Thread

Grief doesn’t walk in a straight line

It’s been said that grief is love that we cannot share, or grief is love with nowhere to go. We often think of grief at the loss of a loved one, and we sympathise with those nearest and dearest. It’s right that we should.

But grief is harder in these days. Even when a loved one does die – and there are more deaths now than there would have been without the virus spreading – some of the norms have been taken away.

Just a few permitted to attend the funeral, so for many there's no opportunity to express our condolences face to face, even if we are able to do so. Those grieving are deprived of opportunities to share their feelings, and those sympathising feel that they are falling short.

So there is a lot of grief to go round. And then there are the smaller daily reminders of what we have lost, even if it is only temporary. No visits with family and friends over the long weekend. No short break away from home.

For those working, quiet roads, much lighter use of public transport. Probably a lot safer for cyclists and pedestrians, mind you, and we should not forget that – but that safety has come at a cost.

For some of those working, that has also meant isolation from their families, to keep others safe. Their compassion has come at a cost, both to themselves and to their loved ones.

For some, the fear of what might happen is keeping them isolated, even if they could go out for legitimate reasons. They have lost liberty, and regained fears that they had worked hard to overcome.

Some have lost employment already. Some have lost the social contact that working with others brings, even if they can still work from home. Some fear for their businesses – will they be able to re-open, re-start? What will things look like in a few months’ time?

We know that grief comes and goes in cycles, or stages. Some are immobilised by it; some are in a phase of denial; others are angry. Some reach a phase of bargaining or negotiation (I can’t do this any more, but could I do that instead?).

There’s often a phase of depression, a feeling of hopelessness at the loss, a dull silence, a draining greyness. Or perhaps we are testing out new ideas, to replace the old; perhaps we come to accept what we have, and find good in it.

But remember, at the moment, each day has its own little griefs, its own reminders of what was, and what is gone. And grief doesn’t walk in a straight line. It meanders. Immobilisation, denial and anger can all happen in the space of 10 minutes, in no particular order.

We can think that we have reached acceptance – and it is good if we can – and then there’s a jolt and we’re back at anger, or dumped in depression. Grief doesn’t do what you want. It doesn’t move steadily in a predictable way. It catches you, often when you’re not looking.

So the next time that someone glares at me in a socially distanced queue (maybe they forgot their glasses and are just squinting), or sighs at me from 6 feet away on the pathway (maybe they just exhaled) I will try to remember.

Maybe their grief, a grief that I can’t see, just squeezed out and I happened to be standing nearest to them. Maybe we are all human after all.