Good Grief

“And who does HE belong to?” Aunt Edith said, interrupting Uncle Earl’s story about another WWII veteran who recently moved in two doors down.

Aunt Edith and Mama

We watched her skinny arm reach out from the corner of the room and extend in John’s direction.

“He’s mine,” I smiled. “He’s my husband.” 

She turned her gaze toward my mother. “And do we like him?” she said in that beautiful southern accent I always wish I’d inherited, though her throat needed clearing.

Mama smiled back and turned to John, “oh, we do, we do.”

“Well, then,” Edith said, plain as a butter knife. She returned her arm to her lap and smiled closemouthed at her husband of almost seventy years as if to say, “continue.” He did while Mama and I put out lunch. 

“And who does HE belong to?” Aunt Edith said five minutes later, the arm again accusing John of something only Edith knew.

“Oh, he’s still mine,” I said, shoving a hushpuppy in my mouth.

This line of questioning continued throughout the afternoon. She knew full well who John was, but her memory had deteriorated a great deal since our last visit. And he’d only been in the family fifteen years or so. Although we’d squeeze in occasional visits throughout the year, our annual date was the Friday after Thanksgiving. This visit was that day. 

Mama’s parents died before or as I was born, so I never knew them. Fortunately, several of Granddaddy’s siblings and their spouses served as surrogate grandparents. Growing up, we spent many Thanksgivings with Edith and Earl. After marriage and when we returned to North Carolina, John and I spent just about every Friday after Thanksgiving with them. We’d take lunch and have a sweet visit. In her later years, Edith requested Stamey’s Barbecue instead of our spread of Thanksgiving leftovers. And we’d better not forget the peach cobbler. 

They were easy to visit and so happy to have company. When they moved to assisted living, we followed them there. Edith got to where she didn’t always remember my name and sometimes called me “Anne,” seeing my mother instead of me. Eventually Edith was moved to the memory wing. Earl desperately wanted to take care of her, but he physically couldn’t do it anymore.

If you’ve never visited a memory unit, know that it’s unsettling in the strangest way. Old ladies sit around rocking baby dolls. The men look as if they’re trying to remember a thing they’re supposed to remember, but can’t remember what that thing is exactly.

We made sure to visit a little more frequently, but we didn’t do it as often as she deserved. She had totally forgotten my name at that point, but she knew I was family, and that meant the world to her.

I’d leave John with Earl to talk about military things, and I’d go visit Edith thinking I might have to spruce her up a bit before John walked Earl over. But I never saw her unclean or with her hair not brushed. I’d sit with her and fill her in on the news from home. Once in a while she’d answer my questions, but mainly I just talked.

One day we were sitting in front of a television turned to Turner Classic Movies. A commercial for the movie Oklahoma! ran across the screen. The sound was low, but you could just make out Shirley Jones’ voice.

“Have you ever seen that movie?” I asked, having run out of chitchat and thinking surely she’d seen it many times.

“No, I haven’t,” she said, staring through the TV. 

In her next breath she joined Shirley Jones singing the refrain, People will say we’re in love….

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Feelings of grief aren’t only for the dead. Sometimes you have to grieve the living. 

Uncle Earl suffered the pain of loss even before Aunt Edith’s heart stopped beating. His wife was no longer the woman he pulled out of church and rushed down to Chesterfield, South Carolina, to marry. Pearl Harbor had been bombed and he knew he’d be sent off to war. She was no longer the person who wrote to Eisenhower to almost demand that her husband be brought home after Nazi Germany surrendered. That person he loved was not physically gone, but she was almost unrecognizable. So why the grief? Because of the love.

We feel the pain from all kinds of loss, not only the visible. 

For the father who couldn’t seem to father, we grieve the loss of the nurturing protection a child needs.

For the addict who never lived up to their potential, we grieve the loss of what they could have been.

For the relationship we couldn’t make work, we grieve the loss of a life together. 

For the dream job we walked away from, we grieve the loss of a professional purpose.

This actually has a name: ambiguous grief. It’s partner is anticipatory grief (when you know loss is coming). The thing about grief is that it’s personal and unique to everyone, but we can share the typical feelings of grief: sadness, anger, denial, and more. I’ve heard it described as like waves in the ocean. Sometimes you see it coming; other times you don’t. And it never ends. 

As painful as grief is, experts say it’s part of the healing process. It doesn’t mean you’re giving up. Not at all. It means you’re recognizing the loss for what it is and allowing yourself to feel what it brings—which can be the hardest part. The caregivers and look-afterers often struggle the most because they’re trying to keep things together. Who has time to deal with feelings? The thing about feelings, though, is that if left alone they can manifest in destructive ways.

But listen to the experts not me; I’m still figuring this out. It took me two years after walking away from the coolest job I’ve ever had to realize the pain and regret I still felt was actually grief. What helped me was naming it and understanding that feeling those hard feelings is normal. 

For those of you experiencing loss right now, I don’t know exactly what will help you. But my prayer is that you find peace and the ability to enjoy what’s left—even if memories are all there is.