Unique Grief

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.

W.H. Auden

I love this poem. I love the cadence. It touches me deep in my soul each time I read it. I find special meaning in the first words, “Stop all the clocks,” For that is what happens. Time stops with each death. Your life with that person or animal ends, and a new one, where the deceased doesn’t exist begins. Yet all around you, life went on, and you’re just a few moments behind them now.

If anyone had asked, I would have said I was much closer with my father.  We had more interests in common. Dad was larger than life. He was ever-present. Even after his death, we felt his presence.

But then I was prepared. Though my mother had cancer, pancreatic cancer, though we knew we were, at best, buying time, I was unprepared. Not mentally. She was in hospice care. It was only a matter of time. But emotionally. I can’t believe she’s gone. I need more time to process.

Losing a beloved pet isn’t helping. I am drowning. I am exhausted. I am sad. Not depressed, just teary and sad. I’m crying again. I can’t sleep. I want time to wallow, time to turn inward, and just be. I want time for my world to end so I can begin to rebuild.

Every grief is different. Each one crawls under your skin at a different spot. It’s all grief, but the itch is different. The beed is different. It’s not a judgement of love or importance. It’s who you, the mourner, are in the moment. And so some linger. They burrow deep inside, and must be slowly drawn out of your heart. Others, just as significant, scratch only the surface, like a great charge of static electricity, shockingly painful, then gone.

It’s okay to admit you’re still healing. Evert grief takes its own time, has its own pace. Just hold on.