Bearing the Unbearable

Love, Loss, and the Heartbreaking Path of Grief

Joanne Cacciatore

• Éditeur: Wisdom Publications
• Année: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781614293170
• Sujet: Psychology
• Sous-sujet: Social Psychology

If you love, you will grieve—and nothing is more mysteriously central to becoming fully human. A 2017 Indies Finalist from Foreword Reviews.When a loved one dies, the pain of loss can feel unbearable—especially in the case of a traumatizing death that leaves us shouting, " NO!" with every fiber of our body. The process of grieving can feel wild and nonlinear—and often lasts for much longer than other people, the nonbereaved, tell us it should. Organized into fifty-two short chapters, Bearing the Unbearable is a companion for life's most difficult times, revealing how grief can open our hearts to connection, compassion, and the very essence of our shared humanity. Dr. Joanne Cacciatore—bereavement educator, researcher, Zen priest, and leading counselor in the field—accompanies us along the heartbreaking path of love, loss, and grief. Through moving stories of her encounters with grief over decades of supporting individuals, families, and communities—as well as her own experience with loss—Cacciatore opens a space to process, integrate, and deeply honor our grief. Not just for the bereaved, Bearing the Unbearable will be required reading for grief counselors, therapists and social workers, clergy of all varieties, educators, academics, and medical professionals. Organized into fifty-two accessible and stand-alone chapters, this book is also perfect for being read aloud in support groups.

1
The Role of Others in Our Grief

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.

— WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

I MET KYLE’S MOM through my work with bereaved parents. Her fourteen-year-old son had been struck and killed by a stray bullet. Although it was not intended for him, all fourteen years of him were murdered — by a person who would never be found and would never face prosecution.

“I hate grief! I don’t want it anymore! I want you to make it stop! It’s killing me!” Karen screamed and cried on my office floor as I sat cross-legged and silent beside her. Her tears were so profuse they fell onto her beige linen pants, staining them with the blue mascara she wore to work every morning in an attempt to cover up her anguish. Karen was a single mom and Kyle her only child — her “entire world.” The day he died her life and identity changed, she said. She felt pressure from others to move on and wanted to “feel normal” again.

She recounted a story of how her cousin introduced her to a childless colleague as also being childless. This was a turning point into isolation for Karen. From that moment on, she no longer considered herself a mother. Her sleep had changed, and she stopped attending church. She withdrew from friends and felt unsafe in the world. She moved out of the home where she had raised Kyle into an apartment in a nearby suburb.

Karen came to me six months after Kyle died, wanting help to “overcome” her grief, wanting me to “make her better.” There was a familiar desperate edge to our interactions on both our parts. She found herself fantasizing about dying in order to be with Kyle. She didn’t literally want to die; she simply wished, with all her might, to rewind time. She wanted Kyle back. His return was the only thing that would remedy her irremediable pain. Her body, mind, heart, and soul were in a state of protest.

WE ARE OFTEN COLLECTIVELY MESMERIZED following violent, highly publicized, or celebrity deaths. This is commonplace, and there is often a public outpouring of embellished emotion and incongruous grief from strangers. Conversely, deaths like Kyle’s that occur under more private, albeit still tragic circumstances that are not publicly known elicit only truncated attention.

In Karen’s case, gestures of compassion and support were short-lived. Her role as a mother was negated following her son’s untimely death, and this caused her to doubt her own heart. She still felt like Kyle’s mother, but incessant social edicts persuaded her to mistrust not only her place as Kyle’s mom, but also her own rightful emotions — her grief. No one remembered with her. No one would speak of Kyle or validate her grief.

In contrast, because of the news-grabbing way Charlotte Helen Bacon was killed by a shooter in Newtown, Connecticut, people were abuzz with chatter, and many expressed grief over her death, even if they never even knew her.

Twenty first-graders and six staff members were murdered in Sandy Hook Elementary School. It was a horror story that was recapitulated in the mass media for months and even years. The unremitting public coverage left some of those who were personally affected by the death of a child or other loved one feeling helplessly exposed and vulnerable.

I met Charlotte’s parents in the summer of 2014. Charlotte, a smart, bold, and tenacious girl who could be “a little sneaky” and certainly spirited, was murdered as she holed up in her school bathroom with her classmates. All but one child in the bathroom died that disastrous day. Charlotte’s parents, Joel and JoAnn, grappled with the tragic death of their only daughter while at the same time withstanding public scrutiny and consumption of their very private tragedy. In an open letter, an angry, hurt, and frustrated JoAnn wrote,

On December 14, 2012, a man murdered my daughter and stole her future and stole my future. She was herded into her school bathroom with her classmates and gunned down. Completely vulnerable and defenseless. AND I AM ANGRY. In my experience, anger is the emotion that people dislike the most. They do one of three things: Try to change my attitude and have me look on the “bright side” and “count my blessings,” or change the subject, or stop showing up altogether. All of these infuriate me even more. It is a vicious cycle. I can speak my truth and make everyone uncomfortable and have them running for the hills or I can be the great pretender, smiling and nodding my head, making myself feel like a fraud. Both are awful and both leave me feeling isolated and misunderstood.

What I want to know is how anyone can think that I will ever be okay with my daughter’s murder? I am outraged, and want to scream, “Why are you not outraged?” And as for blessings, you don’t want to travel down that road with me. You can count your blessings, but I don’t feel very blessed at the moment. You also don’t want to remind me that great things come from great tragedy. I do not want to hear how my daughter’s death taught you something profound or compelled you to do something. My daughter was not placed on this earth to die and give new perspective. Charlotte was here because she was wanted, was loved, and had something to offer this world while she was living. Everything else feels like an appeasement, and it hurts. What nongrievers like is to find inspiration, the silver lining, and the triumphant end. I despise being told that I am an inspiration. It truly makes me uncomfortable. . . . I am a grieving mother.

JoAnn expresses important points about the ways others perceive grief. These perceptions stir up many emotions within us that can complicate our experience of mourning. For JoAnn, the assumption, explicit or not, that somehow Charlotte’s death was meant to inspire others or create a better world is unhelpful. What they have “done with grief” — any legacy since her death — came at far too high a cost for her family. And failing to recognize the deep, unmitigated pain that preceded their “new” and unwanted lives is not honoring.

Cultural norms promote inexplicable double standards that are often harmful to those grieving. Certain tragedies deemed worthy are validated, and in those cases, others often arrogate those losses, usurping a grief that is not theirs. Individual grief is discouraged, even scorned, beyond a brief period of time. Years later, the culture willingly remembers private tragedy publicly without assent, consultation, consideration of those who are personally affected. But if a loss isn’t dramatic enough, if it hasn’t touched the masses or been deemed worthy of a public platform, then society might not remember at all.

When others call into question our grief, defy our perennial relationship with those we love who have died, treat us as anathema and avoid us, and push us toward healing before we are ready, they simply redouble our burden.

It almost seems that the only way to eradicate our grief would be to relinquish the love we feel — to disassemble our loved one’s place in our lives. But checking in with the wisdom of our heart, we see that is impossible.

Grief and love occur in tandem.

2
Public and Private Grief

May there be such a oneness between us that when one weeps the other tastes salt.

— KAHLIL GIBRAN

ON DECEMBER 22, 2009, Katie and Zack said goodbye to their mom to meet with friends in their small, southern Arizona town. It was the last time she saw them. During a sudden dust storm, nine tractor-trailer rigs and thirteen passenger vehicles collided, creating a firestorm so intense the street was still steaming eight hours later. That dreadful crash claimed Katie and Zack’s lives. Sandie and Mark, their parents, suffered an irredeemable loss, one that changed them forever. They came to see me in Phoenix, a four-hour commute, every other week for months. Sandie often sat and just wept. Mark did too, though he favored sharing more freely.

Articulating their grief made Sandie and Mark feel a little better. Sandie said, “It’s like overeating and purging some of it. . . . It allows a little more room for the sadness that I’ve been eating so long.”

Katie and Zack’s deaths were highly publicized, their names released on TV even before their older brother had been notified. The media stalked Sandie and Mark for interviews. Startling images of the crash radiated from television sets around the world. The disrespectful ways in which Katie and Zack’s deaths were handled by the mass media, exposing them to insensitive sensationalism, increased their parents’ angst, fear, and isolation. Six years later, the kids’ rooms remain untouched, consecrated space with all things in their intended places. Friends felt the decision to leave the rooms like that was bad for Sandie and Mark. Tearful over this reaction, Sandie said that if she changed their rooms, she felt she would lose even more of what little remained of them. Keeping their rooms intact was a symbolic way to stay close to her children — something so many failed to understand. And then, not understanding, these others doubted and judged as if this immense weight were somehow theirs to carry.

As the years passed, a few people offered active compassion, sincerely heartening Sandie and Mark. One teacher at their children’s school initiated a memorial walk dedicated to Katie and Zack to fund a scholarship in their memory. Because of Katie’s abiding commitment to vegetarianism, Sandie followed in her footsteps and became an herbivore. And because of her children’s deep love for animals, she and Mark now rescue dogs.

It has been a long and arduous path for them to arrive at this point.

I REMEMBER THE DAY PRINCESS DIANA’S FUNERAL was televised and millions watched the procession.

That same week, a woman called me, concerned that her sister, whose baby had died during childbirth, wanted to videotape her baby’s funeral. The caller felt it was macabre, abnormal, and wanted me to convince her sister not to do it.

“Did you happen to watch Diana’s funeral?” I inquired, a little warily. In an instant, she understood. It made no sense to watch a stranger’s funeral while questioning her sister’s more personal memorial. Princess Di’s funeral and the birthday celebrations for Elvis in Graceland are examples of a public invocation of a false interpersonal connection to a stranger. Our culture accepts Graceland as a museum but criticizes Sandie and Mark’s rightful decision to leave their children’s rooms as they were. Legitimate grief is challenged, while the mourning of stranger-celebrities is glorified. Looked at closely, this really is quite bizarre.

Choices we make as grievers merit the deference of others.

Grievers need to be asked respectfully by their own communities whether and how they would allow their tragedies to be put on public display. We should be able to express our own sorrow and remember our loved ones however we choose. If we are fortunate, communities grace us with generosity without expectation, privacy without isolation, casseroles without gratitude, and the well-intended standard, “I’m here for you,” without needing any response from us.

Such community grace, in the comparatively rare times it’s present, is so often short-lived, but grief persists. People resettle into the chaos of life swiftly. Normalcy resumes, at least for those who aren’t grieving.

But when we are frightened and in pain, we need others with whom we can be honest. We need others who can enter the abyss with us, sometimes again and again. We need to reach out to someone who is safe, who will not judge, who will not shut down or shun our pain. And, when we are hurting this much, we may need to borrow, muster, or scrape up the courage to reach out to others. And we need these things for an indefinite period.

Solace and care come from many sources. Others who listen deeply, attentively, and nonjudgmentally can be found in the least expected places. Take note, pay attention, and seek help from those willing to be present with you.

Time with these kinds of people can carry you through perilous terrain.

3
Ritual and Artistic Expressions of Grief

To love means to open ourselves to grief, sorrow, and disappointment as well as to joy, fulfillment, and thus an intensity of consciousness that before we did not know was possible.

— ROLLO MAY

DEPENDING ON REGION, RELIGION, AND ETHNICITY, we humans may differ in the ways we ritualize grief, understand grief, and behave as we work our way through it, but grief is the single most unifying aspect of the human experience. Every culture and every religion knows about grief.

Siddhartha Gautama, who would become the Buddha, was bereaved as a child, having lost his mother Mayadevi during infancy. With the crucifixion of Jesus, the Virgin Mary became a bereaved mother. Jesus grieved when his friend Lazarus died, despite his faith in eternal life. Muhammad lost his young son Ibrahim, and he also lost his grandchild. Abraham buried his wife Sarah, and their bereaved son Isaac, according to Torah, took three years to finally find comfort and love again in the arms of his wife Rebekah. In the Baha’i tradition, Bahá’u’lláh’s father died in his early youth.

Throughout history, across cultures and religions, grief touches us all. Grief with no fixed expiration date is an inescapable truth of the human condition. Grief, by its very nature, is labyrinthine and enigmatic; its implications are emotional, physical, social and interpersonal, economic, spiritual, and existential.

So many factors affect any specific manifestation of grief: our relationship to the person who died, the way they died, the degree of our love and shared connection, relational dependence, early death rituals, how we’re treated during the loss, how we were notified, how others interacted with us in the aftermath, our view of the world, our spiritual path and inclinations, previous history of loss and trauma, and who we are at our core. All these things deeply influence our experience of grief, and grief rituals may be similarly unique.

It is a challenge to teach students about grief when they’ve never experienced it, bu...