Normal Grief

Apparently, I am normal.

Who knew?!?!

Last week I paid my therapist $100 to tell me just how normal I am, which is a far cry from my life a decade ago when I paid my therapist $200 to tell me how psychotic I was.

For those who know me, whether in real life or on the innerwebs, my greatest struggle right now is no big secret. The last week in February, just days before we were to receive the paperwork for finalization, The Department of Family and Children's Services decided to disrupt our adoption placement. We lost three boys...three brothers who needed a home are now back in foster care.

Yesterday, I saw a church leader at a local coffee shop. The conversation went like this:

Him: So how are you doing?

Me: (chuckling) All things considered, I am doing good.

Him: So how are you doing?

Me: (more somberly) I'm grieving. It is what it is, and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it.

Our conversation continued; He offered me grace; and told me I was normal. God love him. He had enough sense and presence of mind and understanding of grief to not say anything stupid. God love him.

I am now far enough through my grief that I feel compelled to share some truths about loss.

Grief is normal. Yep. Extreme loss = grief. If it doesn't, see a therapist so they can tell you that you aren't normal.

Grief is ugly. Those on the outside don't like to look at it. They would prefer that it went away. Old Testament folk understood this. That's why grieving people donned sackcloth and ashes. So people would know they were grieving and leave them alone.

Grief is a process. Old Testament people knew this, too. People in mourning were set apart, and actually given time to grieve. People were expected to give them space. The attire said, “I'm grieving. My loss is too great. Please go away.” I also imagine this was done so people didn't say stupid stuff to the hurting.

Grieving people cry...all the time. Even in their sleep, apparently. After the Hubs found me crying in my sleep, I mentioned this to the therapist. She assured me that this was normal, that this is my mind's way of purging emotions I cannot deal with while awake.

Grieving people don't need you to say anything. More importantly, they don't need you to say stupid stuff. Christians are notorious for saying stupid stuff because many Christians fall prey to the idea that faith in God precludes bad stuff from happening, or in the very least, that faith prohibits “negative” emotions. A dear friend of mine is writing a book with an entire chapter dedicated to What Not To Say. I can't wait to read it. Here are few on my own list (and as you will see, grieving people are also sarcastic and cynical in their explanations):

• “This must be in God's plan because it happened.” This is not scriptural. Sometimes sure. But not always. God's plan was for man to live forever in unity with him; but man's freewill messed that up. Man's freewill is still messing stuff up. God isn't surprised, and He's not up there thinking, “Well, crap, what do I do now?” But I am convinced that more often than not, bad stuff happens because of (wo)man, not God.
• “I know how you feel.” No, you don't. Even if you have experienced the exact same loss, you can't possibly know how I feel because you aren't me. Or maybe you once knew, but now that you are on the other side of your grief, you have forgotten just how ugly it was.
• “God is in Control.” You know what, I didn't like it when Twila Paris sang it either. I know God is in control, but sometimes in the midst of my grief, I get mad at God. David did, too. But God gets it, and He's okay with it. I don't need you to fuel that anger by telling me that the very God I am angry at is the same God that watched all this happen and didn't stop it.
• “Know Jesus. Know Peace.” Yes, that cute little bumper sticker is true, but that doesn't make me feel any better. As my church leader said yesterday, it just makes you want to hit them.
• “Just hold onto Jesus.” I am holding on. How do you think I was even able to get out of bed this morning?

Of course, by now you might be wondering, “What should I say, then?” I can only tell you the responses that helped me the most:

• The few friends who said absolutely nothing. Even when I was with them crying uncontrollably. Maybe they wanted to, but they didn't, and that was glorious and more comforting than anything they could have offered.
• My mother (not the biological one) who came into the bedroom after they took all the boys' things and just rubbed my back and said, “There's nothing I can say that will make it better.” She understands great loss.
• The friends who just called it like they saw it: “Damn! That sucks!”

Because you know what? Grief is a painful process. No medication exists that can help it. No therapist can make it go away. S/he can only help you through the process. And that process will sneak up on you in the most unexpected of moments.

Of course, other times, you see it coming. Like this Sunday. Or maybe you didn't notice it was Mother's Day. But I did. I always do.