Saying Things Like They Are: Reflections on Grief

Death Diva's note: I read this and it was too good not to share.

My mom passed away in February. Sorry to break it to you so indelicately. I'm actually just coming to terms with saying it myself.



The last month has felt so surreal. Especially now when we don’t have the space or ability to gather with friends, share memories and grief, or comfort one another. It's almost like my mom’s life is this unfinished sentence. I know I'm not the only person who lost someone during Covid, whether from Covid or, in my case, a heart attack. I imagine a special club of us feeling like we weren't allowed closure, an opportunity to say goodbye. But I can't blame Covid times entirely. There's also this real sense that the rest of the world just wants me to get over it. I see now how engaged communities are around the first news of a person's passing, but after a week, or even a few days, everyone else’s energy moves beyond the huge loss and you're left alone, wondering how no one else seems to care.



I've heard it said that white people in America don't really have a culture; we borrow or steal from other cultures. Death and grieving is an experience that having some amount of cultural tradition might help. So I went looking around for cultural traditions around death that would allow for the sort of closure for which I am longing.



In Poland, the doors and windows of the deceased person’s home are kept open because it’s believed that the soul needs a path to go to the spiritual world. The Polish folks also cover doors and mirrors. The Irish also open windows, but only for two hours. After the two hours have passed, the windows must be closed to prevent the soul from finding its way back home. Other cultures have annual celebrations to commemorate the dead. Samhain is a Gaelic festival that ushers in the end of the harvest season and the beginning of the winter season, the “darker portion” of the year. China’s Hungry Ghost Festival lasts an entire month. On the final day of the month, when the distance between life and death is fuzziest, the Chinese Taoists and Buddhists mark the solemn occasion by burning paper. Not only do they burn paper offerings—which represent thoughts and sentiments relatives in the living realm want to send to their deceased loved ones—they also release paper lanterns to help guide the souls of the departed home. The honoring of a loved one who has passed allows one to hang on to them that much longer.



Amid funeral planning, working, and trying to come up with a plan for my elderly father, I realized that it is capitalism that keeps us devoid of culture (who has time for that crap?!), and it is our internalized capitalism that makes us feel shame for feeling grief past the expiration date—the one week mark. My identity is anchored in what I do; I have to function and produce to be of any value to the world. This message is baked into my DNA—and everyone’s. The ungrounded nature of grief is counter to all things capitalism. And so, we set grief and sadness aside, and we follow a set of rules that leaves absolutely no room for our humanity.



I haven't stopped moving since my mom died about 6 weeks ago. My father has become my new project. And work remains my priority. And somewhere in there my mom just disappeared. I never let myself let go and just weep. When my grandmother died I remember it hitting me. There was this moment in the parking lot outside of the funeral home on the day of her visitation. I realized in that moment the finality of her passing and suddenly, in a way that was almost out of my control, my throat opened and I let out the most gut-wrenching wail. I cried so hard and I couldn't stop. I felt foolish. But I remember it being such a cathartic, necessary moment of healing and acceptance. And it happened almost in spite of me. That hasn't happened this time. I have yet to let myself feel much. I have cried. I have felt loss. But I haven't moved into it in any meaningful or risky way.



I think about the messages we get pretty regularly—the ones about the elusive American dream. We're told if we work hard, anything is possible. We're encouraged to sacrifice and overwork, to try to have it all, to take on a side hustle, to wait to have children, and to bury ourselves in our work to climb the proverbial ladder. And in all of this capitalistic, career-centered rhetoric, we've diminished our humanity. We've perpetuated myths about how a person should manage illness, make their way through healthcare issues, process grief, and have children. We've dehumanized our human-ness. And we've created unhelpful, unhealthy societal norms and expectations of each other.



Grief is never over. There is no expiration date on feelings. My mother is gone. And so is my sister's PTO time. And our family is just starting to face the enormous challenges of my father’s next phase of life. The world, and especially the U.S., is at a real tipping point for the future of work. We are all, all of us, feeling enormous fatigue and loss from the pandemic, the awakening about systemic racism, and the frightening division in our country. I've been very vocal about my concerns, whether we include people in conversations we are having about them, as employers, as institutions, and as drivers of change. When we think about the future of work, it's not just about office space versus no office space. It's not about flexible schedules or hybrid work environments. I hope it's also about how we can collectively inject more humanity into how work happens. The world has evolved. Most people are under enormous pressure to manage all the things: family, career, health, mental health, home life, work-life, relationships, etc. The workplace can't keep turning a blind eye to what people need in order to show up fully. We must shift our thinking and our values to make more space for people to be people.



I have so many stories about my mom, what I learned from her, and the complexity of our relationship. And I intend to write them down at some point. But for now, I am grieving. I may be borrowing from other cultures and burning paper, opening windows, making music, and celebrating for months at a time. I am constantly surprised by my grief. I can be having a perfectly fine day and suddenly be blindsided by sadness and loss. I suspect it will be like this forever. And that's ok. I'm only human.

- Nancy Lyons

You can read more from Nancy here.