Today would have been my Grandma Nancy’s 84th birthday. And on this day, I’m going to talk about grieving. It’s been 2 months since she died.
My aunt told me that she has found, as part of the PTSD/grief research she does, that the Kübler-Ross model is just not how things happen. And as such she would like to weaken its hold on how we learn about grief.
Even if you don’t know it, you’ve heard of Kübler-Ross. She talked about the five stages of grief, and they became the fundamental teachings about death, dying, and grief. (That’s why her book is called On Death and Dying.) They show up on TV shows, movies, books . . . . Everybody knows you go through denial and anger and bargaining and depression and then acceptance.
I didn’t realize that some nursing schools teach Kübler-Ross straight up. At NYU, we learned that these stages are not in order, not everyone goes through any or all of them, there isn’t one way any of the stages manifest, and people don’t have to go through any of the stages to cope. Apparently that’s not how it’s always taught (and that certainly isn’t how it shows up in pop culture).
My aunt mentioned how when interviewed, nobody says they are in denial, and when asked if they’ve ever forgotten their loved one died, they would answer, “no.” The whole idea of denial that literal is sort of ridiculous. But there is a sort of denial that made me glad I was prepped by Kübler-Ross.
The day after the burial, my mom and I went to take flowers to the family graves. My uncle, great-aunt and uncle, great aunt, and great grandparents are also buried in the family plot. My mom and I were discussing, while driving over to the cemetery, whether we had enough flowers for individual bouquets. “Oh, there’s plenty flowers for four bouquets,” my mom said. “But we need five,” I said.
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
“No, we don’t: Matt, Pearl, Evelyn and Stan, Maude and Grandpa.”
And then I realized what happened, and said very quietly, “And Grandma, mama.”
And then my mama started to cry.
* * *
For what would have been their 61st wedding anniversary a few weeks ago, my grandfather came over to visit Grandma’s grave. It had looked like he wasn’t going to come, and I forgot about the anniversary, so I made other plans.
I tried to figure out if I wanted to go with the family to the grave. I was also emotionally wiped out from being at the hospital with my other grandmother, and so I tried to talk it through with my mother. She is always wonderful about not making me feel obligated, but sometimes I wish she would a little just so I would know what to do. I talked about how tired I was and how I wanted to have a little fun, to not have to have this grief and fear weighing over me for just a couple days. And my mom said everybody would understand.
And as I said, “Anyway, I think her birthday is more important to me anyway, and I’d rather go then,” I suddenly realized what I never had before.
My grandmother was never going to have another birthday.
And then I started to cry.
* * *
If you asked either me or my mom if we forgot about grandma dying, we would have looked at you with a special sort of scorn. I feel my grandmother’s loss in every space and forgotten area of my body.
However, there are certain things which, while I never forget them, I remember over and over and each time it’s as if it were entirely new information. Every time I remember that my grandmother is never going to have another birthday, I cry. Every time. Because every time it surprises me.
As for the rest of the stages, I don’t know. I don’t believe in the anger stage. Saying “It isn’t fair” isn’t anger, it’s the straight up truth. And I’m not sure about depression, either. The bone deep sadness that comes is earned, understandable, and right, if that’s what you need. Bargaining? Well, my family isn’t religious, so we had no deity bargaining partner, and although we did tell Grandma we’d help as much as we could if she could and wanted to fight, that seems to be more of a statement of support than some sort of contract negotiation.
And acceptance. Do we ever really get acceptance? Is there ever a point after which it never again surprises you that you can’t call your loved one up and tell them a story or ask advice? Is there ever a point at which it is completely acceptable that you’ll never feel their arms around you again? I doubt it. I’m happy, I’m living my life. But I’m still trying to make her proud, and I’m also still sad. I think, to some degree or another, these things will always be true.
That, I accept.
