Carrying Grief

We don't talk enough about grief. 

It's big. It's awkward. 

It's personal.  

Grief is also universal. Eventually, everyone will experience grief because grief is the response to loss. When a loved one dies, it is natural to feel overwhelmed, overcome with sadness: this is the price of love. 

My earliest memory of death was when we had to say goodbye to one of our family dogs, Max. I couldn't have been older than three or four; I don't remember much about it save for my parents' explanation that pets’ lifespans are much shorter than those of people and how Max had gotten sick and was not going to get better. 

For being so young, I was surprisingly prepared for this loss. I felt deep sadness (probably for the first time in my few years on earth) but I was able to move forward because I was a small child with a large, protective safety net. Over the years, I experienced more death: a youth group leader when I was in middle school, great-grandparents, friends and acquaintances, several more beloved pets… For each of these losses I felt tender sadness, however it wasn't until I was in my late twenties and a dear high school friend died unexpectedly that I think I first experienced "grief." I felt pain and sadness for the loss (not only my own, but that of her parents and her partner), regret that there would be no future that included her, anguish at the way things ended for her… For the first time, I truly mourned.  

I adore sad books. I have always been a “weepy” person---I’m sensitive and emotional and cry easily. I love a good cry and I’m drawn to stories of loss and death, particularly when I read children’s fiction. There are some sad books out there, and on every kind of loss you can imagine: pets, teachers, grandparents, siblings, and parents... Even stories of moving away from loved ones and friends. If you or your child want to read about grief experiences, the library has a myriad of books for you.  

There was nothing, however, that could prepare me for the sudden, shocking loss of my dear father this past November. For the first month, I was in a complete haze. I think it’s often referred to as a “fog.” Brain fog, grief fog, whatever you want to call it, everything is fuzzy. I am fortunate to have an incredible network of support here in town: my husband, my sister and their partner, my mother, plus extended family, and some incredible friends. Yet grief is deeply personal and can be isolating: while my sister and I both grieve the loss of a shared father, our relationships with him were unique and at times our experiences with grief were (and still are) vastly different. That is the nature of human existence---we have shared commonality and yet each person’s experience is unique. 

In the wake of my father’s death, I did what I do best: I turned to books and poetry. I began reading and saving poems that mirrored my experiences of grief, death, and loss. I started reading everything by Megan Devine, grief counselor and writer; and then I found myself hunting for picture books that might echo the multitude of emotions I was navigating from moment to moment. To me, picture books are the perfect distillation of the language of human existence. We often do not appreciate children’s experiences in the way we do our own—their lives contain observations and opportunities for growth and expansion that we also experience as adults. As adults we tend to believe that we take in information in more complex ways than children. I have learned sometimes you don’t need as many words as you thought—sometimes you just need a good (picture) book!  

I don't consider myself a 'grief expert' but here are some insights I've had about grief: 

Grief cannot be avoided because death cannot be avoided. Death is the inevitable cycle of life. 

The more we talk about grief and our emotions around it--sadness, fear, anger, confusion—the easier it is to talk about grief.  

In the first month or so after my father died, I found myself hiding the biggest feelings I was feeling because I didn’t want to burden anyone else: I didn’t want anyone worrying about me when we had so many other loose ends to tie up. But when I raged, snapped at family and friends, or just disappeared entirely, I only made things more difficult for those I love, people who were (and are) also grieving.

I’m learning. Nearly five months in, I’m learning to say, “wow, I feel really irritable today and some of that is because I just feel really sad.” I’m learning to say, “I want to talk about my dad today” or sometimes “I don’t want to talk about [grief/sadness/my dad/loss] today.” I’m learning that it’s okay to retell a funny memory and then find myself crying and laughing at the same time. I’m learning that there are going to be many moments where I reach for my phone to give him a call or send him a text, then realize, I can’t do that anymore. I really miss my dad. I hate knowing that my future will not include him. It is not fair. But it is okay to feel that way: I loved him. I grieve for him because that is the price of love.  

So, let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about grief with our children and our families. Instead of hiding the sadness—name it. Name the anger, the fear, the disappointment, the confusion. It is all a part of the tapestry we weave as grievers. My grief is with me all the time, but I do not have to drag it along like a burden. Grief can simply walk beside me (perhaps even--one day--behind me). I’m okay with that. 

As a former elementary school teacher-turned-library associate, it comes as no surprise that some of my favorite books about sadness and grief are picture books. Take a look. You might discover something you never knew you needed.