When Love Is Torn Into Grief Scraps

Deep grief is like a scar you can cover with make-up or cleverly draped clothing, but it’s still there. Over time it may become less dramatic, show less scarlet-purple contrast against everyday life, but it’s still there. Perhaps the best way to cope is to treat it as a friend, a painful reminder to live vibrantly, kindly, compassionately. We can’t escape the necessity of it. My husband and I have had three friends die, a funeral, and two additional memorial celebrations already this year and we’re only halfway through. My husband’s aunt, who was in her nineties, once told me the worst part of growing old is going to funerals all the time for people you love. Now that I’m heading for my eighties, I understand. Grief isn’t a healthy place in which to live unless you can redesign it.

Death definitely informs living, but it can be a pall, as well. It’s the background ticking time bomb we generally can’t predict for us or everyone we cherish. We can hear repetitive get-‘er-done-before-the-buzzer game show music in our heads. My husband was sensitive enough to know he needed to take his aunt and uncle fishing for a break. They loved it and were temporarily younger, competing as they once did. If you give up enjoying life, it can turn on you. Old age, the decrepitude part, is partially a personal option by people who don’t want to go to the unsettling trouble of changing their lifestyle. The aunt and uncle died within weeks of one another—by subconscious choice, I’m sure. They weren’t enjoying living apart.

One sudden death of a spouse happened to a dear only-child friend I’ve loved since middle school. I originally underestimated her for being annoyingly methodical and often confused. Currently, she can outperform me in the world on just about any measure you choose. Her courage, self-balance and tolerance exceed expectations. She’s handled the family businesses skillfully for years—including the deaths and finances of both parents—so I shouldn’t have been amazed that she was able to perform sustaining CPR on her husband when she couldn’t summon help. She didn’t dissolve as heroines in novels sometimes do when he still didn’t survive even after professionals took over. She did the paperwork and phone calling that was required of her and then went into the house to cry before she used her faith to send herself to sleep. In her hands, religion isn’t restricted to a single denomination, although she has a preference. In fact, her religion isn’t restricted at all. It’s a force.

Another dear friend planned her final departure for her whole life. Coming from poverty, she scratched her way through professional ceilings to earn respect and an excellent living that she portioned into separate funds to help others after her death. Without skipping the travel and volunteer teaching she loved, she amassed enough money to be able to provide scholarships, generous donations to particular world improvement nonprofits, and even gifts to her husband, church, and cherished friends. She could die feeling accomplished. We mourn her passing as our loss. If there’s a life competition, she won in spectacular fashion.

I haven’t yet been forced to confront the loss of a pillar of my life. However, I’ve watched others who’ve struggled mightily with the horrific, unending demands of grief for years on end. Recently my husband and I watched UNCROSS THE STARS, a film about a young guy adjusting to the death of his young wife with the help of her senior citizen friends. At last, he admitted that the most difficult part of his grief wasn’t losing his wife but admitting to himself that, in spite of his great love for her, he could go on without her. I hope I can remember his insight if I’m the spouse who’ll need it.