Some Days Are Like That

Some Days Are Like That

I was standing at the counter at the Commons in Viroqua, watching the gals prepare my two orders of pork tantanmen ramen noodles, when Jean walked up. I turned to greet her just as she was saying, “How are you, Jane?” I could feel the concern in her expression.

Instantly, my eyes started to water as I choked out, "Oh, some days are better than others." Jean apologized for making me cry, but I assured her I appreciated her heartfelt concern. Especially when she added, “I don't even know what to say, but I can listen.”

I shared with her my worry that the upcoming holidays would be hard on my daughter, son-in-law, and grandson and on me as well. Ordinary days are bad enough. Jessica recently told me, “Every day is a bad day.” On her refrigerator whiteboard, she wrote her hope to “One day—have a good day!”

Jean offered me a hug, and I gladly accepted. Then her food arrived, and she left. As I stood waiting for mine, Renae approached and said, “Hi, Jane, how's it going?” Already feeling emotional, I started crying again. She touched my arm, gently drew me aside for privacy, and asked what was happening. I told her about my granddaughter Helena’s death and our ongoing grief. A few minutes later, as I held my warm bag of food, she walked me to the door, hugged me, and whispered, “I'll pray for your daughter and family.”

I reached the car, shut the door, and sobbed most of the way home.

Some days are like that. Grief doesn’t go away—it’s an ongoing feeling. Sure, it will lessen over time, but the surviving parent, sibling, spouse, or grandparent will always feel that loss, that gaping hole.

I recently spoke at a Three Rivers Unitarian Universalist Sunday service and read an essay I’d written after Helena's death, talking about how children should not die before their parents, and how sometimes bad things happen to good people. Afterward, someone asked me how I had managed to "keep it together" that morning when I spoke about Helena. I answered that my purpose was to try to touch our community through words. I hoped each person there found something they could take home with them, pull out when needed, and reflect on it.

When Brad, my son-in-law, called the morning of the summer solstice to tell me Helena had been killed, it didn't occur to me then to fall apart. How could I? My concern, my entire focus, was to get to Jessica and be there for her. Falling apart could happen later—in the bathtub, in the car, or, like yesterday, in the lunch line.

Grief doesn’t care what we’re doing when it comes knocking because it’s always lurking. When someone shows concern, I get emotional. It’s a relief to let grief out. You can’t go wrong with offering a grieving person kindness and comfort.

By contrast, I recently spent an afternoon with people who knew about Helena’s death, although I hadn’t seen them in the months since it happened. None of them asked how my daughter was doing or how I was doing, or showed any empathy. I don’t know why they chose not to ask, but it felt like pretending this horrible thing hadn't happened—or worse, that it was a shameful or embarrassing topic.

But it did happen, and a life in my family is gone. Just because I’m not wearing an armband doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten our loss.

I understand it's not easy to talk about loss, but it's an essential part of healing.

Everything changes when someone in your family dies, whether the death is expected or not. You are looking at life through eyes altered by sorrow, and feeling life through a heart that has become more tender and open. It's an experience we all have at some point. We can use it to connect us instead of isolating people who are grieving.

Driving home teary that day, my mind returned to Jean. Her concern was welcome, it’s vital for people who have experienced such a massive life change. Having your grief acknowledged and hearing someone speak your loved one’s name is a relief. In this simple way, we can play a crucial role in the healing process of our friends and community.

Grieving people often walk around like zombies, and when we're asked how it's going today, it's like all the stale air from the pent-up pain inside us comes rushing out, sometimes with tears. Please don't let that stop you from reaching out—because some days are just like that.