Read What Abi Taught Us Online
Authors: Lucy Hone
What Abi Taught Us (8 page)
As Martin writes, âWe take for granted that our families of two, three, four, five, and even six children will not only survive but also thrive. They will brush off colds and flus and chicken pox, if they get them, bypassing the more awful thingsâthe disfigurers and paralysers and killers such as measles and whooping cough and polioâthanks to immunisations. They will go to school and then to college, our children. They will marry, in time, and have children of their own. They will make us proud. They will bury us. This is our script. And so, as I mothered day to day as one did on the Upper East Side, I didn't contemplate, in any sustained or careful or serious way, just how closely the territories of mothering and loss overlap. It's a secret, until it happens to you.'
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Once the unthinkable did happen to her and to her friend, Martin tells of the immense support she received from mothers all around her, prompting her to suggest that âthe software of motherloss' still resides within us, built up over the thousands of years in which infant mortality has been a fact of life. The low infant mortality rate in developed countries today is, after all, a relatively new phenomenon and unique to certain countries. A million babies still die worldwide every day, and 43 per cent of children born into hunter-gatherer communities die before they reach the age of 15.
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The long-term impact is that coping with death is as much a part of our fundamental, deep, inherited human experience as finding a mate and having children. It's just that, with the steady medicalisation of healthcare, and our incessant desire to live for longer and our ability to make that happen, we have begun to regard death with outrage, as a failing of the system. A transgression of our fundamental rights and expectations. We have forgotten that death is very much part of the system. The differences in bereavement practices between developed and non-developed countries highlight this fact: in the developed world we've begun to live as though death has no part in our lives. âIn a town like Manhattan, in a tribe as privileged as the one I studied, tragedy hits with a strange double force. You are knocked in the head by the fact of it, first of all, and then by another echoing pain, the knowledge that you are neither cosseted nor safe, in spite of all your attempts to have made it so,' writes Martin.
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When she scratched beneath the surface, death was everywhere: âJust about every mother I knew had lost a child, or her sister or best friend had, in ways that are practically unspeakable. At two weeks pregnant, or at twelve. At thirty-nine weeks, a cord looping its way around the baby's neck . . . The newborn suffocated by the baby nurse who rolls on him in the night in her sleep. The two-year-old who falls at the playgroundâa little fall, nothing, she didn't even seem to hit her headâand dies of a concussion a few days later. The toddler who tumbles from the window, dying in traffic, breaking every single heart in the city. The one-year-old who goes to the best hospital in town for a simple, straightforward procedure and never comes home. Three girls, swept away in a fire. Here. Right here. In our
world. On the Upper East Side, a place that feels safe, a place where anything is possible, until it is not.'
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Death doesn't discriminate. Death is everywhere and it happens to us all; all those we love will die or have died. It is both certain and, at times, horrifically random. Knowing this has helped me grieve and process Abi's death. It has prevented me from feeling singled out; diminished the sense of outrage and anger that comes from feeling our family's rights have been violated. Yes, it was waaaaaaaaay too soon. Yes, it's not fairâon Abi, on us, on any of those who loved her. But to deny that people dieâeven gorgeous twelve-year-old girls who never hurt a fly and have so much to give and doâis to deny the essential truth: that life is tough, chance happens and that people of all ages, stages, religions, places, faces and varying degrees of health die. When people rant and rave and question âWhy me?' in response to the death of someone they love, a small voice inside my head simply answers, âWhy not you, or me, or her?'
COPING WITH DEATH IS AS MUCH A PART OF OUR FUNDAMENTAL, DEEP, INHERITED HUMAN EXPERIENCE AS FINDING A MATE AND HAVING CHILDREN.
During the process of grieving, my thoughts on death have evolved. Now I firmly believe that humans are hard wired to cope. Most of us have it within us to cope, using only very unremarkable processesâthe ordinary magic that Masten refers to in her work. Certainly, it is a painful and rarely linear process, and some find it easier than others. I'm the first to acknowledge
I had some advantages that have helped me through this process: being extroverted, optimistic, well supported and sufficiently funded, and having a solution-focused coping style no doubt helped in some way. The research says as much. But, adopting a philosophy that suffering and death are very much part of life acted as a cornerstone of my grief. Why me, why
not
me? Why Abi, why
not
Abi? I understand that death, mistakes and accidents happen, to me and everyone else. Death is universal across the lifespan and across cultures. It helps if we can understand this. Wrapping my head around that took some doing, but it helped.
In the first chapter I referred to long-term studies showing that most people manage to recover from traumatic experiences without any kind of medical or therapeutic intervention. As George Bonanno suggests, âWhat is perhaps most intriguing about resilience is not how prevalent is it; rather, it is that we are consistently surprised by it. I have to admit that sometimes even I am amazed by how resilient humans are, and I have been working with loss and trauma survivors for years. As I learned more about how people manage to withstand extremely aversive events, it became all the more apparent to me that humans are wired to survive. Not everybody manages well, but most of us do.'
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Accept that you can (and will) adapt to this loss; that although it may require intentional effort on your behalf, it is utterly possible. Above all, you are not alone.
THE FUNDAMENTAL DIFFERENCE BETWEEN OUR
GRIEF REACTIONS
AND
GRIEF RESPONSE
I came across Thomas Attig's work on bereavement quite late in my grieving. I wish I'd stumbled upon him and his insights earlier, because his work offers a fundamental distinction between two different aspects of grief that were missing pieces from my jigsaw puzzle.
After more than three decades of listening to stories of grief, Attig suggests that bereavement causes a
grief reaction
, by which he means the full range of emotional, psychological, physical, behavioural, social, cognitive and spiritual impacts of bereavement. This reaction is our immediate experience with grief. But, says Attig, there is much more to grief than just grief reaction.
âMany writings on grief stop short with discussions of bereavement and grief reactions, as if stories about them captured the whole of experiences of loss and grief. But . . . grieving is not merely what happens to us as death, bereavement, and grief reactions come into our lives. Grieving is also what we do with what happens to us. Where grief reaction is passive and choiceless, the doing in grieving is active and pervaded with choice. I now prefer to use the term
grieving response
to refer to how we, again as whole persons, actively engage with bereavement and grief reaction emotionally, psychologically, cognitively, behaviourally, socially, and spiritually,' he writes.
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Accordingly, Attig views the
grieving response
as a process of relearning the world as we adapt and come to terms with our grief reactions and a world transformed by loss.
I find this distinction really helpful. Grief reactions are what happen to us (how we experience loss) and grief responses are how
we choose to respond to that loss. âWhen we are ready to break away from whatever may be holding us in grief reaction, grieving continues as we actively engage with the realities of what has happened to us and we begin addressing challenges of relearning the world of our experience,' he says, going on to emphasise that the grief response involves active engagement with our grief reactions as much as re-engagement with the world around us.
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Grief reactions typically include loneliness, sadness, helplessness, longing, and loss of courage, hope and faith, unsettling questions and intrusive thoughts, homesickness for the familiar, and a range of accompanying physical symptoms. These reactions happen
within us
, just as the loss happens
to us
.
However, grieving is also an active response to both the deprivation of bereavement and the numerous grief reactions we are consumed with. Attig writes, âWe engage with the death and the deprivation and changes in the world of our experience, come to terms with and even learn from our reactions to it, reshape our daily life patterns, and redirect our life stories in the light of what has happened. We respond as the multi-dimensional beings we are: We exert physical energy. We work through and express emotion. We change motivations, habits, and behaviour patterns. We modify relationships. We return home to familiar meanings in life. We reach for inevitably new meanings. And we change ourselves in the process. Death, bereavement, and our grief
reactions
are not matters of choice. But grieving in the quite contrasting second sense of the term as an active
response
to them is pervaded with choice. When ready, we must choose our own path in transforming the course of our lives following bereavement.'
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IT'S NOT JUST THE LOSS
of the loved one that has to be accepted. A raft of what psychologists call âsecondary losses' also require adjusting to. Secondary losses are all the dreams, ambitions, opportunities, future life events and relationships that vanish from your life along with your loved one. The term also relates to the myriad specific roles and functions that person played in your lifeâthe breadwinner, the hairdresser, the novel-finder, the handyman, bridge/golf/tennis partner, chief recycler, meal maker, wood chopper and fire lighter, homework adviser, towel folder, car cleaner, map reader, lunchbox maker, ironer, sober driver, Christmas wrapping expert, dog walker . . . and so the list goes on. Secondary losses may also be financial, or involve the loss of friends, a job, or a home. They can include the loss of the family unit and former stability, loss of faith, and
even the loss of confidence in the security and safety of this world (particularly after sudden or violent deaths).
Who are you now that you've lost this important person? Where will all the love you gave them get channelled? What do you do with your future hopes and dreams? What do you need to learn to do, however begrudgingly, now that they are no longer in your life?
In losing Abi, I lost my personal identity and seem to have experienced a personality change. This, apparently, is very common. Where once I was extroverted, upbeat and predominantly happy, I became consumed with sadness and loss. This was all new territory for me. Coming to terms with it required adjustment and acceptance of another secondary loss: I was no longer the person I used to be. I can find myself standing at a party and realise the fun has ebbed away; all I want to do is go home and curl up in bed, the sanctuary of my grief. I'm reminded of the lamentation, âHappiness has gone out of our lives; grief has taken the place of our dances' (Lamentations 5:15).
âAnother loss is the old “you”, the person you were before this loss occurred, the person you will never be again. Up till now, you didn't know this kind of sadness. You couldn't even have imagined anything could feel this bad. Now that you are inconsolable, it feels like the new “you” is forever changed, crushed, broken, and irreparable. These temporary feelings will pass, but you will never be restored to that old person. What is left is a new you, a different you, one who will never be the same again or see the world as you once did,' write Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler, summing up my feelings adroitly.
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Charged with their protection and as promoters of their opportunities, hopes and dreams, our daily interactions with our children in many ways define our sense of self. The day before Abi died I knew, with certainty, who I was and what my life's work entailed. Suddenly all that changed. I remember in the first week following her death saying to one of her favourite school teachers, who was also a family friend, that I no longer knew who I was. âLast week I was a mother of three, close to finishing my PhD. Now I don't recognise myself,' I told Bridget as we walked on the beach at dusk. âYou'll always be a mother of three,' she replied, and I cried. I will always be a mother of three. Of course I will. She will always be my little girl. Of course she will. But still I needed to be told.
Part of my grieving process has therefore involved me finding ways to honour the fact that we had three children. The easiest is that I intentionally and consistently refer to Paddy as our middle child. It makes me feel good inside every time I say the words. Early on, I'd find myself referring to âthe boys' (âI must go home and check that the boys are eating/getting up/ gone to bed/not having a party' and so on), but I modified this to, âI must go home and check on the kids.' One word changed and Abi was not written out of our lives. Over time I dropped this distinction, but it served me well for a few months by acknowledging her presence in our family.
We've also struggled being a family of four. No offence to families of four, or three, or two, but after twelve years of being a family of five, there was something familiar and complete and âright' about that odd number. Being a family of four is just too symmetrical, too square, and mainly too small to feel right. I hate being a family of four. It's all wrong. But, over time, we
are slowly learning to occupy our new family shape. I distinctly recall taking a photo of the four of us before we headed off tramping last Easter holidays and noticing that I felt okay about the way we were. We look happy in this new family, we were happy in it: just the four of us, learning to be less.
