The Right to Grieve

Helena on her Make A Wish trip to Hawaii with her family.

The Right to Grieve

I should be sleeping. I’m lying with my hands behind my head, looking up at the bedroom ceiling with its swirling blue clouds and twinkling green stars as I listen to the sounds of gentle waves rushing onto a beach. Helena, my granddaughter, had a similar star machine in her room, so I bought one, hoping for a heavenly connection with her.

My body is peaceful, yet I’m not at peace. My mind feels thick and foggy with sorrow. My heart feels like my hips did a few years ago when they were giving out on me: weak and painful.

Grief and worry are keeping me awake. I worry mostly about my family, but I also worry about myself. Since Helena died, I haven't walked in the woods, visited the local food co-op, or been able to focus.

I know that grief is as normal as love; that it’s an expression of love; and that we often mourn in proportion to our loss. But I’m also learning not everyone values or experiences it in the same way.

“Are you better now? Be strong. Time to move on.”

Some people try to nudge grieving people along—or worse, don’t acknowledge that something horrible and life-changing just happened.

“Stop crying. Shake it off.”

The message is clear: If we cry, we upset the status quo. If we’re depressed, we bring others down. If I’m Jane, I should be tough and not weak.

But those sentiments aren’t helpful when someone is dealing with a loss, whether from death, divorce, or a decline in health (a dear friend, recently diagnosed with cancer, is grieving the loss of his life as it once was).

There isn’t a standard timeline for grief. My son-in-law was expected to return to work two weeks after his daughter was killed. When he did, no one even mentioned her death.

“Get on with it—you can’t just be sad forever.”

But you can be sad forever. Mourning isn’t a race with a finish line. Like my friend Janet said, “There will always be a hole.” Her daughter, Abby, died unexpectedly at age 53. And Maggie shared, “It’s hard to listen to my friends—all mothers—tell me it’s time for me to get on with my life, when they’ll be going home to their children tonight and I won’t.”

Yes, we’ll laugh again and find joy in the little things, start a new business, travel, and continue to love. But we’re forever changed by the loss.

How someone died can play a part in our grief. Traumatic and/or unexpected deaths can be harder to face, with their added element of shock.

During high school, my classmate DJ Carlton and his friend Chris rang my doorbell and yelled, “Trick or treat!” It was only September, but they were wearing plastic glasses with big noses and big bushy eyebrows. My dad and I invited them in for a soda.

The following week, DJ was dead. He was 16.

Dad’s death a few years later was just as unexpected—present and engaged one day, dead the next.

My friend Pat died after surgery when we thought she was recovering.

By contrast, Mom was 93. Her health was failing and she often told me she was ready to die: “There’s nothing to do anymore, Janie.” My sister Jill died of Alzheimer’s at age 66 because she forgot how to swallow and couldn’t eat. Both of them died during COVID. Both deaths were devastating, yet not as emotionally hard as the unanticipated death of Dad or the recent traumatic death of Helena. Mom was ready; Jill was sick.

I’m lying here thinking, Let’s lean into our losses. Let’s listen to our friends who are grieving. Let’s talk about our losses. No judgments. No advice. No platitudes.

Grief is unpredictable. A new loss can startle us, and past experiences can make our mourning more complicated. The so-called stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance) aren't linear, nor does everyone experience all of them. Nowadays professionals recognize that grief is individual and complex.

I’m angry that Helena was killed. I’m angry the driver of the vehicle robbed my family of her precious life. I’m angry that we won’t see Helena grow older, settle into herself, and live her life as an adult. And I’m depressed for all the same reasons.

DJ, Dad, Mom, Jill, Pat, and Helena are gone now. Grief, like love, will stay. I’m learning to wear grief like a badge—a badge that says, “I’m human. I’ve loved. I’ll keep loving.”

I think of the Ram Dass quote, “We’re all just walking each other home,” and as my eyes close I vow to embrace my grief, my humanness, and to honor yours.

Home Forever

Mission Accomplished

Jane Schmidt