My God, Grief Sucks: A Blunt Prayer

My God, grief sucks.

That's my blunt Jersey girl's prayer - not unlike "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

I don't actually believe God - or however each of us manifests spirituality or even hope - forsakes us during times of grief. For me, in times of true pain, God is closer than ever gently holding me up in a way that means I can function while lost.

My faith doesn't change my original tune, though: grief, in a word, sucks.

I am fully aware that I have the privilege of saying my own lived experience doesn't include some of the more tragic kinds of grief. For my cherished folks who navigate those specific waters, my heart is always with you.

Caring

What my heart does hold is the grief of a caregiver many times over, who has lost several important people in the course of four decades. People I not only loved but had the privilege to bathe, lift, feed, dress, and try my best to support in all ways. I state that as a fact, not as any sort of "yay me" heroics. Those special loved ones would have done the same for me - and in some cases had done so long ago. I reciprocated. Simple math.

I grew up with atypically older grandparents, so I was taught the skill and importance of caring from my earliest years of recognition and active cognition. I literally can't remember a time when a cane wasn't somehow present in my world. My parents and extended family modeled the importance of...being there. I'm grateful. But nothing really prepared me for the mightiness caregivers' grief can wield.

A Particular Kind of Grief

Caregivers' grief is particular. Not only do you miss a loved one in all the usual ways, you also have to cope with many flashes of memory - some beautiful, some so horrendously unpleasant that you elect not speak of the details because you're still safeguarding dignity.

I've also been stung by a surprising reality: Monday morning quarterbacks may openly share thoughtless opinions from a safe arm's length at a time when you are mired in the deep, unending pain and the indelible memories of having been up close. Many of those folks are well-intentioned, some are nosey, some are just plain out of the loop and wrong. But their words can compound what's already hard: loss. Loss of presence, even of routine, feelings of self-doubt, aches of all sorts that only those who have truly been there can possibly fully understand.

You know the commercials for medicines that begin with "Do you suffer from....?" Well, I suffer from a few reels of moments that play in "brain loops" I can never totally put to rest.

Smells of all sorts of body fluids that will never quite leave my nose; witnessing natural moments of frustration, despair, or fear of mortality that I couldn't fully mitigate for loved ones who were doing their best to navigate dying or long-term later-life stuff; hospitals and assisted livings and rehabs and medical beds in living rooms. All. Of. It.

Those unpleasant flashes come like home horror movies projected inside my brain - flickering images of: bandaging weeping legs after bathing them in Phisohex; pinching skin on a stomach to administer a shot of blood thinner; cradling a loved one who suddenly collapsed in my arms on a routine walk across a routine room and trying to lower her to the floor safely, internally panicking when an unknown onset of kidney failure suddenly made her weak; changing chuck after urine-soaked chuck for another loved one - each moment of incontinence eroding the person's feelings of pride no matter how carefully, warmly, and compassionately managed.

There is of course some level of trauma that comes with all of that, I suppose. But for me, it's never what I saw or did that bothers me - it's that I didn't have a magic wand that could make those moments easier for my loved ones. The memories of those bad times aren't places where I hurt for me, they are wounds where my heart bleeds for them still.

And then, the second-guessing only caregivers understand: if I had moved an inch to the right, maybe that wouldn't have been as bad. If I had thought to make x, y, z food, maybe they'd have eaten better, maybe there was something else I could have said or done to will someone back into embracing life. None of that is real, it just feels real.

I guarantee, if you loved the person you cared for, there is nothing more you could have done than your best. And your best was not only enough, it was a rare Earthly expression of cosmic dedicated love.

None of us is God. None of us can stop cancer, or the progression of old age, or dementia or mental health problems that compound physical ailments. We can be there, we can do our very best, we can learn techniques and procedures, we can make lists and meds schedules, we can cook favorite meals, we can try to make things as easy and comfortable as possible. But we can't make the inevitable stop no matter how hard we try.

Even Superman couldn't stop every freight train.

My best advice about all of that: know your truth, remember your loving best efforts, and try to leave any sense of "what if" where it belongs: in the sad sack that is life's least happy thoughts.

Surviving Grief

By now, I've tried to survive caregivers' grief in a multitude of ways. The first couple of times, I followed everything I knew about psychology and just allowed myself to dive deeply into grief and try to swim back up to the surface when I could. I worked to grieve in an open, healthy real way. For me, that was probably wise but it was also something I personally couldn't sustain. I had to get to shore faster than grief allows, scrambling up through rocks and sand quickly or I never would have made it at all. The quickly part is an illusion, but I went at the pace that felt right for me. (And by the way, anyone who tries to tell you there is an appropriate time period to grieve or to "get over it" should be summarily removed from your list of friends).

As I am now creeping toward older and wiser, in more recent years I chose to handle grief by not diving in all the way - or at least I tried that approach. Many told me that was unhealthy - mainly those who really love me: "let yourself cry" "don't hold it in, it won't work." Out of caring, they tried to push me back into the deep end of those dark waters thinking I needed a good long dip to manage everything long-term and come out healthy. And you know what? I just didn't want to swim there again. I knew how deep the ocean, I'd been in there a couple of times before, I wasn't up for it. I wouldn't even stick my toe into the shallows. So, I tried it my way. Did it work for me? Yes, mainly. Mainly. But not every day.

Back to my prayer: My God, grief sucks. Grief sucks because no method of managing it is 100% effective. Grief never fully goes away. Grief is always there lurking. No matter how any of us chooses to handle it (and please, give yourself the grace of handling it your way minus explanation) grief doesn't like to leave. Grief is sneaky like a toddler you think you've put to bed who wakes you at 3 a.m. looking for a cuddle or a glass of water or even having a full-on meltdown.

Grief is persistent, mean, loving, horrible, beautiful, terrible. All. Of. It. Again.

And when there's been more than one loss, more than one hand that was held that is no more, somehow being reminded of one set of grief causes a ripple impact - those reels and flashes seem to emerge in our brains across decades all whispering or even shouting, "I miss you. I need you. I wish I could unsee that. I wish I could relive that." All. Of. It. More.

I'm a big fan of the Godfather movies, and though we all know III was not up to par, that one line impeccably delivered by Al Pacino resonates: "Just when I thought I was out, they pulled me back in." Grief does that.

I had that kind of yesterday, last night, and early this morning. Just when I thought I had handled one set of grief, it came for me like a hitman on a mission summoning the chorus of bad times across the years. But I have a life, a family, a job - all things I love - and I can't and won't allow this unyielding assassin to leave me cold in the Meadowlands, never to be seen or heard from again on some unspoken emotional level.

I know I have to find ways to thrive alongside grief.

So, maybe I'll share a quick bite of the cannoli with that hitman Grief, but I won't let him live in my basement just waiting for me to fall asleep so he can smother me with his stupid pillow. I'll let myself indulge in whatever memories sad or beautiful come in the same way I might dip my finger in the sweet cream and dusting of pistachio without eating the whole dessert, shell and all.

Nowadays, I try to be realistic about the fact that the sad memories won't ever really go away. But when they show up, I try to create my own flood in the other direction. I summon a deluge of beautiful moments I got to experience as a caregiver that only belong to me - to an us that is no longer physically present but will live on in my heart forever.

The smile on the face of my friend after she stirred waffle batter again, forgetting for a minute that she was frail while the hot cooking-iron sizzled away in the kitchenette of her assisted living. Joy was just waiting for our plates, and syrup, and butter, and coffee and laughter, and smiles. The super-spicey mustard my husband and I got for my father-in-law who wanted it so badly, even though it wasn't any good for his cancer-filled body, and the "aahhhhhhhhhhhhhh" of delight he uttered when he put that first dripping bite of lo mein into his waiting mouth. The way my grandmother smiled at me as only she could for just half a second in the middle of the fog of Alzheimer's, deeply resting for a milli-moment knowing that her little girl was right there. The moment when my tough guy dear friend greeted me one last time by uncharacteristically lifting my hand to his lips, like I was a princess, and kissing it as if to say "we'll always both know we love one another." A deep talk at 3 a.m. that brought peace. A last afternoon laughing on a patio in matching sunglasses. A girls' shopping spree. A song. A cuddled-up movie night. A voicemail. Watching a snowy football game on an old TV. A collection of moments along the way - many I didn't know were final when they happened - but treasured times that I believe deserve as much power to heal as the hard times hold to hurt.

Learn to Breathe Again

Sometimes grief is about inhaling pungent smoke and exhaling warm love like breath you can only see on a cold snowy morning such as this. For those of us who will always be noticing our breaths...in and out...in and out...in and out amid grief, know you're not alone. Whatever you are feeling only belongs to you. Don't judge it. Don't regret it. Don't apologize for its existence. We're allowed to be in this together and separately - in our own ways, on our unique timelines.

My God, grief sucks. My God, grief sucks. My God, grief sucks.

But, beauty and love and hope and memories of the best times beckon, too.