Today’s Lessons in Grief: The Seeking Humor Edition

We so rarely discuss grief as a society. We instead like to mark those who are grieving as fragile and, like those bloody all-glass stores, work to skirt around most everything. We seek out the areas with the largest berth and point to our kid as an excuse of why we shouldn’t go any further. Crisis averted, and we are good.

Except that, grief relies on the consolation of others. It seems that the predominant approach in the US to grief is you show up for the party “visiting hours” and then scurry quickly to the edges. The real hard part isn’t always those immediate days after – no, shock usually preserves you in stasis and it’s a bit like that moment after a near-miss car accident. It’s the after-after when everything is supposed to be normal, but isn’t. People often look at you, and speak in whispered tones. You are with, but surely not with, others.

This is a known problem for anyone who is an experienced griever. Some of us are quite practiced at the art of grieving. You see, this isn’t my first big death. No, no, sadly, I’ve lost count of the number of people I’ve lost where I’ve had their phone number and they’ve died. Some of these came after a long life and it was expected (3), others from an extended period of illness (4), some unexpectedly (2), and the worst ones being where poverty played a role (6+).

After our first big death, we seek to understand life. My first big one came at 18: I was literally standing at a graveside service when I came of age. I mourned as the young often do – in writing existential poetry and documenting my grief in chapters of poems. Some things don’t change, I guess: Less poetry – more documentation.

We are marked in our big deaths: we are in absence of a big presence and find key characteristics greatly lacking. Those who lost a parental figure feel certain types of supports or anchors to be missing. I’ve lost a proverbial twin in life and can I say, I greatly miss the laughs. The world is just too staid and dry right now. Send in the laughs, people! I need them.

Perhaps, that’s just it: with a death, some of us fear allowing laughter in the room. I can remember after the first big death I had just how guilty we looked after that first real laugh. It fell into the room on its face, like a massive puppy failing to find its feet and then looked up astonished: how did that dare to happen?

Yet, we remain alive and that’s just it–we live as others die. The best memory is perhaps finding a way to live and laugh as we go forward.

PS – if you don’t want to give me your phone number after this, I understand.