Doing grief… maybe

I am in grief… I feel grief… I am doing grief…

I thought about these three sentences after reading an article on thoughts, emotions and motivation and here’s the difference between them. In the first, grief defines me. In the second it is simply what I’m experiencing now, but maybe not forever. In the third, I’m active. I’m in control.

My emotions and thoughts spend time in each of these three modes. When I’m rocked by the waves I can’t see or I’m feeling like I’m inside the washing machine, I’m in grief. When I actively recall memories or think about losing Mary, I feel grief. Sometimes I feel grief cut sharp and other times it bruises blunt. But, there are other times when I think I’m “doing grief”, and I think it helps.

I’m certainly not in control of Harry and Cara’s grief. That’s frustrating and puzzling. Neither Cara or Harry are keen to talk about the events that surrounded Mary’s death, or the consequences. Puzzling because I really don’t understand what they’re thinking. I have no window into the way they’re processing it. Frustrating because I don’t see them grieving, at least not in the way I expected (the way I wanted?). My dad commented that kids often don’t spend as much time thinking about the past or the future. So thinking about my last post, perhaps they simply spend more time in the present where grief’s cuts and bruises are softer. Maybe that’s an important difference that helps them cope.

They are happy to talk about Mum and remember the things she did. I’ve been conscious that their memories of Mary will fade and that we need to find ways to capture memories of Mary. This was my thinking at the funeral when we asked people to write down their memories of Mary. Then and now I often find myself searching my own mind for the really good memories to share with the kids, but struggling to find just the right ones.

I had a good chat to a child psychologist friend during the week (thanks Vanessa) who made me realise that it’s probably not the quality of the memories captured that matters as much as the quantity. I think I’ve been constantly on the lookout for the quintessentially Mary memory. The ultimate recollection that would have the greatest meaning for us all. However, I think I’ve now realised that it’s more important to capture the everyday memories. The things that remind the kids that we had a life together with mum and it was good, and even if it wasn’t always good, we remember and treasure it.

So I’ve started to capture short videos of the kids, little 10-20 second vignettes of their memories of everyday life with Mary. Nothing too insignificant, we’ll capture them all. They both seem to like this idea, after all it involves iPads and iPhones. The memories they seem to like aren’t always the ones you’d think. The mint flavoured thick-shake shared at the shops or Cara’s favourite: Mum crying out in sarcastic frustration “Cara I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to pick up after you!” Some of their memories are actually Mary telling the stories of her own childhood, usually involving the escapades of her brother, Uncle Johnny.

It’s data collection. I can do this. We’ve got six so far. I am doing grief. I think.

The grief literature constantly says that everyone grieves differently. I’m agnostic on this point. It all depends on how you define grief. I wonder if the feelings of loss and intense sadness of people “in grief” and “feeling grief” aren’t universally the same. But there’s no way to prove this any more than there’s a way to prove that the way I see and experience the colour red is the way someone else does. So let’s agree, for the sake of my point, that people “in grief” and “feeling grief” are experiencing those moments in similar ways. What is different then is how people “do grief”.

This idea, was reinforced for me on Saturday morning, while eating breakfast and looking for some music to play (I really do love spotify). I stumbled on a new jazz album by Jimmy Greene (Beautiful Life). I queued the album up, half listening, half providing feedback to Cara’s competing imaginary play, half eating (I can multi-task now Mary). The first minute was interesting enough to not go looking for something else and – as the first track ended with a home recording of a young girl singing – I was intrigued enough to keep listening and find out more. This review tells you about Jimmy’s grief. His daughter, Ana, died in the Sandy Hook shooting in 2012. Once you hear the story, I think, the music changes.

It occurred to me, that on this album, this guy is “doing grief”, in a way that I can’t, but wish that I could. The tracks are beautiful. I can’t now tease apart whether I’m drawn to the music because of its source of inspiration, because it’s sung through his saxophone, or because it simply sounds wonderful. I was inspired enough to pull out my old alto sax and see if I could remember the solo from Take 5 (an old favourite I almost mastered last time I was doing grief in Townsville after Ellen died). Alas, Paul Desmond wouldn’t be feeling any pride, perhaps sympathy (for the neighbours). Maybe I’ll practice and I can find another way to do grief.

One of Ana’s, favourite songs was “Maybe” from Annie. I couldn’t listen to this track, without getting teary. It’s on a soprano sax I think (I always wanted one of those). I’m not sure if the tears were for Ana, a father’s pain, or mine and Harry and Cara’s loss. What’s nice though is the word maybe. For me it’s not completely wishful. It’s not a hopeless wish that somehow Mary can come back. It’s got some hope wrapped in it. Maybe Jimmy, Cara, Harry, and I will all be ok.

I’m not sure if me “doing grief” (writing these words for example) is me just “doing distraction”. Sometimes it probably is. But maybe one day, without thinking, I’ll realise that I’m not doing grief or distraction anymore. Maybe I’ll awake and find myself just doing life.

Even then though, I’ll be wishing she was still here.