Grief day

One of the things that I learned during my shitshow was that there is no pre-grieving.

Me and my overactive little brain, we wanted to think that if we expected the worst and cried first, we could get around the grief.

If I cried enough now, if I did enough loss training, enough memento mori practice, enough meditating on my pink quilt on the wall shouting WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE, maybe I could avoid grief.

Ha, ha. Avoid grief.

I was proven wrong repeatedly. There is no pre-grieving.

Even when I knew grief would come knocking, and I pre-grieved for it, expected it, braced myself for it… it still feels bottomless and without a shore. There’s no doing anything about it, other than just keeping one nostril above water while I try not to panic, waiting for some sort of sign that it’s passed.

There’s no pre-grieving.

When I had to lovingly put my old dog down? I still grieved.

When the pandemic canceled my plans and ate half my business? I still grieved.

So I know this: pre-grieving doesn’t work.

That said, grief practice does work. You can’t get it out of the way, but you can practice so that when the grief comes knocking at your door, with its deaths and passings, with its heartbreak and deep losses, its systemic racism, its impending civil wars, its wildfires and AQIs of 175, you know what to do.

It doesn’t make doing it any worse, but at least you know what to do.

I’ve learned that grief shouldn’t be avoided. Feeling grief is a privilege because it means you’ve loved and cared. Letting grief move through you is a form of hygiene; keeping the pipes clean for new feelings. Grieving is an honor, a gift I give my unborn grandchildren and long-dead ancestors, lessening their burden.

Monday, the grief came for me. I couldn’t avoid it, but at least I had practiced.

6 am light reading

I woke up too early on Monday. Often, I can put myself back to sleep with a mix of hour-long yoga nidra guided meditations, or asking Alexa to play me an Eckhart Tolle audiobook that I’ve listened to so many times that it’s become a favorite dozey bedtime story.

But Monday morning, I was awake too early, and I stayed awake.

I was awake, but in that moment, I was also in a cozy bed in a comfortable home. The trees outside my bedroom window were breathing in the ways that they do, the ways that I enjoy just lying there and watching. I swear I can see them shimmering their respiration. I was tired, but things weren’t bad.

Deciding to do some reading, I leaned over and pulled the first book I saw off the shelf: Dying Well.

Meh, fuckit. Why not.

The book was an inheritance from my ex-step-mother-in-law after she passed away in 2007. It was my ex-husband’s, and it got left behind in his big move-out five years ago, and I was OK with that. It’s a critically lauded book about end-of-life care and seems like a worthy title to have on my shelf.

I’ve never read it, so I figured what the hell. It was the day before equinox, and the dark is creeping back into the mornings, and why not read a book about death at 6 am on a Monday.

It was a good read. I read a chapter about a young mother with cancer who was in denial about her terminal diagnosis and fought her death ’til the end, suffering miserably. I read another chapter about a woman in her 60s who was ready for death, greeting it with grace, intent, and clarity.

“Cool,” I thought. “It’s good to practice surrender. Gotta keep at it with that daily seated meditation practice, even though sometimes it feels like a terrible punishment, watching my brain ping-pong around and bargaining with myself. Just five more minutes, and then you can check your email! Breathe! Breathe! BREATHE!!!

I flipped through the remainder of the book and noticed an old bookmark in the back.

“Oh right,” I thought to myself. “I remember this.”

It was a sample of a wedding invitation that some designer had sent me maybe a decade ago. It was Dia De Los Muertos themed, with sugar skulls and a questionable font that said LOVE NEVER DIES. (Offbeat Wed doesn’t feature stuff like this anymore — these look used to be cute, but now it reads as culturally appropriative.)

I flipped the bookmark over and was greeted by my own handwriting, addressing my ex-husband.

“Just a small hidden note to say I’ll love you forever. xo, Your Wife.”

OOF.

It was 7 am, and I lay in bed and cried. Not because my husband had left, but because I’d gone back on a promise.

How to have a good day with grief

So that was how my Monday morning started: first a little light reading about death and end of life care, and then a quick kick to the gut in my own handwriting.

I rolled over in bed and realized I wasn’t alone in the sheets. There was grief, next to me, smiling from the pillow.

It was clear… this would be a grief day.

You don’t get to pick when a grief day happens, although I suppose it could be argued that I subconsciously made a kind of choice when I pulled that book off the shelf.

Once it becomes clear that grief has come knocking, the wisest thing to do is open the door and let it in.

“Oh, hello,” I said to the grief that day. “Good morning. Did you want some ginger tea?”

“Yes, please,” grief replied, sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling over its shoulder at me.

We got out of bed, my grief and me. I made myself busy in the kitchen while grief waited politely for me in the living room.

I made my tea and offered grief their cup on the couch, where it was making itself comfortable.

“I usually stretch in the mornings,” I said. “Would you like to watch?”

“I would,” grief said, and so I did my lapdances for grief that day.

I thought about the teeth rotting in my head, the muscles atrophying because I can’t seem to get back into a routine with going to the gym because everything feels like it’s falling apart every week. I thought about how every day is a gift, even the days when grief is on your couch, sipping its tea, leering at you.

I cried while I stretched, and grief sighed appreciatively.

I like to think we both enjoyed ourselves.

When it’s a grief day, you’re best off not fighting it.

Cancel meetings if you can. I did.

Add a new event to your calendar, if you want. “Grieving, 9 am.” I did.

When it’s a grief day, you’re best off if you don’t think about it too hard. Why is this happening today? Where did this come from? What does this mean? How can I fix it? Is it wrong that I feel this way?

None of these answers matter, and thinking about them only distracts you from allowing the grief to move through. The thoughts only make grief stay longer.

When it’s a grief day, cry frequently.

(“Would you like to cry with me?” I asked grief. “I love crying,” grief said, and we held each other in our arms and saturated each other’s clothing.)

When it’s a grief day, rest a lot.

(Grief and I napped together, curled around each other like twin fetuses, or mating slugs, tangled in the sheets.)

When it’s a grief day, bathe.

(Grief loves to watch me shower, appreciating all the curves that will fade, all the skin that will sag, the way my fingers will eventually gnarl. “Be grateful for what that body is, while that body is,” grief reminds me, and I use extra oils after on my skin.)

When it’s a grief day, wrap yourself in blankets even if it’s nice out. Pet your face. Wondering when it will end only makes it last longer.

(Grief strokes my face with my own hands. “Does that feel nice,” grief asks. “It does,” I say. “Thank you.”)

When it’s a grief day, let people know. They’ll probably be able to tell anyway, so it’s best to be accountable for your own emotional state and let them know. Grief likes to move, and if you hide it, you’re tucking it away, immobile and hidden, locked down and clamped in, where it will only metastasize.

When it’s a grief day, try to treat the loss as a gift. You are awake enough to feel. You are aware enough to remember that things are always changing. Loves come and go with gratitude. Children grow up and leave you, if you’re lucky.

We’re all part of the cycles of sprouting and growth, dying and decay. You can’t pick a favorite spot in the process and stay there — stagnation and control are other forms of death.

Everything’s changing, all the time.

Including grief.

At a certain point, I called out to grief, “Hey, did you want to go for a walk to the graveyard or something?”

There was no answer.

“…Grief?” I said because if I’m honest, grief has become a friend. But grief doesn’t like it when I get clingy or feel sorry for myself, and tends to let itself out the backdoor once I start indulging in my 4-wing tragic artist tendencies.

Grief arrives on its own terms, and if it feels welcomed and allowed, it leaves just as quickly without saying goodbye.

MY QUESTIONS FOR YOU

• What are you grieving these days?
• How do you grieve?
• How do you practice surrendering to discomfort?