Four months in...

This week has been peculiar in that, instead of the dull ache in the background, I have had either quite reasonable, and sometimes, good days alongside quite bad days. I can see no reason for this, it’s just how it’s been. I’m learning that grief is not predictable!

One of the things I have been doing is writing down memories of B. Not the big things, like special occasions or holidays, but the little things such as how he would fold his pillow in half if he was reading in bed; how he always had the same breakfast unless he was on holiday; how he would be on time, or late, but rarely early; the Scottish phrasing he would sometimes use. I will remember the big things, happy memories of special occasions, but I don’t want to create an idealised picture of B; I want to remember the ‘real’ him. So as the little things come to me, I write them down, and they make me smile. I may read them later, I may not, but they are recorded.

I have also ordered a box to use as a memory box. Obviously, I have the photos, but I also have cards he sent me, shopping lists in his writing (!), some of his talks and so forth. I want some special way of keeping all these things together so that I can look at them when I feel the need, but it is also a way of putting them away (slowly), recognising that I want to keep them but that I also have to move forward. 

When I visited the hospice, one of my friends asked me how people have reacted to me since B died, as this is something that interests her. In honesty, it has been a real mixture. I remember not long after B died posting a piece on Facebook that said something like this: 

If you know someone who has lost a very important person in their life and you’re afraid to mention that person because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died, you’re not reminding them, they didn’t forget they died (!!). What you’re reminding them of is that they lived. And that is a great, great gift. 

This is so true! I want to talk about B, and how I feel. It has been noticeable, and sometimes surprising, who has kept in contact and who hasn’t. I can understand people feeling awkward, worried that they are going to say the wrong thing (although that isn’t actually very likely), but I would much rather have that than them not talk to me at all. I’m still the same person, we can still have a laugh amidst my sadness. The people who have been most supportive are those who keep checking up on me; those who are happy to mention B’s name, to talk about the memories they have of him and his little quirks; those who allow me to talk about him and how I am feeling; and those who allow me to cry if I need to without becoming embarrassed. Generally, all this makes me feel better rather than worse. So thank you to all my family and friends who have stuck by me and kept in touch, and who, now we are able, are inviting me out or to come and stay. 

I also want to say ‘thank you’ to you for reading and acknowledging my blog (in whatever way). In ordinary times I probably wouldn’t have written it, but it has been a way for me to express my grief when the number of people I’ve been in contact with, because of the pandemic, has been very limited. In addition, it has been encouraging for me to learn that other people who have lost partners recently have found it helpful.

Recently, I have been reflecting on some of the various models of grief. Whilst I don’t want to intellectualise my grief, it has been helpful to remind myself about some of these models. Recognising the process I am going through does help to validate my feelings and helps me realise that I am normal (!). I guess the most well known of these models is Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s Five Stages of Grief (1969): denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, whilst recognising that it is not a linear process. I have to say, I haven’t really recognised this in myself, but my understanding is that Kubler-Ross was actually thinking more of people who knew they were dying rather than the bereaved, so perhaps that is why. Stroebe and Schut’s Dual Process Model (1999) fits much more comfortably with me. This model describes how the bereaved oscillate between loss-oriented responses e.g. expressing one’s grief, thinking about the person who has died, breaking ties with them etc., and restoration-oriented responses e.g. distraction from grief, doing new things, attending to life changes etc. I recognise this in myself and I think I bounce back and forth between these two emotional processes many times a day. 

The other model that I have some affinity with is Tonkin’s Growing around Grief (1996). This describes how, rather than expecting one’s grief to reduce with time, the grief stays but the person heals around it as s/he has new experiences and looks forward to new possibilities. This makes sense to me as the thought of moving on and forgetting B is problematic. I can’t ever imagine forgetting him, but in time I hope my life will expand around my grief, and I will be able to live a different, but happy and fulfilling life. I know that is what he would want for me. Bear in mind though, the models that ‘work’ for me may not be right for others, and there are many others ‘out there’ which could be helpful.