Learning to live after the pain of loss, and one of the best ways to do that

With many of my friends losing their lifelong partners these days, I picked up my copy of On Our Own, Widowhood for Smarties, published by Silver Boomer Books. This is a book for those who acknowledge the pain of loss, but who are learning to live in spite of it, even to build on it.

When I lost my husband, Barry, in July 2009, I went through the worst time of my life. I was physically ill as well as deeply emotional about his death. I experienced feelings I had never had before. I wished I had died with him. I wished I could go to bed and not wake up. What was there to live for now? I had no children or grandchildren as most of my friends did, and no one would miss me. I didn’t make any difference in the lives of another living person, I told myself. I have heard these same feelings expressed by friends who have lost their husbands, and I’m sure men who have lost their wives feel the same at times. “It would not change anyone’s life if I walked out in front of a semi and was run over.” Can you imagine that feeling?

I now know that we all have those feelings, but did not know that at the time. When your life has been so entwined with another person for forty years or more, how could you go on? What was the purpose of living now without that loved one who was always there and always on your side?

June in chair, Gay on the right,
wonderful sisters

I was fortunate to have two sisters who loved me dearly and to whom I could always talk, but that didn’t help, especially when my anger at the world in general erupted on one of them. She didn’t understand why I would say hurtful things to her or to others, and sadly, I didn’t either.

If your friend has not lost her husband to death, she can’t understand why you don’t get out and do things, have fun again. “You need to be more social. Come to a party with me.” Oh, no. Don’t go to a party with anyone unless you can leave when you want to leave. A gathering of happy people who ignore the pain you are feeling is the worst! A grief counselor gave me that advice and it was the best advice I ever received.

I turned to my writing to help me get through the mourning process. I knew, realistically, that time was the only healer, the only potion, tonic or medicine I had at my disposal, and I could not overdose on time because I had no control over it. I could not speed it up which I wanted to do. Why couldn’t I just go to bed and sleep until this heart-rending pain was gone, and I had healed both mentally and physically. If only I could have a medically induced coma that would take me away for a year, then, I thought, I would be well on my way to being normal again. Everyone says the first year is the hardest.

During this time, I wrote my grief poems. I didn’t share them with anyone. I remembered my sister, June, writing touching poems when her husband died, and she didn’t consider herself a writer. Two of them were published in Bereavement Magazine some years later. I still feel her pain when I read them.

In 2012, when Silver Boomer Books called for submissions to an anthology with work by those who had lost someone, I decided to share two of my poems, Solitude and Sleeping Alone. Both were published. 

Sleeping Alone

In the dark I close my eyes,

try to push away the memories,

the feel of your smooth skin

sliding over lean bones and strong sinew,

the softness of your hair, smelling clean as

fresh air and rainwater. It grew back thicker,

darker,

after chemo.
                             ---Glenda Council Beall

When I received my copy of the book, I was impressed by the other poems, essays and stories by women and men and family members who had lost a loved one. One of my favorites is When We Became I, by Lavania Fritts. Until you face the aftermath of the death of your mate, you never consider the we and the I in the relationship.

But as the writing in this book tells us, the I must go on and find a new way to live, to find joy and purpose. I found my purpose after Barry died when I registered for a week at Wild Acres Retreat. That was where I had time to do some soul-searching. I decided to open my writing studio in my home. It has made all the difference. I have a purpose and I am doing something I am passionate about--teaching and  learning.

Of course each person's grieving time is personal and no one can say when we must move on or end our mourning. I am told I was not myself again for six years after Barry's death. 

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It seems we can't go on right after losing our husbands or wives, but we can eventually, and we must. 
We can't linger forever in the sorrow or we can become isolated, mentally ill with depression, or become a person we don't want to be. The best way, I think, to move on with your life is to do something for others.

One of my friends and her husband, after their son was killed, began repairing and painting old bikes to give to needy kids. They also give teddy bears to people who are grieving. She gave one to me.

Another woman, Jan DeBlieu, who lost her son writes about loss and how she copes. She publishes a newsletter. http://www.jandeblieu.com/

Information from The Cleveland Clinic tells us "There is evidence that, during gift-giving behaviors, humans secrete “feel good” chemicals in our brains, such as serotonin (a mood-mediating chemical), dopamine (a feel-good chemical) and oxytocin (a compassion and bonding chemical).

When researchers from the National Institutes of Health looked at the functional MRIs of subjects who gave to various charities, they found that giving stimulates the mesolimbic pathway, which is the reward center in the brain — releasing endorphins and creating what is known as the “helper’s high.” 

Do you experience that helper's high when you give a gift or help someone? Tell us about it in a comment or by email. Remember, if you have a problem leaving a comment, just reply as anonymous and leave your name inside the comment box. And remember, comments don't pop up right away. I have to first approve of the comment. It might be the next day before it is on the blog.