grief is like the ocean

When Libby first died, I started scouring grief websites and books and podcasts and anything I could find searching for a lifeline — ANYTHING to help me survive, or to let me know that other people had survived losing a child. I came across the same quote over and over:

“Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.” - Vicki Harrison.

When I first read the quote, it didn’t resonate that much with me because I was drowning. My ship had sunk and I was frantically trying to kick my way to the surface. I literally felt like I was underwater and couldn’t breathe. I kept remembering a line from one of Libby’s favorite songs (and mine) from Hamilton, “It’s Quiet Uptown”:

It DID feel like it would be easier to swim down. I couldn’t imagine reaching the surface. I have lost many people in my life — parents, siblings — and I have suffered the heartbreak of ending of two marriages. I have watched diseases ravage people that I love.

I can unequivocally say that losing a child is the worst pain I have ever experienced.

grief is like the ocean

Now that four months have passed, though, the same quote makes total sense to me, and it is scarily accurate. Grief is not a straight line. There is no methodical trip through Elizabeth Kubler- Ross’s five stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Grief is a clusterfuck of emotions that seemingly hit with no rhyme or reason. Grief doesn’t care if you’re riding in your car, at the grocery store, talking with co-workers, or comfortably curled up in your bed.

@betterplaceforests

the emotions of grief come in waves

More than just grief itself ebbing and flowing, the emotions associated with grief roll in with different intensities. On different days I’m hit with waves of:

Denial — “This can’t be happening.” “It’s all a terrible dream.” “She’s going to walk through the door.” “I can’t move anything in her room because what if she somehow knows and thinks I’m getting over her?”

Anger — “Why do all these girls still get to dance and mine doesn’t?” “Why didn’t they do anything about that intersection when they’ve known it’s dangerous for years?” “She was so GOOD. Why HER?” “Why ME? Haven’t I been through enough?”

Guilt — “I shouldn’t have been so grumpy after work.” “I should’ve played outside with her more.” “I shouldn’t have wished all those times to not be so busy or to have more time to myself.”

Depression — “I don’t think I can do this.” “Who even am I now that she’s gone? “ “I’m never going to be happy again.” “I wish I could just go to sleep and not wake up.”

Acceptance — “She’s not coming back.” “She loved me and wouldn’t want me to be miserable for the rest of my life.” “The best thing I can do is honor her and make her loss mean something.” “I need to make a plan now that my entire life has changed.”

At four months, I’ve made it through a few days without crying. I’ve also had days when I couldn’t get off the couch and cried so hard that my eyes literally swelled shut. I’ve had productive stretches when, along with teaching full-time, I’ve made blog posts, social media posts. written articles, created a new budget, and started considering that I still have a future.

I’ve also had days where I couldn’t write a word and felt like there was no point in living if Libby wasn’t going to be in my future.

Grief is more than ebbs and flows — it is tidal waves and treading water. It’s never really calm, because the knowledge that she is gone is always there — if it’s not splashing me in the face directly, it’s hiding ominously under the surface.

But the tidal waves are getting further and further apart, so I think I’m going in the right direction. Sometimes I know they’re coming, and other times they rise up and crash out of the blue, but I actually welcome them now. They are a release. They’re not as scary. They just allow me to drain the tears from my body, back into the ocean of feelings, and there’s usually a calm after the storm.

This is four months. I’m still swimming.