Grief

 I attended a powerful meeting on the topic of grief this past week, my lesson being that the rooms of recovery gave me the language with which to mourn, to grieve soberly. I knew about drunken sorrows, my own and the family trauma over my grandmother's death that was often expressed around the kitchen table after a few rounds of high balls. You taught me that sadness unexpressed will eventually find its way out, usually via inappropriate expression that may not even look like what it actually is. You taught me to cry until I didn't need to cry anymore, share until I was all shared out, and to listen for those who'd already been down this road. You taught me about anniversary distress, and about anticipatory grief (and no, that doesn't make the actual loss any easier to bear). 

And you taught me that grief is a true and valid emotion for all sorts of losses, whether moving out of a home, a pet's death, changes in friendships and in our own capabilities. An elder in the meeting spoke of how they used to literally walk up to thirty miles a day and the journey to acceptance around aging and how that isn't realistic anymore. I could so very much related, having just reminisced with my out-of-town friend about the joy in completing a twenty-mile trail run. I sometimes wistfully look at the marathon medals and photos of seventy-five plus mile bike rides on the wall above my desk, grateful for the memories and just a little sad that those days are very likely behind me. Sure, there are seniors out there on the roadways, but I'm not willing to train at that level anymore - so, some of it is ability and some is choice, but nevertheless, those days of high endurance have passed. 

The meeting topic came on the heels of learning the terrible details about a classmate's drowning death in 1968, from a friend who was there. I haven't been able to shake the image of the shock and terror that must've occurred that long ago summer day. I've been struck with the grief, and also the reminder that we never know what tragedies and losses other people are carrying around - even if "dealt with" (whatever that means), our losses are part of who we are today. And I know I'm not alone in the experience of a present loss acting as a link in the chain to all the others, which is probably why, when thinking about this young girl's death, I found myself in tears about the ugly ending of a relationship, which led to sadness and missing my dad. My emotions are often a tangled web.

But, or rather, and , as was pointed out in the meeting, I can't experience joy without knowing sorrow - or as several old songs point out, you've got to take the bitter with the sweet. And what I found with the grief around my mom's death, sadness and joy are often intertwined, with memories of the love and laughter leading to a place of deep emptiness that eventually fills with sweet gratitude.

I just learned that a meeting acquaintance has crossed over after a diagnosis of ALS. This supposedly rare disease has now taken three women I know, each with decades of sobriety. I don't know if there is a correlation, but it sure seems odd to me. What I know today is that there are no guarantees. No guarantee that you head out for a day on the river and will come home; that you go to the grocery store and come home, or to work or any number of things we (I) do on a given day assuming I will wake up in the morning, travel safely, avoid the seemingly random violence and accidents, illnesses and natural disasters that sweep out of nowhere. I don't live from a place of fear, and I do my best to be aware - I check out the exits when I go to an event, I'm careful walking down stairs, I get my checkups and boosters and all the rest. And then, I do my best to let go - of expectations, of fears, of that crystal ball I sometimes write about. 

Pre-recovery I feared death, mostly because I knew in my heart I hadn't truly lived. I'd gone through the motions, and had a lot of experiences, but had never stretched myself to my capabilities. I don't feel that way anymore. I'm not ready quite yet, but fortunately, don't have a sense of the un-done (unless it's dealing with closets full of stuff).

I had "one of those mornings" yesterday, heading out to hit the post office and then the grocery store, only to realize that the post office opens at 830am, not 8:00. No problem - on to the market, only to realize as I parked that I'd forgotten my list and coupons (you laugh, but I saved $48), so back round to the post office (open by now) and home to get said list and coupons, only to get stuck on a narrow street behind a large garbage truck. By that point, I had to see the humor in my little plans and designs, and just puttered along until I could safely pass the truck. Package mailed, groceries purchased, back home a bit later than anticipated, but as our treatment counselor used to say when we were whining about one thing or another, "Oh well."

I often think about timing and chance encounters - Bill and Bob (who very well could've said "No" to the request to talk with a stranger), the 5 day overlap in treatment with my best friend (what if I'd come a few days late?), attending an AA potluck and striking up a conversation with the fellow I'm now married to, and this week, deciding to hit the bathroom before leaving Costco, which let me run in to a good friend for an extended parking lot conversation. I am not in charge. I am not in charge. I am not in charge - of connections, of garbage trucks, of when a wave of sadness may overtake me, of the joy at seeing a beautiful sunrise. Where is my attention today?

Do you have a safe space where you can express your grief when it arises? Are you able to give yourself permission to feel your feelings rather than do battle with the "should's?" How does your experience with grief inform your views of "one day at a time?" Can you use "How important is it?" to see the humor in daily pitfalls?

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Fall is a great time to start a small group discussion, or work with a sponsor or sponsee with the Now What? workbook. See the Feb 4 post for a sample or contact me at shadowsandveins@gmail.com for more info. (Order off the web version of this page, or, available at Portland Area Intergroup. Also carried at the TMar table at September conferences)