Taking Baby Steps on the Grief Journey

We’re right in the middle of baseball season. One of our family’s favorite pastimes was to attend the Giants games at the old Candlestick Park in San Francisco, where we’d shiver in the bleachers as we cheered on our team. I still picture Steve with his Giants’ cap, Giants’ sweatshirt, and baseball mitt in hand (just in case he was in a position to catch a wild ball that was hit into the stands). Our daughters and I were always more interested in the antics of the other fans, in finding that elusive malt vendor, and in just staying warm as the fog invariably rolled in over the edges of the stadium as the game wore on. The best part of the game was always the Seventh Inning Stretch, where we and the entire stadium would rise to our feet and sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” at the top of our lungs.

It’s been six years since he died, and it’s been really hard to attend any ballgames without Steve — I think we’ve only been to a couple since then. He was so embedded in our experiences and memories of the games, and we found it extremely difficult to be there without him. In fact, we left well before the seventh inning, because the memories and lack of his presence with us were just too much to take.

Well, as I recently listened to the baseball stats announced on my favorite radio station, I realized that finally, I feel ready to return to the ballpark to enjoy a Giants game. And with that realization came a parallel one:  I’ve come a long way since Steve died, since those early days of grief when I felt that my life had been ripped apart. 

I vividly remember that searing pain I felt during the final stages of his illness and then even more so after he died, when the shock and numbness wore off. At that time, I had the horrifying thought that my life would always be this way, filled with pain, tears, and feelings I’d never even imagined were possible. It was such a dark time and I could believe that I would ever feel better again, that the hole in my heart would ever heal and that I would ever feel whole again.

Healing a broken heart doesn’t (and can’t) (and shouldn’t) happen in an instant. When a spouse dies, all those years of loving someone, sharing a life together, and sharing hopes and dreams for the future is torn away. It would in fact be unnatural if we could simply take a magic pill and feel instantly healed. I’ve discovered that a lot of patience, energy, and time are required to recover. But the good news is “Yes, we can heal.” Despite those initial feelings of hopelessness, as I’ve done my grief work, I’ve found that I can feel whole again. I can feel joy again.

For those who have lost a spouse, the grief journey is not a single event, but rather an ongoing process. It took a long time for me to realize that healing was not about hitting home runs, but rather getting singles.

By this I mean taking “baby steps,” and feeling good about our progress, however slow or tiny it seems at the time. A few years ago one of my friends who is also a widow started walking to relieve stress. This evolved to running, and finally she found herself working up to a half-marathon to raise funds for the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. She said her initial goal was just to get outside and experience the sunshine, and as she built up strength and stamina, she gradually added small goals each day, to walk a bit further, then to run a bit longer. When she started, she says she could never have envisioned herself running in a half-marathon, and if she’d had that goal in mind at the outset, she likely would have given up because it seemed so unattainable. She says that goals are a good thing, but a dose of realism when starting out is even better.

I have come to think that the healing journey is like the running or like playing baseball. We survivors of spouse loss should not expect that by starting to jog, we will be ready to run in the next Olympic games, or to go from the minors to the major leagues and win MVP in the next All Star game. It’s all about the healing steps we take, and also about acknowledging our progress along the way.

At some points it feels like I’ve blinked my eyes and Steve disappeared, and in other cases, it feels like decades since he was here. Time is elastic, and calendars can be slippery. The process of healing takes a lot of work over time, but I found that if I began with the relatively easier tasks, starting small with the “low hanging fruit,” I was able to build up my own strength and endurance. At times I am actually quite amazed at how far I’ve come on the healing pathway.

Some of my baby steps that you might want to try:

• Writing in my grief journal. At first it was just some lists, but these evolved into deeper, more revelatory explorations of my evolving feelings. Now, I’ve filled a few journals, and plans to do even more. Amazing to re-read the early stuff!
• Exercising. After Steve died, I felt so stiff, exhausted, and sore all the time. But I started doing some simple yoga stretching. This has evolved to a full hour of high-energy Kundalini yoga each morning.
• Singing. Steve and I used to love to sing together, and after he died, I found my voice had completely dried up. I not only didn’t have the desire to sing, but I really couldn’t carry a tune to save my life, not even with well-loved church hymns. Then, a couple of years after Steve died, Santa delivered a karaoke machine and a few sing-along CDs. Initially only the girls enjoyed it, but they eventually convinced me to join the fun. At this point, I’ve turned into a karaoke junkie, and can sing better than ever, hitting high notes I only dreamed about in the past.
• Making connections. I felt really isolated after Steve died. Although my friends surrounded me with warmth and invitations, I felt so numb and cold inside, and more than anything so exposed and vulnerable. I really didn’t feel strong enough to be out, especially in large groups of people, but I knew it wasn’t healthy to stay holed up at home by myself. So I took a baby step and started by going to a movie with a friend from my grief workshop. Eventually I felt able to join in larger gatherings (hint: call a friend and ask if you can tag along so you’re not arriving alone). Now, I am pleased to say that I can handle most social gatherings. Do I miss Steve at my side? Of course. But at this point, I really do feel comfortable on my own. And - okay this is a news flash - I find myself actually open to the possibility of perhaps having someone new at my side in the future. Six years ago I could never have imagined feeling this way!

What baby steps have you taken on your grief journey? How have you changed since your spouse died? What do you consider the “singles” you’ve gotten in the ballpark? Have you had any home runs? We’d love to hear your experiences!

 

Beverly Chantalle McManus lives in Northern California with her two daughters, who have each now graduated from college. She is a bereavement facilitator and core team member of the Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey Workshops, and a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief. In addition to grief support, she is also a marketing executive for professional services firms.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus

“Widow’s Weeds” - Symbols of Mourning and the Profound Effect of Colors on Our Emotions

In the not-so-distant past, when an individual within a family died, there was a prescribed period of mourning, during which expectations of the bereaved family were lightened.  In fact, if the mourners did engage in excessive activities, including entertaining guests or attending social events, it was perceived as being disrespectful to the deceased.  There were also many conventions that symbolically told others that an individual or a family was in mourning, for example, the black wreath on the door, or, during WWII, the gold star in the window.  Clothing also symbolized grief, most notably the Victorian era’s “widow’s weeds,” the all-black wardrobe traditionally worn by a widow for a full year after the death of her husband.  

Many cultures continue with these conventions of grieving, and in some ways, I think that it would make life easier for those in grief if we hung on to a few of them, because it would convey to others that “No, we are not the same; life is profoundly different now.”  And in our hurry-up “just get over it” times, a prescribed period of mourning might be very welcome to some people, who feel rushed through their grieving by others.  ”It’s been six months already, time to move on,” someone told me after Steve died.  As if in just six months I could conceivably experience all the feelings and emotions of loss, let alone feel like I could just put it all behind me and paste a big smile on my face as I moved forward.

During the dark days that followed Steve’s death, I felt physically unable to perceive color.  Because my work wardrobe had always been centered around black as a key motif, I already had plenty of black clothes that I was just naturally drawn to, and it was not until a few months after Steve died, when a friend asked me if I ever intended to wear colors other than black again, that I realized that it had unconsciously become my exclusive wardrobe hue. 

As I did my grief work - deeply feeling all the emotions and pain that accompanied the death of my husband - I gradually began to heal.  And as I began to heal, colors slowly made their way back into my wardrobe. 

About a year after Steve died, I remember looking around my living room and recognizing how tired everything looked.  I felt energized and ready for a change, and it all started when I found an antique Moroccan brass tray table that I’d been seeking for years.  We brought it into the living room and it looked so very wrong… nothing worked with it, most especially the furniture layout. 

So I decided to get rid of our extra-long sofa, and replace it with four upholstered chairs that could be situated around the new coffee table.  Once the chairs arrived, I realized how tired the drapes and carpeting looked.  So we removed the wall-to-wall carpet, only to find gorgeous hardwood floors underneath.  A quick resurface (done by a professional floor guy) made them sparkle, and I decided we needed to paint the walls at the same time, selecting a warm maple tone that brought all the elements together. 

The old white front door looked downright bland next to all the new hues, so it got a vibrant red coat of paint.  And I realized our fireplace, which was faced with “used bricks” just didn’t work, so that received several coats of “moonlight white” paint, which totally transformed a former eyesore, making it almost invisible.  A richly woven Oriental rug tied all the pieces together, and new light fixtures and standing lamps added a rich glow. 

Gone were the placid, peaceful light-green tones of our previous living room, replaced by an exotic, deeply-hued palate that even still makes me happy every time I enter the room. 

What I’ve discovered:  Colors have a profound effect on us humans, even if subconsciously.  Our choice of colors can often indicate how we’re feeling on a given day, and if we are aware and awake to it, we can even alter our mood by selecting colors that bring on different feelings.  In the time since Steve died, I’ve added a lot of new colors to my wardrobe, and take great delight when friends say “I almost didn’t recognize you - I’m not used to seeing you wearing that color!”  As I did when redecorating my house, I’ve experimented with colors that I typically avoided in the past - and I’ve been pleasantly surprised with some of the new additions to my personal color palate.  I’ve also come to realize that there is a certain shade of green that I should never, ever wear! 

What colors make you happy?  Sad?  Defeated?  Radiant?  Please share your experience with colors and grief with us - we’d love to hear how colors have been part of your grief journey.

 

Beverly Chantalle McManus lives in Northern California with her two daughters, who have each now graduated from college. She is a bereavement facilitator and core team member of the Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey Workshops, and a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief. In addition to grief support, she is also a marketing executive for professional services firms.

© 2009 Beverly Chantalle McManus