When a person is immersed in grief, it is impossible to ignore what used to seem minor. Little things become big things, big things become bigger.
Sometimes you have to let go of people you once cared for – still care for in some ways, perhaps – except that you have come to understand that they, without malice, are simply not up to the task of remembering, let alone caring in deep-rooted ways. (Do I have that the wrong way around? I always have trouble with this, the same way I wrestled for most of my life with syllogisms.)
It is difficult not to feel the magnification of this new casualty, falling as it does so quickly on the heels of a primary loss. More, I suppose, who are any of us to decide who should care in the ways that we care when people we know have lost loved ones?
To be sure, I am not alone in these feelings. I talked with hundreds of Ottawa patients who, in that small confessional, revealed so much of their lives and what had been painful. I already knew, too – because of my big-hearted mother and my incapable father – where people’s capacities lay.
But just as little things become big things and big things become bigger, what once might have felt everyday-small now feels enormous.
Two days ago I was sitting on the front porch cutting flowers when our neighbour, Rich, came up the walkway. He asked me how I was, and I told him “not so great.” Without a second’s hesitation he hopped the railing and leapt up onto the porch, where he then sat down and had a chat with me. We talked a bit about Sarah and Lainey, shared excitement about his upcoming wedding, and aired grievances about household repairs. He rescued the remainder of my day.
Yesterday, when I opened my email box, I found a giant-sized colourful “HUGS” from Lesley, one of Sarah’s best friends, a young woman who has been relentless, sending thoughtful and funny email, making my days and nights seem almost bearable. She reminds me over and over again – because of who she is, and because she relays stories – of Sarah, which feels like something of a miracle.
Last weekend, Crystal and Sean came from Ottawa and stayed overnight, Crystal and I sitting on that same porch, talking until almost dawn. Their company, kindnesses and conversation were uplifting, and I knew that while a young daughter was gone others lived on in her memory.
After dinner last night, I received a message from one of the book club ladies – a busy woman who has made efforts that have stretched far beyond the meaning of ordinary giving; someone who so clearly understands what it means, how life feels, to be here among the walking dead.
And this morning, my constant friend Sheila made me laugh so hard I almost wet my pants.
So for any of you who are reading this because you are sad and learning to live with grief, I hope it might be helpful, as it has been for me, to remember that letting go is a many-sided concept.
While on the one hand it might be more prudent to let some people slip away (mourning leaves no room for reminders) there is also wisdom in keeping all of those other people safe in your heart – the ones who leap fences, send you hugs, let you know that they understand; the ones who will not leave you alone in your grief; the friends who make you laugh.
Through them, the dead live on and breathe. With them, you, and life, go on.
