Good Grief

Good Grief

By: Nancy LaMar-Rodgers

Husbands don’t have heart attacks and die behind the wheel just driving home from the airport. Grandmothers don’t step out of a cab in NY, step in a pothole, slam their head on the sidewalk and die on the spot. Nor do babies at three weeks of age suddenly stop breathing. And yet they do.

My friend Jen had a heap of grief. “Enough to fill the Grand Canyon,” she would tell anyone who wanted to listen. Her whole life was one tragedy after enough. Being around her was tough sometimes—for me at least—because according to Jen my grief while significant could never amount to hers.  “You have grief, don’t get me wrong, but you also have your life. Be grateful,” she told me one night after too much wine and tears. From what I remember that night, I was supposed to see my grief as a “first world problem grief” and write it off on my taxes. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was entitled to my sadness and that my grief was as important as hers.

So instead, I took my curiosity to a bereavement group. For three weeks I listened. I didn’t share the first week. I couldn’t share—didn’t know how actually. Jen’s categorization of my “first world problem grief” was still wiggling around my innards—which of course is where my grief lives. The group gave me some insights. I didn’t have many ah ha moments because as far as I was concerned everyone’s grief felt relatively normal. It ran the gamut from the woman who had been part of the group for 10 years still crying on cue about losing her father when the man was 97 years old and she was 67 at the time of his passing. According to the group, this grieving “happy lady” showed up with pastries for everyone and always seemed as if she was attending another high school reunion. I wondered if Jen would approve of her grief. I know that I silently judged her. It all seemed ridiculous. I mean, parent’s die, right? It’s a natural circle of life and I wondered what the expiration date on grief is because this woman came across as the happiest person in the world. I decided that she just needed to be around people, and at age 70, maybe she just needed to have somewhere to go on Tuesday nights at 6pm. The polar opposite of happy lady was the woman who lost her adult daughter to breast cancer and was now raising her grandchildren alone as her husband of 35 years was also gone.I could wrap my head around that one and besides she’d only been there for two weeks so far.

After three sessions, I decided that my last night was going to be the second Tuesday in September—for many reasons that I won’t go into now—however when I got there a new guy, perhaps in his late thirties, was sitting in the circle. Nobody else had sat down yet and instead were gathered around happy lady with her fresh platter of homemade blueberry muffins. Too intimidated to park myself in my regular spot, which would have been right next to the newcomer, I chose instead to go directly across and busy myself with a notebook and pen. The man never even noticed me. With his head hung, looking at the floor, he rubbed his palms back and forth on the top of his thighs. I thought he might light a fire on his jeans if he kept rubbing so intensely. 

The banter across the room started to dissipate as everyone made their way into the circle. Happy lady tidied up the coffee area and wrapped what was left of her muffins and joined us. Our group leader started by alerting everyone to the fact that we had, “someone new, joining us this evening and perhaps everyone could introduce themselves to him.”

Happy lady—being the senior member of our little sadness group—went first. After each person stated their name and “a little something about yourself” the man simply nodded with a half-smile that I suppose was letting us know that he at least heard us and then eked out an “ok.” We received no reciprocal answer, not even his name. There was a silence for a few seconds that seemed like forever—you know the kind—until our illustrious leader cleared her throat and dove in again. I have to say I was quite surprised that happy lady didn’t jump up and shower him with grief hugs and blueberry muffins. Actually, when I think about it, having developed an instant unhealthy crush on him because of his profound sadness, I probably would have tackled her if she tried—though in my current condition that was probably not possible. Maybe just unleash a bucket of marbles, I thought, watch her go ass over teakettle.

That evening at home I wrote in my journal about the tortured soul that sat across from me. Who was he? What could have happened that left him mute? Jen’s grief, I thought was bottomless—well at least Jen did—but damn this guy would make her river of tears look like a shallow puddle. Having never been to a group before I had no comparisons to make and other than Jen—and in my small world of two friends and no family—that was all I had.

Despite my resolve to end my participation in the group, I returned the following week. Getting there early, my plan was to be close to if not next to profoundly sad man because technically that was my original spot—not that chairs were assigned—but as humans we are all creatures of habit. Parking in my usual handicapped spot, I twirled my driver’s seat and slid my body into my wheelchair, lowered the ramp and set out.

Inside the hospital community room, there were a handful of other early birds. Happy lady was not there yet, which was odd since she was always the first one there, from what I gathered from the other members because there was all that setting up to do. But I paid no mind and parked my chair in the circle near where I thought profoundly sad man might sit. As the others trickled in and made their way to the coffee area, I patiently waited and pretended to be reading my book.

At 7:05 our leader having just received a text told the group that we would have to reschedule as she had a family emergency. And since happy lady hadn’t showed up yet—her being the obvious choice to lead us in the group leader’s absence—we all just looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and said a collective “ok.”

As everyone started gathering their stuff I sat for a minute waiting for my crush to show up. When it was obvious that he was not going to, I wheeled myself back out to the van. There was a slight chill to the September air and as I ramped up and wheeled in, a light rain gathered on my windshield. It had been a night much like this one, I thought and then put the van into drive and headed home.

I decided not to go to group the following week and made plans with Jen instead. We sat in the bar at Smokey O’Grady’s and discussed her current boyfriend—pretty much what we always discuss. Ever since her divorce—five years prior—she’s had a string of men who essentially treat her the same way her emotionally abusive husband did. Jen attracts the narcissist every single time and I’m not sure what she is doing in therapy because good Lord the pattern never changes. Anyways, in a rare moment she asked me how I was doing and how the group was going. I was surprised to say the least and ordered another beer. “Well, I was going to stop a couple weeks ago but then this really sad guy showed up, and I could just tell that something really horrible happened to him and I really wanted to know what it was. I don’t know why but I did. But he didn’t say anything and we all introduced ourselves and he just nodded and said OK and honestly, I wasn’t even sure he could speak. But like I said, he was so sad looking, and he was doing this thing where he was just rubbing his hands on his jeans in this methodical manner and I can’t for the life of me figure out what his grief is.” Jen just looked at me and quipped, “Oh he’s probably one of those guys who has a hangnail and is just looking for attention.”

At the end of the month, I emailed the group leader and asked if I could come back. I wasn’t sure if there was a protocol, you know like do I get suspended if I miss too many classes. She replied, “Absolutely come back. Always welcome” With that I made my way on the first Tuesday in November. It had been a month, and I wasn’t quite sure why I was returning. If I am honest with myself, it was because of sad man. I needed data and comparison stats, and I think that Jen’s dismissal of him made me angry and I haven’t spoken with her since. Of course, I made up the usual excuses for her—too busy, taking an online class, really tired at the end of the week—whatever. To be honest I wanted to know why I had allowed her to have the monopoly on grief. Sure, she had a terrible marriage, and the guy was an absolute narcissistic jerk. Sure, her childhood wasn’t so great—but it wasn’t so bad either—divorced parents when she was in college. I realized in Smokey O’Grady’s that me and sad guy had an absolute right to our grief.

On the first Tuesday in November, I pulled the van into a regular space as the handicapped spots were all taken. Dang, I thought, there must be a whole host of new handicapped members. Inside the room people were already in the circle. I noticed that nobody seemed to be around the coffee area. It was still technically five minutes before start time. I parked in my usual spot and looked around. Both happy lady and sad guy were nowhere to be found. Disappointed yet not wanting to ask questions, I patiently waited for our leader to introduce the new members. As we circled our introductions, I felt an unnerving sense of quiet in my innards—the place where my anxiety usually takes hold. Our leader asked if anyone would like to go first and I found myself raising my hand. The other group members all looked at me because I never did say much in the three meetings that I attended. One older man who used a walker, smiled at me.

I began. “Five years ago, my fiancé and I were driving home from his parents’ house, and we were hit by a drunk driver. He died and I am paralyzed from the waist down.”