the older generation ... at least I'm not the oldest in my family!

    Thanks for allowing us to share.
  • Steve - thanks! The hard part for me is not being able to share victories with my mom as well, but I have gotten used to sharing them with her in my heart (cause I believe that her life has penetrated the entire universe, including my heart). And Guthrie, my son who is almost six - she never met him. That's hard for me. I tell Guthrie stories about his Grandmother as much as I can.
  • marjae
    When I was nine and ten years old, I lost seven relatives in my family. Great-grandparents, great-aunts & uncles (including one who lived right next door), and my baby brother. It's been 13 years since my brother died, and I still haven't completely 'healed'. I still sometimes cry when I think about it. I cry when I think of the hurt and damage his death caused our family, and the years of pain and depression it caused my mother. I cry when I remember the sense of utter helplessness I had watching my father, the strongest man I knew, cry. I cry because I only got to know my brother for four short months. I lost that relationship. But, I also smile. I remember what a happy, bouncing, healthy child he was. I remember his smile. I remember how much joy his existence brought our family, and I'm so grateful for that.

    I don't believe you ever fully 'recover' from the death of a family member or someone who is really close to you. It creates a wound which, though it might develop a scab and eventually a scar, is always there. Even when it 'heals', the experience of having lost someone changes you as a person. Is that a bad thing? No. Death is just as much a fact of life as living is. I am a stronger and hopefully more sympathetic person as a result of my loses. I am also grateful for this.

    Pain exists for a reason. It makes you focus on the problem. Denying grief is like pretending you don't have an open gaping wound. The wound eventually becomes so infected and inflamed that it cannot be ignored... and usually causes a lot more damage which takes far longer to heal. If left untreated, it can destroy you.

    hmm... didn't really mean to say all of that when I started to comment, but there you go... Thanks for sharing, John!
  • Marjae - thanks for sharing. Seriously.

    My brother and his wife had a preemie baby girl a few years ago. She only lived for 6 hours. They had to fill out both a birth certificate AND a death certificate.
  • My father is on his third round of chemo for bone cancer. Its a tough time all around. I am looking for relief everywhere.

    Thanks for sharing.
  • Margot - I'm sure there's a local support group in your town. No?
  • John,

    You have this incredible gift of portraying exactly what you're feeling, in a way that anyone can relate to and open up to.

    Like you've said (and many others in the comments above), the two emotions are connected; we just don't realize that often enough. And sometimes, it takes the pain of death to show us the "joy" of death as well. We recall memories long forgotten; we picture images that were previously stored in our memory banks; we see private conversations as public words to be cherished.

    There's absolutely nothing wrong in shedding tears several years later. It's still part of the hurt that I don't think anyone gets over. The difference is, the hurt (I feel) is mixed with the joy of the things that we'd forgotten, and that now makes up our memories. Take that away, you take the memories away. And none of us want that - without memories, we have no present.

    So cry on, fella - it's all part of the ongoing journey.
  • Thanks, Danny. The other amazing thing about death is a sense of mission it forges within your life. Sometimes I feel, "My mom is no longer in this world, so I must live strongly for the two of us!" Call it crazy, but I honestly feel that any good cause I make (helping others) benefits her life.
  • debsellsbr
    John,

    I truly appeciate you sharing your feelings about your grief and the loss of your mom. I lost my mom 3 years ago, this past September. I had quit the corporate world to move back home to care for her for 5 1/2 years. It was a blessing for both of us. She showed me how to live w/ debilitating illness and still greet each day with a smile. She had such grace and dignity, and compassion for others, right up to the end. I was NOT prepared for her death. I find it strange that, at 58 y.o., I've watched many babies come into the world and celebrated each joyous occasion, yet, no one prepared me for death, let alone my mom's. It was such a surreal experience. It is still very "RAW" for me. I can cry at the drop of a hat. I would cry walking through grocery stores or at the gym (like you) and folks would stop me and ask if there was anything they could do for me. I'd just say that I was grieving the loss of my mama. They wouldn't know what to say then. It was ok.

    My mom lives on inside me...I feel that every day. The things that she taught me, her kind and gentle, caring spirit...I've got it!! And I talk to her so many times throughout the day. I just don't want to forget the way her hands felt......so very soft, when I would hold them, or the precious smile looking back up at me from her bed...and her scent..the fragrance that surrounded her even while in the hospital. At times I'm afraid that I will forget...I hope not.

    Grieving is an individual journey and has no time limitations or conditions. For me, it is weaving the fabric of her life into mine and knowing that this is truly the cycle of life. I am JOY-FULL because this wonderful woman is no longer suffering. And I'm truly happy that she was MY mom.

    Let those tears flow, John! I'll be right there with you, with my own. Losing ones mother is BIG. It just is! There are no "replacements." Carry her in your heart always, John.

    Thanks for this post. I needed this today...a few tears & wonderful memories.









  • Deb - your described things so well! My mom had an aneurysm when I was a kid (read earlier post titled "What My Mom Taught Me About Social Media"). I also feel her inside my heart. She even talks to me!
  • John ....what a wonderful post. Your open heart has put you deeper into mine. While I have both parents still alive yet I have had many tragedies to cope with and I cope with tears, lots of them.
    I have not always cried so easily though. In my early 20s I remember sitting on my bed knowing the pain in my chest and the anxiety I was experiencing would lessen if only I could cry. The tears just would not come.
    While I don't remember exactly when they started again I do recall my friend and parish priest Father Morse telling me many years ago to "never be ashamed of the tears no matter when they come as it is the Holy Spirit moving through you".
    I have always let them flow freely since and encourage my clients to do the same as it is a movement of the heart, the soul being made known on a physical level and a cleansing that kept held in causes fear, panic, anxiety and a multitude of physical likenesses as we wall off our connection to our hearts.
    Thank you for letting me see you John and all your commenters...I am feeling very grateful for this heartfelt connection.
  • Gina - I really can appreciate your comment: "never be ashamed of the tears no matter when they come as it is the Holy Spirit moving through you". Although I am a Buddhist - an atheist by default (don't hate me ;-) ) - I believe in a universal life force that pulses within and around us. The way you framed it put's an entirely new light on tears. Thanks for that!
  • I lost my two beautiful and amazing young sons within 17 weeks of each other last year. Jeffrey was diagnosed with Acute Leukemia on his 20th birthday. After a new year long struggle marked by faith, love, hope and determination, he succumbed to the disease before his 21st. His younger brother Brian by 16 months - Jeffreys life long companion, very best friend and bone marrow transplant donor - died of sudden cardiac arrest ...a broken heart ... less than 5 months after losing his beloved brother. It has been a year since we lost them both. There is no amount of time that will take away the pain. I will remain "raw" until I draw my last breath. Thank you for this post ... I know, now, that I am not alone.
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