Could you tell me a time you felt grief?

The day I went to visit my grandmother in a funeral home was one of the worst days of my life. I was torn between the desperate need to see her one last time, and the growing fear of what it would be like to see one of my treasured loved ones so still, so… dead. That morning, I dressed, styled my hair and fretted about my make-up. Something a lot of people do every day, but I distinctly remember feeling that I needed to look presentable – out of respect, maybe? But then also feeling a little ridiculous because it seemed so trivial. My mum asked me several times if I was sure I wanted to go. I wasn’t sure about anything at that time in my life. I was experiencing my first loss of a loved one. I decided that I would make my final decision when we got there, trusting that my innermost feelings on the matter would break to the surface of my conscious when we arrived and in that moment, I would walk towards what felt right – the funeral home entrance or the car park exit. The entire journey was heavy with anticipation and curiosity. What would she look like? Would I even recognise her? How would I feel?

Some other close family members met us there. We were welcomed into the first room by the funeral director. He spoke for a long time. I remember very little of it. Fragments here and there about funeral arrangements – flowers, people, venue. Then he talked about the embalmers, and her shroud. Again, details allude me. My mind was wandering, separate from my physical being, to the room next door where she lay. Nothing except a few metres and a wall between me and the woman who looked after me while my parents worked, who introduced me to ‘elevenses’, who let me scribble in her address book as a child, listened to my dramas as a teenager, and my adventures as an adult. The woman who paraded me and my sister around town, showing us off to anyone who would stop to listen. Her love for us was so pure and unwavering. She cherished me, and I her. ‘I didn’t visit enough’, I thought. ‘I didn’t tell her I loved her enough’. My eyes would fill and empty repeatedly. There was a pattern of allowing yourself to feel the loss, shed a tear, wipe it away, compose yourself then crumble again. It was waves of two very different realities or realisations; the one in which my gran was dead and nothing would ever be quite the same, and the one where you couldn’t quite believe it because everything and everyone else in the world was just carrying on as normal – so maybe it wasn’t real? Maybe everything was going to be ok?

When the time came to move to the next room, a different wave crashed over me taking me tumbling head over heels into a new realm of emotion. Fear. Pure, unforgiving, overwhelming and very real fear. The sobs erupted from me. From somewhere I wasn’t even sure they had been hiding. Everyone moved on to the front of the room without me. The funeral director stood by me and I remember wishing that I knew him better. I wished that because I wanted him to hold me upright while I let my body collapse. I didn’t want to waste energy using my legs to stand, I wanted to spend it all on just crying and feeling, falling into myself. But I didn’t, so I couldn’t. I heard gasps and sobs, whispers and chatter. I was aghast and curious amongst all the other emotions bursting inside of me; like fireworks in a small contained room. I succumbed to more physical symptoms of fear as I made my way to the front of the room. The tingling crept up from my feet, through my legs. I felt weak and useless. A hollow space was opening up in the pit of my very being – almost like my organs were moving aside to make way for some dark matter that had decided to take up residence. I don’t know what the rest of the room looked like as my eyes never faltered from her coffin. My mum turned as I reached the side of the coffin and what followed was something I had never experienced before then and haven’t since – a complete loss of function. My mum caught me just as my legs gave way. They just melted below me. I was comforted by my mum and other family members and eventually the feeling crept back into my limbs. I moved towards my gran. I wanted to hold her hand, but it was tucked away under the shroud. Only her head really showed. Everything from the neck down was just bright white cotton. I distinctly remember noticing she had no wrinkles. Her faced was flawless. She was cold. No warmth. No reaction. But not sad. Just still. I brushed the back of my fingers against her cheek, and I pulled myself together enough to bend over to kiss her forehead. 

Since that day, I have lost my other three grandparents. I was so blessed to have all four of them into my mid-20’s. With each death, I learned a little more about myself. About how I cope with loss, what I believe to be important in life, how I want to exist in the world. And I began to appreciate that we all grieve and process loss in our own unique ways. I don’t visit their graves – it doesn’t comfort me the way it comforts others. But I do think of them when I’m making decisions in my life –  ‘Papa would have told me to go for it and not give a shit what other people think’. I think of my Grandpa when I tend to my garden or see a bee – he had the most beautiful garden and was a brilliant beekeeper. I think of my Nana when I bake, and my Gran when I make a new friend who she would have loved to hear all about. Sometimes, randomly, a smell will drift by on a breeze that will remind me of one of them. Or someone will tell a story and I will chime in, ‘My Gran said that too!’. I smile softly to myself when a happy memory escapes a filing cabinet in my head and springs to mind. I see their faces and mannerisms in my parents. I drive down streets where we once stood together, in another time. And that’s how I remember. For the most part, the pain subsides, the fear dissipates and normal life resumes. However, every now and again a fresh tear will escape and a rumbling of that crippling upset bubbles to the surface. A lump in the throat. A knot in my tummy. I used to try to hold it down but over time I’ve learned that it is much more liberating to embrace it. Someone once said that grief was the bill we received for having loved, and I will always love them so I imagine that means I will always pay the price. So I hold on to my grief as a reminder that I was lucky enough to have had four wonderful grandparents, whom I loved and who loved me in return.