The first thing about grief is that it’s a heavy weight on your chest, and just when you think you’ve lifted it off, it crashes down again uncontrollably. It is around you, in the air you breathe, in the days that you live and enjoy and then feel guilty about enjoying because you’re forcing yourself to have fun whilst your world has been shattered.
It is a beast, a beast that cannot be tamed or rationalised with. It is a sadness like no other. And it is, somewhat ironically, an inevitable aspect of life.
Everyone at one time or another has dealt with grief, whether it be a loss of a family member, a friend, or a pet. The first time grief pulled at my heart was when my cat Henry passed away. I was only young, and he was very old (and had really made the most of those nine lives), but it was still confusing to think I would never see him again, never watch him try to climb the Christmas tree or hide in the house. Grief and confusion go hand in hand.
How then, do you even begin to grapple with the grieving process? When a loss is so hard, you cannot help but feel numb, like a robot methodically going through the day focused on keeping yourself alive. As much as talking to people helps, there’s only so long it is possible to do that before the guilt at dragging people down to your level of sadness creeps in. Universal as it is, everyone experiences grief at different times. One weekend a friend could be going to a wedding, and then a few days later you’re at a family funeral wondering how on earth it ended up like this. The universe works in mysterious ways, taking the people who seem to have so much more life to live.
In 1969, Elizabeth Kübler-Ross published her theory on the five stages of grief, after spending time with terminally ill patients. The Kübler-Ross theory argued that we go through grief in five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and then acceptance (now commonly referred to as DABDA). Usually, it is expected that you go through each stage in order, although this can change depending on the individual, and perhaps the circumstances of death. As strange as it is, death is not always only sad. After losing my grandmother, I was naturally devastated, but she had been ill for quite some time, slowly losing her sense of self. Death then came as an almost comfort. There was no sense of denial or anger, just an overwhelming feeling of peace knowing that she was no longer in pain. Of course that is not always the way it works, because life doesn’t always end peacefully. Kübler-Ross, however, strongly maintained that everyone will pass through all stages at a pace that is right for them.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance are entrenched in pop culture. The process is constantly referenced across film, TV, music - even video games.
There have been many different interpretations of the stages. Denial (which is also referred to as shock) is quite simply your brain working in overdrive to protect yourself, transporting you into a slightly altered reality where the loss never happened. Granted this isn’t the healthiest way to deal with loss, at the beginning it helps to pace your feelings and limit the impact they have on you. My aunty passed away recently, and the next thing I was doing was not going home but to Liverpool to watch the semi-final of Eurovision (the tickets had been bought way before her passing, and to be honest she would have wanted me to go). It was incredibly jarring, being surrounded by so much joy and excitement when that was the complete opposite of how I was feeling. Then as the day went on, I started to embrace it more, finding that joy and giving myself permission to let it in. Was I still feeling heartbroken? Yes, absolutely. Was it nice to have a breather from letting heartbreak consume me? Yes. Leaving Liverpool was a different kind of pain, knowing that going home meant letting reality back in.
Allowing myself to feel everything was truly devastating. There was no anger, only an overriding feeling of guilt. The sudden nature of my aunty’s death meant that I never got to say goodbye. To tell her how much I love and respect her, to say all the things I was thinking that for whatever reason I had never said whilst she was alive.
Why I never said them to her face, I don’t know. I can’t say there was never the right time, because looking back there were so many opportunities. It can be awkward, just pouring your heart out to an unsuspecting friend or family member (unless you’re me after a couple of drinks). But isn’t it better to say what you want before time runs out? There are times when life feels everlasting, like you’ll be stuck in one place forever with all the time in the world to do whatever you want. Sadly, that is not the case.
Anger and bargaining were not feelings I felt, but depression hit me like a tonne of bricks (or whatever is more than a tonne because it hurt). There’s a strangeness when someone dies unexpectedly, you’re waiting for them to call, expecting to see them, because one minute they were here living and the next you’re picking out a funeral outfit.
Grieving whilst at university is in itself a bizarre experience and one that I would hope to not live through again. Especially at this time of year when everyone is starting to finish off exams and essays and wanting to go out and enjoy the warm weather we’ve been so fortunate to have. Yet, when I’m out in the sun, all I can think about are the days she isn’t getting to see and won’t get to see.
Leaving York to go to a funeral was not part of my plan for summer term, but it had to be done. For those fortunate enough to have never gone to a funeral, they are long days. It feels wrong to say it was a nice day, because it wasn’t. But it was full of love and family and friends coming together, sharing memories. When Kübler-Ross said accepted, she didn’t mean that you’d simply go ‘Ok they’re dead, time for me to move on’, but rather ‘they’re dead and I’m going to be ok’. Funerals certainly help get closer to that point. I got to say goodbye properly, I can just hope that wherever she is now, my aunty heard me.
I have not finished grieving, and I’m not quite sure it’s something you can ever stop doing. I am sure that I haven’t moved through my grief in organised stages. Social psychologist Carol Tavris, author of ‘ The Mismeasure of Woman’ and co-author, with Elliot Aronson, of ‘ Mistakes Were Made (But Not by Me) ’ commented that stage theories “impose order on chaos, of - fer predictability over uncertainty, and optimism over despair”. If you’re told you will feel this, and then this, and finally this, it gives you an end in sight. Time will heal, just not as quickly as I think we would all like it to.
However, the way time passes has changed as society has evolved. When someone dies it is not just organising a funeral anymore, it’s calling the bank and cancelling accounts, cancelling phone contracts, and changing social media pages to memorial ones. There are now more and more practicalities you have to navigate all whilst grieving. Tavris added “Those ‘passages’ theories evaporated with changing social and economic conditions that blew the predictability of our lives to hell.” The pandemic also played a huge part in destroying the predictability of life, spending almost two years in lockdown, surrounded by death will obviously have an impact on the way we now deal with death and grief.
There is, and will never be a ‘correct’ way to deal with grief. I found telling stories and keeping my aunty in my thoughts. Her life may have ended, but that doesn’t mean that she cannot remain in the present with us. As painful as it can be to talk about the person you have lost, it keeps them alive. Grief moves like the ocean, rising and falling then washing over you when you least expect it. Talking helps me ride that wave a little better.
Shortly after my aunty passed away, we noticed a robin hanging around that hadn’t been there before. Maybe it was simply a robin finding a new home, but for us it was a sign that she is here watching over us, at peace and ok.
Life and death are some of the only certainties we have. It is painful, loss is always a loss whether it was expected or not. So keep talking, sharing memories, and sharing love. Writing this piece has become a part of my own journey with grief, with saying goodbye. So for now I’ll simply say goodbye Heidi, and thank you for everything.