Talked with Mom for half an hour or so last night. It was nice to have a spontaneous conversation; usually we have to plan days in advance because of the time difference. But I've got her and Dad using WhatsApp now and she was working from home so a mid-morning (her time) call was actually doable. SRB was with me on the couch here, as well, and one of the things we talked about was grief counseling. SRB had a longtime yoga client who's a therapist -- not a common profession in this mental-healthcare-starved country -- and had previously suggested reaching out to her. And we'd talked even before Jack died about seeking therapy. It's something I've thought about kind of idly for a couple of years at least but never done anything about.
One of the things I am trying to do in the aftermath of Jack's death is take more rigorous emotional care of myself. My general tendency is to move through life without huge emotional amplitude. Usually this is a good thing: I handle stressful situations well and am happy and content most of the time. But there are times when I wonder what it costs me to be so even.
A memory: When my maternal grandfather died, in 2002, his funeral was held at the church down the road from where and my step-grandmother lived. I sat right behind my Mom's older brother, himself a pretty emotionally contained person. He sobbed loudly, rocking back and forth. Everyone, it seemed, was crying: my brothers, my parents, my relatives, my grandfather's friends. Except me. I looked around and felt that I should be crying, wished that I would cry. But my body did not want to. No tears, no sobs, no quivering chin. It felt like something was wrong with me: was I less sad than everyone else? What did that mean, if so? Did I love my grandfather less than I should have? What was I missing, and missing out on, by not sharing in the outward expressions of grief?
A more recent memory: A few weeks ago, we went into the morgue at the hospital where Jack's body ended up. The security guard who led us there and unlocked the door to the pathology wing explained that he wasn't in too bad shape, a little bruising around the face. I felt nervous, holding back tears as we walked. And I was not prepared for the sight that greeted us: Jack's mouth was open, and his eyes open and vacantly turned upward. The rest of his body was still covered up by the white body bag. I went into convulsive sobs, felt lightheaded, gasped for air, moaned. Lincoln keened in a way I had never heard before. Mom and Dad also sobbed uncontrollably. At some point I couldn't stand and so I knelt and put my head in my hands. The others came over and hugged me or put their hands on me.
We spent what felt like a long time in the wing but can't have been more than 30 or 40 minutes. I couldn't bear to be in the room that whole time so I spent a few stretches in the hallway, on a chair that the guard kindly brought.
It was one of the most horrible experiences of my life. And yet in weeping together, touching each other, the four of us were able to support each other in our individual grief and shock. That shared experience took place over and over the next day and the days after that. So in a way I was relieved to be overwhelmed.
Now, three weeks after finding out that Jack was dead, I'm trying to gauge how closely I've returned to my normal baseline. I'm worried the answer is "too closely." I am sad, even overcome at times. But threw myself back into work immediately, have not wept since I left the States, have not confronted the things Jack left behind: His raps, the photographs of him I have in my house, his Facebook page. The journals and art at Mom and Dad's. To some degree I've slipped right back into the compartmentalization that comes so naturally to me. But I am trying to resist it, trying to let the wound heal slowly rather than slapping some super glue in there, wrapping it up in tape, and injecting the affected area with novocaine.
One of the things I am trying to do in the aftermath of Jack's death is take more rigorous emotional care of myself. My general tendency is to move through life without huge emotional amplitude. Usually this is a good thing: I handle stressful situations well and am happy and content most of the time. But there are times when I wonder what it costs me to be so even.
A memory: When my maternal grandfather died, in 2002, his funeral was held at the church down the road from where and my step-grandmother lived. I sat right behind my Mom's older brother, himself a pretty emotionally contained person. He sobbed loudly, rocking back and forth. Everyone, it seemed, was crying: my brothers, my parents, my relatives, my grandfather's friends. Except me. I looked around and felt that I should be crying, wished that I would cry. But my body did not want to. No tears, no sobs, no quivering chin. It felt like something was wrong with me: was I less sad than everyone else? What did that mean, if so? Did I love my grandfather less than I should have? What was I missing, and missing out on, by not sharing in the outward expressions of grief?
A more recent memory: A few weeks ago, we went into the morgue at the hospital where Jack's body ended up. The security guard who led us there and unlocked the door to the pathology wing explained that he wasn't in too bad shape, a little bruising around the face. I felt nervous, holding back tears as we walked. And I was not prepared for the sight that greeted us: Jack's mouth was open, and his eyes open and vacantly turned upward. The rest of his body was still covered up by the white body bag. I went into convulsive sobs, felt lightheaded, gasped for air, moaned. Lincoln keened in a way I had never heard before. Mom and Dad also sobbed uncontrollably. At some point I couldn't stand and so I knelt and put my head in my hands. The others came over and hugged me or put their hands on me.
We spent what felt like a long time in the wing but can't have been more than 30 or 40 minutes. I couldn't bear to be in the room that whole time so I spent a few stretches in the hallway, on a chair that the guard kindly brought.
It was one of the most horrible experiences of my life. And yet in weeping together, touching each other, the four of us were able to support each other in our individual grief and shock. That shared experience took place over and over the next day and the days after that. So in a way I was relieved to be overwhelmed.
Now, three weeks after finding out that Jack was dead, I'm trying to gauge how closely I've returned to my normal baseline. I'm worried the answer is "too closely." I am sad, even overcome at times. But threw myself back into work immediately, have not wept since I left the States, have not confronted the things Jack left behind: His raps, the photographs of him I have in my house, his Facebook page. The journals and art at Mom and Dad's. To some degree I've slipped right back into the compartmentalization that comes so naturally to me. But I am trying to resist it, trying to let the wound heal slowly rather than slapping some super glue in there, wrapping it up in tape, and injecting the affected area with novocaine.
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