Grieving is highly variable process. There are no shoulds or shouldn’ts, there is no roadmap, and there are definitely no rules. Don’t ever let anyone tell you where you should be or how you should be dealing with your loss. From Jeff Olsen, author of The Slight Edge:
Grieving is neither neat nor orderly. There is no clearly defined path or timetable to follow. Different aspects of grief (the painful separation, disbelief, anger, guilt, hopelessness, etc.) fade in and out of our hearts with no discernible pattern. And there is no way of knowing how many times we will experience any particular aspect or so-called “stage” of grief.
We can’t go through life without experiencing tragedies and grief. I’ve written here about Foos, my 100 lb pit bull. He and I were the best of friends. Every night upon my late night arrival home from the studio, I’d find his giant grey frame resting on our long asphalt driveway, the moonlight bouncing off the gloss on his eyes. As I inched closer to him, my headlights would inevitably illuminate a rabbit or squirrel, and he was off to the races. In the morning, when I’d rise, he’d keep me company as I prepared breakfast for my sons. He’d just sit there staring at me. His message was emphatically clear. “I’ve got you. I don’t need anything. I just want you to know I’m here.”
Last week, he died. He had been at the hospital for nearly 24 hours when the phone rang. It was the doctor. He softened the blow the best he could but eventually got to it. Foos had gone into cardiac arrest and been resuscitated once through CPR, but had it happened a second time. They were considering resuscitating him again. The doctor spoke up. “Look, we can try again, but frankly, I don’t think we can save him.” I asked him, “What is the downside of trying?” He told me that Foos would suffer some, and he would likely simply go back into arrest. That was all I needed.
“Let him go, please,” I said.
At this point you might be wondering why I’m sharing such a personal story while licking fresh wounds. This is part of my process, one of my coping mechanisms. Writing is an escape for me. My style isn’t to go sit on a therapist’s couch. I write.
Too often when tragedy strikes, we feel societally pressured to behave a certain way. We should be “this” sad and for around “that” long. We laugh and subsequently feel guilty. This is utter bullshit.
This is a sad event in my life, but I choose how to express and process my grief. I believe that this is an opportunity for me to become stronger. Sympathy will not help. I know that the perspective I have gained and the confidence I am building by overcoming this obstacle will inevitably lead to more skilled navigation of life’s next rocky road.
As I maneuver my way through this challenge, I am not alone. Lisa, Chase and Dane all loved Foos as much as I did. I knew that it would be difficult, but everyone needed to come to grips with the loss in order to deal with it and move forward. The night before Foos died, I discussed with Lisa, who has studied grief intensely, how to break the news to the boys.
“We just tell them that he died,” she said.
It’s taboo to be blunt. We use pussyfoot phrases like “passed on” and “no longer with us” to lessen the immediate impact. Lisa and I elected not to do that. My boys, at 12 and 14, did not need societally-approved phrases, they needed accurate information.
In fact, my younger son was sitting on the couch with me when the doctor called. He heard my side of the conversation. As I hung up and he stared at me, wide-eyed, I told him. “Deuce, Foos died.” Then, as he wailed, I walked out to my older son’s room and used the same words with him. I grabbed and hugged him. “I’m sorry, Chase,” I said. We all wept intermittently. It was the first time in their lives that they’ve seen me shed a tear.
Throughout the day, the four of us shared memories of our friend. There were tears and bitterness. The words “I can’t believe it” were uttered many times. This is a natural and expected part of the grieving process. There was also laughter and smiles. My 14 year old, in a span of five minutes, went from uttering, “I don’t know how I’m going to survive without him” to a mature, wise story of how important it is to move on and do so swiftly. All of us swung from despair to laughter and back.
It was Sunday when Foos died. There were moments of sadness and guilt. I also kept an eye on my fantasy football team, I saw that Kershaw beat the Giants and watched the video of Papelbon grabbing his balls while walking off the field in Philadelphia. It all cracked me up. That was all an imperative part of the initial stage of my grieving process. I didn’t feel guilty about it, and I wanted my boys to know that they should feel however the hell they feel about losing Foos. I know societal rules are for society, not for us. I needed the boys to understand that.
At one point, I went to see my elder son in his room, and he was watching a video on his computer with a monster smile on his face. I told him how proud I was of that. He should smile if he feels amused. He should never try to hide it, no matter who is watching or judging. “Remember, no rules, just survival.”
It’s been a week since Foos died. We buried him on the property. Dane just walked back inside after visiting his grave.
“I miss him,” I said as we embraced.
“Me too,” he said. “Sometimes it seems like it happened just now and sometimes it feels like it happened forever ago.”
His words couldn’t have resonated more powerfully. This morning, we were screaming at the TV for the Redskins to get the ball in Pierre Garcon’s hands. Now, after dinner, with the sun going down and the wind coming off the ocean and blowing through our open doors, Coltrane plays and we reminisce.
I know you might be grieving a loss, too. As such, my story may resonate with you. The way I approach my loss may assist you in your process. Perhaps knowing that I’m crushed, but that I’m training and working without limitation might inspire you to move on in your life if you’re feeling stuck. All it takes is one reader who feels less alone, and this post is worth it.
We are all members of the human race and can support each other in whichever way we know how. Telling you the story of Foos’ death is one way. Our experiences may not be the same, but the smallest similarity can spark an “I get it” moment. I trust you’ll extract what you need and discard the rest.