Oh, DABDA. What Was I Thinking?

When I was in college, I took a Psychology 101 class. I was young, I was excited about becoming a special education teacher, and I was so, so, naive. During this class, I learned the 5 stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance through the lens of a teenager with not a lot of life experience. I thought it was a straight line, right? First comes denial, then anger, then, then, then. And when a person arrived at the Promised Land, acceptance, all would be good and they would be OK again. Like finishing a book. Close the cover, and put the book on the shelf.

WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. So, so wrong. Grief isn’t a straight line for me. It isn’t a book to read, with a beginning, a middle and an end where all the ends are tied up and I emerge on the other side with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction at a good story. It’s a giant fucking hairball of emotions, feelings, soul-sucking thoughts and pain that takes my very breath away. It’s also incredibly confusing for me. I like data, I like things I can see, and hear, and touch. Solid, tangible things that I can make sense of. I spent a lot of time in the beginning after Noah died trying to put this hairball into a format that I could understand. DABDA, right? A nice straight line in a format that I could understand. And where I could trust that there was an end. I can handle anything, no matter how painful, if I know it will end at some point.

Grief. Has. No. Format. I feel bad for my therapists, because they had to spend a lot of time in the beginning trying to gently (sometimes not so gently, and that’s OK) steer me toward that conclusion. Denial? Hell no. It’s not a “this didn’t happen” cloud of fuzziness. It’s a roaring scream of “how could this have happened? Why did Noah have to die? Who the hell approved the plan for him to live a truncated life that ended in pain, sickness, suffering, loss of independence?” Wrapped up in “Anger”. Far too mild of a word. It’s outrage. Black clouds rolling over my very being, wanting to rage at something or someone, to scream, to hurt, to lash out at anything and anyone, including myself, in order to release the pain of what happened. To release the valve. Bargaining? Sure, I want to strike that bargain–I’d give anything to have my son back where he belongs because he was supposed to outlive me, not the other way around. But bargain with who? God? The Universe? The rage usually lands on both God and the Universe, so no. Depression. Wrong word entirely for me. It’s an all-encompassing sadness, that is so great, deep, wide that doctors want to tell me it’s depression. It isn’t, and saying so is an insult to those who suffer from the very real medical condition. And finally, according to Kubler-Ross, the Endgame-acceptance.

Where in this model is Guilt? Guilt that I am here and he is not. That I am healthy, and strong, and he is and was not. The questions that come in the middle of the night or in the middle of a moment where the grief overwhelms me. Did I do enough? Did I not do enough? Did I give him the life he deserved, did we go enough places, see enough things? Did I fight the Others hard enough to make people see his true worth and true self? Should I have fought harder to keep him alive? Should I have fought less hard and let him go earlier? Is it OK for me to be happy? Millions more questions that have no answer. Read that again. They have no answer. I understand that now. They are not borne from my data-driven, observable and measurable soul, they come from the place of grief. Hearing an answer, knowing the answer doesn’t make them go away. They are a part of my grief.

My grief isn’t a straight line arrowing toward the acceptance of closure. It fits no model, or spreadsheet or article. It can’t. Grief journeys are as individualized as a fingerprint. For every person who has to carry it, it is different. We write about it, we post “how-to” articles, we try our hardest to put grief into a box or a book or a blog post (hah!) because I think we want to understand. I think we want to find that acceptance of closure. We for sure want to help our people know how to help us. But for me, there will never be the acceptance of closure like the end of a book or a relationship. My acceptance of this fact, that I will carry this grief with me for the rest of my life, has become my resting place. Until the next hairball of emotion hits, I rest there. My son Noah died. And it sucks, so much I sometimes have no words, that I curl in a ball of dark thoughts, stupid questions and overwhelming feelings, struggling with the pain that is bigger than the confines of my skin, and I wait for it to roll over me and away. When it does, then I can put the grief back into the container inside me where I carry it, and I can uncurl my body, get brave, get up and get on with it. The proof that these moments are coming less frequently, and the intensity of the wave is lessening helps the data-driven part of me. It is something I can measure, something I can observe, and something that makes the carrying just a little bit lighter.

Whew. That was hard to write, and while I’m glad I did, I don’t want to end on a dark and twisty note. So, let me take you to the song Noah and I used to call our Theme Song. It played this morning when I was on the Dreadmill, and it triggered me to come clean a little bit about my personal grief journey and write this post. This is the song he played when we needed a reminder to find the joy and laughter, love and light. OK, I needed the reminder, he never did. And it’s the song I cue up in the middle of the suck moments. Read it, enjoy the poetry, and go find it on the You Tube to listen to it. You won’t be sorry.

Life Ain’t Always Beautiful, sung by Gary Allan
Life ain’t always beautiful
Sometimes it’s just plain hard
Life can knock you down
It can break your heart.
Life ain’t always beautiful
You think you’re on your way
And it’s just a dead end road
At the end of the day.
But the struggles make you stronger
And the changes make you wise
And happiness has it’s own way
Of taking it’s own sweet time.
No, life ain’t always beautiful
Tears will fall sometimes
Life ain’t always beautiful
But it’s a beautiful ride.
Life ain’t always beautiful
Some days I miss your smile
I get tired of walking
All these lonely miles.
And wish for just one minute
That I could see your pretty face
Guess, I can dream
But life don’t work that way.
But the struggles make me stronger
And the changes make me wise
And happiness has it’s own way
Of taking it’s sweet time.
No, life ain’t always beautiful
But I know I’ll be fine
Life ain’t always beautiful
But it’s a beautiful ride.
What a beautiful ride
Source: LyricFindSongwriters: Tommy Lee James / Cynthia Evelyn ThomsonLife Ain’t Always Beautiful lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, BMG Rights Management