Bitter or Better

Grief does offer choices, however difficult and unimaginable

a dinghy with one person inside, in a turbulent typhoon at sea

My heart broke, completely shattered. Time stood still. 6:42 am. I don’t know how long it was before I remembered to breathe, but I do remember sucking in a gasp of air, only to expel it with a stifled sob. I jutted my jaw forward to hold it back, fearing the pieces of my heart would erupt out over the floor before me, and I wouldn’t have the wherewithal to collect them.

I sat with Garrett in silence, once he was pronounced dead on his living room floor. Stunned, I kneeled beside him, held his hand, stroked his hair, kissed his forehead, and my heart said “Goodbye” to my beautiful son, without a sound crossing my lips. I took my time with him, but I couldn’t bear to stay and watch him be zipped into a bag by the coroner. Instead, I got in my car and slowly drove the long mile home alone, only to share the devastating, life-changing event with his son and my other adult children.

Within 10 seconds of getting into my car, I was infuriated, like a switch had been turned on. My brain had suddenly jolted alive into high speed, processing every transgression of Garrett’s since he was in high school, like a bullet train going by, exploding with both information and rage. It was then and there that I pulled over and stopped the car, scolding myself, “This is NOT how I want to grieve my son, or remember my son, or honor my son!” I mentally ninjaed my thoughts in a different direction.

We’ve all made mistakes. Some turn into happy accidents, and others, regretfully, are more fateful. I didn’t want to focus on every blunder Garrett had ever made while trying to navigate life that led to his demise.

This would be the end of my “anger stage,” over before I pulled into my driveway. From that moment, I’ve turned my focus to the thousands of uplifting memories I have of Garrett. Sure, I remember the bad ones, as well, but I’ve chosen not to dwell on them. It’s no use, and does no service to either Garrett or me. His life, his love, and his humor brought me endless joy, and I was determined to keep it that way.

There had been a hurricane the day before that ended sometime after midnight. The weather forecast was calm, but it erupted again that morning. The rain had stopped, but the gusts of death were turning my world and everything I held dear into a turbulent typhoon at sea. I knew I couldn’t avoid the storm, but I sure was going to do whatever I could to navigate the course it would take me. I knew there would be times when I would have to hold on for dear life, and other, quieter times when I could find a rudder and steer more intentionally. The problem was that I had no rudder, couldn’t see any land, and had no idea which direction to steer.

Wait, maybe I did just carve a rudder from the tools I have; I was not going to sink in anger, leaving a hole in my boat from which I would need to bail continually. That’s a beginning, at least.

I know that enduring pain and grief can make people either bitter or better. I could easily have allowed my grief to overtake me. I could have lashed out at everything and everyone, and it often scared me that I felt so capable of that. I was confounded that the world was still turning for everyone else, while mine had stopped, literally, cold dead. Cars were driving to work. People leaving to go workout at the gym. People returning from their August vacations. Children getting up for breakfast and cartoons. I was aware of the movement, but I was in no way a part of it. I didn’t want any part of it.

I could have pushed everyone away, including my family, and I often felt entitled to, but that would have only led to more grief in losing them too. Part of me felt I had every right to, after all, and my grief would have been easier on my own. I could have become known as the “grumpy old woman who lost her son.” And everyone would have felt sorry for me, while keeping their distance. But that was NOT my future. I wanted to be better, not bitter.

My husband and grown children, as well as Garrett’s ten-year-old son, were grieving with me, and needed me.

I also knew that, ultimately, everyone has to forge their own path through grief. It’s as individual as our personalities. In my experience as a therapist, I knew that divorce rates spike within a year after the death of a child, and I can see a couple of reasons for that:

1. That desire, in grief, to lash out, which can easily lead to blame and self-persecution.

2. Not understanding the partner’s grief and judging it from a personal perspective. One parent may go back to work “too early,” in an attempt to distract themselves from the crippling emotions, to briefly breathe, while the other partner can’t understand how they can just “move on and forget their child.” I was bound by the privilege of knowing this to be aware of my husband’s grief, my children’s grief, and Garrett’s son’s grief, and be there to listen and understand their journey.

My children were grieving very differently than I was. Communication is essential, especially when there is no desire to communicate anything. I could have tried to change their perspective on the death of their brother, but I needed to allow them their own process. I needed to support their journey through grief, and find their changed identity without their brother. I knew they would get there, so I had to be patient, listen, give them a sacred place and sacred space to grieve, and mirror grieve with them. And sometimes point out alternative perspectives, because that’s what love does, for bitter or better.

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In your own grief, was there a pivotal decision to take some control that you made in your healing journey?

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” - Kurt Vonnegut, author