Grief: the loss and the art of remembering

What is grief?

According to the Cambridge Dictionary, grief is defined as “very great sadness, especially at the death of someone.” More broadly, grief is the deep emotional, physical, and psychological response to a significant loss, most commonly the death of a loved one. Though it can also stem from the end of a relationship, job loss, or major life changes. In line with this definition, there are four common dimensions of grief: emotional, physical, cognitive, and behavioral.

Now that the definitions are out of the way, let’s dive right in.

Grief never ends, but it changes

First and foremost, remember that grief never ends; it is the intensity that varies over time. When you lose a loved one, you will always hold them in your heart, miss them horribly, and navigate the triggers that may spark or reignite the grief.

From my own experience, I miss my Dad, who died after a battle with prostate cancer in 2013, each day, and the void in my heart and soul is immense all the time. Luckily, the pain of grief does lessen, but it also can be all-consuming. I suppose the easiest way to navigate the severity is to be aware of triggers, your emotional state at the time, and how long it takes for you not to react in a way that makes you hurt more. Cherish all of the memories, talk about them, remember them, and love them unconditionally. It is completely acceptable for you to choose how you want to grieve.

Grief is not linear

There is no rule book or blueprint with directions on how, when, and why you grieve.

One of the lessons I learned and have now come to appreciate is that grief is not linear. I would compare it to a spiral, or “speira” in Greek, often seen as a symbol of the circle of life. While one can see the clear beginning, there is no end; it reflects the stages that we go through in life.

Taking this one step further, I would say that our lives and our growth are directly connected to our personalities, our experiences, and the depths of our relationships. So, from birth to death, each of us goes on our own unique journey, with highs and lows.

Finding my voice through poetry

When my Dad died, I followed his final wishes, making sure they were honored. And in a strange way, this brought us closer. Perhaps this is why the first poem I ever wrote was in honor of him. It brought me closure, a sense of pride, and an avenue for me to find my voice as a poet.

Many believe that a little girl’s first love is her Dad… well, in my case, this is completely true. It was my Dad who first felt and believed that I might have cerebral palsy. As a result, he challenged, loved, and advocated for me with resolute passion until his last breath.

In honor of his love, legacy, and zest for life. I am sharing a poem that took significant time for me to write.

Ash

Rolled myself into place in line,
unable to take off my shoes.
Placed my belongings on the plastic
belt, in the plastic buckets, one at a time.
My purple and blue paisley scarf, and my black faux leather purse with the frayed strap.
A gray cloth bag which held my MacBook, latest magazine, snacks, woolen hat and gloves.
Must not forget to remove my Ziploc bag of the 100 ml of liquids as I zipped my bag closed, fingers cold and trembling.
I know what is next. My empty eyes searched for empathy, a kind expression, as
the machine beep echoes harshly in the air.
Is it me, or did every noise go silent?
beep… pound… beep… pound… beep
I know what is next. My empty eyes continue to search for empathic, warm eyes that can see my feelings, with cheeks on fire… HOT!
Fear erupts from within my soul, about to flow like molten lava. Is this why my cheeks are burning?
Suddenly, a kind woman knelt at my side, asking to hold my trembling, frozen hand, addressing me by my name.
She can’t be speaking to me, I do not know her!
A pause as I catch my breath and her warm fingers envelop mine,
I hear a whisper from the distance
“Nicole, I am so sorry, but we need to…
ash…”
Yes, that ash
25% of the remains of my Father, my DADDY…
all I have of home that was poured from an urn, now in my bag on the plastic belt, which was placed in a gray steel, plastic bucket…
Yes, that ash
I opened my mouth to say,
“Do not touch him, he’s mine,”
but no words escaped from within
as my salty tears fell
and intertwined with my Daddy’s ashes.

Every memory we share keeps a loved one’s story alive. Who are you remembering today?