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Chapter One Little deaths, big deaths One fresh, sunny morning, it suddenly struck me to what extent newspapers chronicle losses. As my awakening eyes scanned the front page, a pattern emerged. Mother’s Death Follows Cougar Attack related a loss of life and of relationship. Military Assault Looms foretold the loss of life, of security and of dreams. Political Responsibility Denied revealed the loss of trust and, perhaps, of a promising career. Certainly, one way of understanding classic literature is as an anthology of losses. Many novels, poems and plays are variations on the themes we read in high school, such as Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, Milton’s Paradise Lost, and Hugo’s Les Miserables. And, one way of interpreting modern psychology is as a system for coping with losses: loss of the physical security of our mother’s womb; loss of the emotional bonds of our family; and loss of faith in childhood fantasies. In fact, apart from love, loss is perhaps the single greatest driver of human behavior. Because loss triggers our natural instinct for survival, on any given day, most of us spend more than a fleeting moment mourning a past loss or fearing a potential loss. The older we are, the greater our legacy of loss. The more we are attached to people or cling to possessions, the more we are vulnerable to loss. Only a desperate pessimist would fail to see the many ways in which each day sprouts new growth. But only a naive optimist would overlook the pain in which growth, in fact, is rooted. Most often, this pain is a result of loss, loss which takes many forms: the loss of a home, through bankruptcy, war, or natural disaster; the loss of a spouse, through death or divorce; the loss of purpose, through unemployment, retirement or children grown-up; the loss of faith or hope; the loss of health or freedom; and many, many other losses, large and small. One author has grouped these into three areas: death of a role, death of a relationship and death of potential. Another has offered the view that losses can be actual, such as the loss of a significant person, a limb or an important job, or they can be symbolic, such as the loss of identity that may follow the loss of a child, a parent or a job. Yet another has drawn our attention to disenfranchised losses which he defines as a loss that is not or cannot be openly acknowledged, publicly mourned or socially supported and includes such situations as the loss of an extramarital lover, the loss of an ex-spouse and elective abortion. Of course, not all losses are equal. Some are barely noticed while others leave scars for life, sometimes even for future generations. Ironically, the real difference in size between two particular losses has very little to do with the felt difference in pain between them. Aside from the relatively shorter duration of the grief, the loss of a pet may not feel a whole lot less hurtful to a pre-schooler than the loss of personal treasures from a lifetime of toil does to a refugee. Our clinging nature makes it difficult for us to view losses in perspective. There exists a singularly Christian understanding of loss, which presents us with a helpful perspective. This option is the one proposed by the life and teachings of Jesus, the humble Nazarene. Both his deeds and his wisdom equip us for the healing that lies ahead by revealing God as Love. Certainly God calls us each and every moment to deeper relationship, but according to a long-established spiritual tradition, loss provides a unique opportunity to meet God face-to-face. St. Ephraem, the fourth Century Syrian hermit who was later dubbed father of the Church and doctor of the Holy Spirit, stated bluntly: “Until you have cried, you have not known God”. In these tears are the sadness of endings and the joy of new beginnings. Where we come out from our journey through the wilderness of loss will depend, to some extent, on our choices. The decisions we take along the way can drag us into a mire of misery or lead us through a personal Passover from death to new life. All significant losses inevitably lead to grief. Our experience of grief can be sudden or gradual, immediate or delayed. It can be complicated by the occurrence of many overlapping losses, mitigated by supportive friends or exacerbated by the absence of a system for understanding, whether religious or secular. Grief can be denied, acknowledged or amplified. It can be triggered or smothered. It can be seen for what it is or sublimated before re-emerging in another context. But it is always there, because loss is as inescapable a feature of the human landscape as is the setting of the sun. The widely read English writer C.S. Lewis, who had spent much of his adult life speculating about the spiritual meaning of suffering, stood naked before the wrenching forces of grief: “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same flutters in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing. At other times it feels like being mildly drunk (...) There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting.” Augustine, the fourth century bishop of Hippo in North Africa who is one of the four Latin fathers of the church and is looked upon by Roman Catholics and Protestants alike as a cornerstone of Christian theology, offered in his autobiography a gripping account of the grief that followed the death of his father: “My heart was made dark by sorrow and whatever I looked upon was death. My native place was a torment to me and my father’s house was a strange unhappiness. Whatsoever I had done together with him was, apart from him, turned into a cruel torture. My eyes sought for him on every side, and he was not given to them. I hated all things because they no longer held him (...) To myself, I became a great riddle, and I questioned my soul as to why it was sad and why it afflicted me so grievously, and it could answer me nothing. If I said to it “Hope in God”, it did right not to obey me, for the man that most dear one whom she had lost, was more real and more good to her than the fantasy in which she was bade to hope. Only weeping was sweet to me, and it succeeded to my friends in my soul’s delight”. Indeed, the literary sage himself, William Shakespeare reminds us, that “anyone can master a grief but he that has it”. Advice abounds. It comes from all sides -- usually from a safe distance. Because our losses make people uncomfortable, even our friends are inclined to encourage us to overlook our losses. Few can stand by us in silence. We get more platitudes than affirmations, more pity than compassion and more stiff upper lips than smiles. That is because our nakedness lays bare their most carefully hidden fears: our wounds tear open their wounds, our pain amplifies their pain and our poverty exposes their poverty. Yet grief is a very natural response to loss. In most circumstances, it is as normal as pregnancy, with which it shares more than a few similarities. Though bereavement, the word we use to describe the journey back from loss, presents universal characteristics, each particular experience is unique. No two persons pass through bereavement in the same way. No individual experiences subsequent losses in precisely the same way. During the period that followed their mother’s death, my three pre-school sons displayed vastly different reactions. One blocked it so effectively that years later, he marveled at how his friends expressed emotions that he could not readily relate to. Another grabbed comfort wherever he could. One time he hugged a stranger in a restaurant because her fur coat seemed so soft. He often called teachers ‘Mom’. The third remained a shy, withdrawn person, painfully sensitive to criticism. As though to illustrate the fact that blocked pain defers rather than annuls the grieving process, my eldest son burst out at the age of nine, four years after his mother’s death, amidst the chaos of anger and despair: ‘I want my mother back. I’ve been strong long enough. I want her back.’ And even now, almost 19, he longs silently for the mother he never knew, or perhaps more specifically, the unconditional caring he knows is a mother’s special gift. All of us suffer loss differently. Clinicians refer to the following factors to explain the differences: personality, past grief events, the complexity of each situation, emotional development or maturity, anxiety about death, social support, ethnic and cultural influences, types of death, gender, quality of the lost relationship and the spiritual or religious outlook. Literature is abundant in the area of bereavement. Thirty years ago, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross produced a landmark piece, which described five stages of dying: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. For a time, it was assumed that these also applied to bereavement - with disastrous results when perceived as inviolable steps. Other academics have referred to phases, such as numbing, yearning, despair and reorganization ; necessary tasks, such as accepting the reality of loss, experiencing the pain of grief, adjusting to the environment in which the deceased is missing, withdrawal of emotional energy and reinvestment in other relationships . Ultimately, loss calls for a change in the way we see ourselves, in the way we relate to others, and the way we work through the various tasks of life. From what I have personally experienced and observed in others, bereavement can be said to produce a variety of physical and emotional effects, including anguish, a feeling of abandonment and a tendency toward isolation. These will be the special focus of our exploration in the chapters that follow. While the presence of grief may be evident in many cases, it is not always apparent. Sometimes it creeps up slowly to overwhelm us by surprise. Some refer to a number of presenting symptoms, which occur in most people who suffer a significant loss. To know these and to understand their effects can help us manage our lives through this turbulent period. The most common of these symptoms is a dramatic change in our orientation. We become increasingly inward looking and indifferent to the world around us. Our own woes are amplified while the joys or troubles of others no longer elicit much empathy. We simply feel too weak to respond to others, even when friends are calling us to activities that would previously have excited us. Other emotional symptoms may include sadness and depression, fear and anxiety, loneliness and, in some cases, suicidal tendencies. Many also feel physical pain. Headaches and nausea are not uncommon. Nor are the abrupt loss or gain of weight. Also, we may experience ulcers, high blood pressure, palpitations, allergies and insomnia. With the onslaught of chronic fatigue, we may be more vulnerable to viral infections and to irritability. Finally, there is the spiritual dimension. It may become difficult to focus or to remain motivated. Even a deeply religious person may become disinclined to pray. Many have spoken to me about aridity or loss of meaning in daily prayer. This is why it is so important to persevere in faith, despite these feelings. It is precisely at these moments that we need prayer the most. Pain needs to be handled at an appropriate level. We would not likely ask a plumber to repair a computer or a carpenter to maintain a racing car. Similarly, we must take care to seek the counsel of a competent physician to treat physical symptoms. We must turn to a trustworthy professional for help in dealing with deep-seated emotional problems. And we are advised to find a suitable director to guide us in our spiritual journey. As I grappled with the mystery of grief, most of my frustrations -- perhaps most of my anguish -- stemmed from the fact that bereavement is not efficient work. Nor is it optional. It is important to affirm life in the midst of the chaos. After all, as the French philosopher Gabriel Marcel once affirmed, “Life is not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be lived”. As though to encourage us in the face of bereavement’s inevitable setbacks, Carl Jung added: “The serious problems of life are never fully solved. The meaning and design of a problem seem not to lie in its solution, but in our working at it incessantly.” 1. Betty Wylie, Life’s Losses (Toronto:
Macmillan Canada, 1996)
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