The Purpose of Grief

On a school morning, my sister and I sat with our mother eating breakfast, as we did almost every day. We lived in a rather eccentric but somewhat laid back trailer park mixed located effectively in the middle of a somewhat normal suburban neighborhood. We had our fair share of drama, drug dealers, and domestic calls. Sirens weren’t at all uncommon despite a relatively high level of safety. But the sirens this morning were different. One of my career mentors later in life, a former chaplain for the local fire department, would later tell me that nothing motivates emergency services quite like a call from a desperate mother saying the words “my child isn’t breathing.”

First there was one siren, then two, then what seemed like ten. Then there was Starflight, our local helicopter ambulance service. My mother offered a prayer for whomever was on the receiving end of all this attention, but otherwise we went on with our day. I remember not being able to focus in my classes, I remember wishing my best friend (and one of my only friends) was there. He had been sick for the last week with a stomach bug that was going around the school.

I couldn’t tell you what day it was, nor could I tell you whether school had just started or was about to end. I couldn’t tell you what classes I was in, or who my teachers were. But I can describe in detail when our teacher led us into the cafeteria with the rest of the 5th grade after our lass class. They had the folding tables laid out as if lunch were about to be served; with one notable exception. On each table, sat two tissue boxes. These had clearly been laid out with some care, they were perfectly centered on the tables and evenly spaced. I was confused as I walked in, and I was confused as I sat down, and I was confused when the principal started speaking. I don’t even remember what he said, I just remember the gist; your friend is dead. But I do remember sitting in that room on a bench surrounded by my peers, feeling like an open wound in a pool of alcohol. It was devastatingly impersonal. After all this was my best friend in all of the world; and I found out just like everyone else. The jealous anger only lasted a few seconds though as a new emotion was emerging. A feeling like perpetual falling. I would later learn the word for this feeling, Grief.

There are some things in life you just don’t get over, and Grief is one of those things. Grief is also a feeling impossible to describe, especially to someone who hasn’t experienced it. The dictionary only makes a half-baked attempt at defining it, labeling it as “deep sorrow”. Grief eviscerated me so severely that I thought I would never be happy again. In fairness, it did take several years. I cried most of the days I went to school, and unfortunately while my former peers were rather sympathetic to my tears (they themselves having gone through the same experience) I was no longer at that school, and a lot of my new classmates had no frame of reference for what we had gone through, and the bullies didn’t care. I didn’t have many friends, and I got into several fights. Most of the time I didn’t bother to defend myself, because I didn’t see the point. “Why bother? Everyone you love is mortal, they could all die at any moment. So what exactly is the point of making more friends?” My 11 year old self reasoned. “Why try with anything?”

Eventually my parents did something about my downward spiral, and sent me to a wonderful private school. It was a fresh start. Thanks to an exorbitant quantity of counseling, I could at least get through a normal school day without loosing it, and I stood a chance at making some friends; which I did. And there I met a very special girl, and even got enough courage to ask her out.

After I moved on to the next school I regressed somewhat. My childhood dog had died, and it was as if everything I fought so hard to repress burst out of me like a balloon. The scabs I had been building over the mental wounds of 4 years prior had been ripped off with impressive force. I got into fights again, my grades fell, and I dropped into depression again.

In the end, it turned out okay. I graduated, barely. I made some good friends, one of whom I still talk to and regard as one of my best friends. I helped make an online community that provided me with a good supply of long-distance friends that never made me feel judged or unwelcome. And, best of all, the aforementioned girl reconsidered my offer a few years later. We’ve been together for almost 11 years now. Together, we created a life that I love.

I suffered more Grief after that. Some of my online friends were killed by a drunk driver. My grandmother died. And more recently, my wife and I experienced a miscarriage. It was never the same twice. And for certain, all of those paled in comparison to that first brush with Grief. But they still sent me dropping into the slick ditch that seems impossible to climb out of.

I became desperate to understand what the purpose of Grief was in my life.

I read on the internet somewhere that Grief is like waves. The first ones are 100ft tall and 10 seconds apart, but eventually they come farther and farther apart. They still sweep you off of your feet, but you can see the coming. You know what the triggers of Grief are. And then they get shorter, instead of being 100 feet, they might be 20 feet. I started thinking about how tall the waves were and at what frequency they occurred during my life. In the case of my friend, they were 100 feet high and came at least once or twice a week for the first two years. After that, they came around twice a month. I think the first time one of the waves hit me and failed to bring any tears was my Junior year of high school.

The other losses in my life have followed the same pattern, but they usually had shorter waves to begin with, and the frequency was much lower. As if I was starting in year three after the initial event. I thought that further losses would get easier, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Each pain had its own distinct flavor, and strangely the waves didn’t seem to ever coincide. Some were above average, and some less so. But they all followed the same pattern. A wave, the normalcy, then another wave.

My son was born on July 17th. The pregnancy was normal, the birth was normal, and despite a small scare at the start (he was to stubborn to cry, which concerned the nurse) he had no medical issues to speak of if you overlooked his bruised and misshapen head (even the perfect birth is still traumatic.) As the nurses tended to my wife, I sat with him on the rather spartan couch that had caused me so much ire over the previous 24 hours (a block of concrete would have been more comfortable). I looked at his face, and his eyes were looking deep into mine. I was overwhelmed by a sense of Joy that was indescribable. That joy never left me. I still feel it to this day. My family makes me so immensely happy that my sides often feel like they might burst.

A few months later, I looked at my son as I was feeding him a bottle, and I saw my friend looking back at me. At first, I was confused. Then I was scared as the realization that I brought my son into a dangerous and unpredictable world hit me. But I was also strangely comforted. It was a mixture of melancholy and contentedness. At this moment, I realized what the purpose of Grief was in my life.

You can’t truly appreciate joy until you’ve experienced despair.

Grief is the black in a monochrome image. Without the contrast, you don’t properly appreciate the beauty. The more sadness and darkness in your life, the more that joy and happiness are brought into relief. It takes knowing the acidic taste of a lemon to appreciate the sweetness of a strawberry.

If I have anything to thank those who have departed from my life for, its that I don’t take much for granted. Often times I’ll be tired after a long day at work, and my toddler will be getting into something he isn’t supposed to for the 6th or 7th time; and as I’m on the verge of loosing my temper a little wave of Grief will hit me, and I’ll take a moment to appreciate what I have in my life.

When I first felt the waves of Grief after my friend died, I never thought the waves would stop destroying me. I never thought I was going to be okay ever again.

The waves never did stop coming.

But, Nearly 15 years later, I feel like I’m standing ankle deep in the water of a lake. Occasionally, small waves no more than a few inches high will come up to the shore in batches of three or four. They are big enough that you notice them, but they cause no discomfort. They remind me of the 100ft tall tsunamis that destroyed me a decade ago, but they are also comforting. They reassure me that I wont forget the people who have departed from my life. They remind me of all the good memories I’ve had with them. And they remind me not to take the simplest things for granted. At this point, I don’t mind the waves. They bring me a sort of melancholic comfort. There will still be a big wave every now and then, but the water is calm enough that I’ll see it coming. I think the comfort comes from the fact that I know I have loved as deep as I possibly can, and tried to make the most of every singe day. When my time comes, I know I won’t have regrets. And, at least partially, I have Grief to thank for that.

If you are currently suffering from loss, just know one thing; It does get better. It takes a long time. But it does get better.