Devin's Way: Living with grief

Instead of picking up with Chapter 8, I surprised myself by writing this. Sat down to jot down a few sentences, and this is part of what came out.

May 2, 2012

            Found some pictures of Devin on the digital camera today.

            Couldn’t help but talk to him out loud.

            “Devin, why’d you die?”

            Sometimes – no, check that, usually every night -- when I let the dogs into the backyard for their last pee of the evening, I like to stare into the yard, then stare up into space and just wonder.

            I wonder where Heaven is. I wonder if it’s all around us. I wonder what Devin is doing and how it all looks to him, far removed from this Earth. I think of regrets and I think of ... stuff. Just think.

            I’m fairly certain Sunday and Monday was a significant step forward in the grieving process, though it was a simple thing. I cleaned the kitchen.

            We needed a new refrigerator, and as we cleaned the old one out, and pulled it out from the wall, the rest of the clutter and mess came into view -- stuff that gets hidden behind refrigerators that don't get pulled out for years, and stuff in corners. It was due for a good scrubbing, which is something I really hadn’t done in eight-plus months. It’s not like I was a clean freak when I was on my game before Devin died. I’m sure if you ask my Doe-Eyed Bride, she’d tell you I’m a slob. But since Devin died, I’ve found it even hard to want to do the very basics around the house. Sure, there’s laundry, and I can shop and put away groceries and fold clothes. But there was just no desire to go beyond that. Ruth has taken care of a lot of the day-to-day cleaning.

            So anything different and better has got to be significant, right?

            If I am further ahead in my grief than most people might think I should be, or how others have grieved, I think it’s because I’ve made a conscientious and concerted effort to get better. That hasn’t made it easy, and it’s entirely possible this is all bullshit and totally wrong. I’m guessing here.

            Everyone grieves differently. I get that. I just don’t want to be the person who uses grief to curl in a ball and hide under the blankets. Don’t want to become an alcoholic. Don’t want to take my anger out on the dog and the rest of the world.

            In the first weeks after Devin’s death, I had a need to be part of grief groups. I needed to tell his story again and again. I needed reassurances and wanted to hear other tales of loss. I needed to cry with a group. Ruth wasn’t as interested in that, but supported me best she could.

            Individual therapy at the VA and family therapy, which is ongoing, have been huge. The great thing about our family therapist, Susan, is she is able to find the little problems in what look like big things, and she helps us focus on fixing those little problems, and that usually takes care of the big problem.

            The Compassionate Friends Group was OK. There were some good people there, and I needed their acceptance and love. But something really sticks out in my mind, and keeps me from going back.

            On our first visit, only three weeks into Devin's death, I recognized one of the people, but couldn't place him. As we made introductions around the table, it hit me, and I made a mental note to talk to him afterward. That never happened, because a few seconds into my introduction, he loudly crushed his plastic water bottle and angrily stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

            A couple years earlier he had come to the Kenosha News and wanted us to do a story on a painting someone did of his son, who was killed in the Middle East. I tried to help him, and tried to find a local angle, even though they did not live in Kenosha. I thought we left on good terms with a plan to do the story, and was shocked when editors got a letter from him a week later saying I was rude, dismissive and didn't care about the story. He said he wanted nothing to do with me after that. I never thought I was rude, and only wanted to do the story. I don't know how or why he took it that way, but because of his letter, I never wrote the story.

           Two years later, he hadn't forgotten. I only wanted to talk to him at the end of the meeting and share a story of our mutual loss. I talked to the group leader the next day, and even hashed it out with the guy a month later, but the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth. I don't understand to this day how my meeting with him at the Kenosha News was misconstrued, but there was nothing compassionate about his actions that night at Compassionate Friends. Actually, I do know why it was misconstrued. It's because of the intense pain and anger he carries over the loss of his son. I get it. I feel it. Sometimes it throbs in your chest and other days it leaves an empty ache. I understand him. I just don't want to be that person five years from now or even today. 

           I’m just not sure that group is for me. Maybe I’ll change my mind from time to time, but I don’t want to stay in the same spot, month after month, year after year, being stuck in the thick quagmire of constant pain that some  in that group seem to experience.

            Our Great Lakes Church group on loss was amazing. Lots of people experiencing lots of different kind of loss. But by going to this group each week, forcing myself to do it, was, in a way, forcing myself to live each day.

            We tried Grief Share, another group support group at another church, and went to a few sessions. Again, some good people there, but we were one of only two parents in the group who just lost children. I’ve heard this group has helped a lot of people, but by the third week or so, it felt more like a chore and homework. It hurt my head instead of helped it.

            And, of course, I wrote.

Sometimes I wrote for hours every day. Sometimes I was so damn angry. Sometimes it was hard to see the words through the tears, and sometimes it was some happy memory that made me smile. I remember some days when the words and letters exploded out of my fingertips as I pounded the keyboard, then hit save before I could change my mind.

Together – the therapy, the support groups, the writing and the talking, talking, talking helped in all kinds of ways.

            It must have helped. Ruth says she doesn’t feel like dying every day. I’m still here.

            Devin is dead. He was dead yesterday, he is dead today and he will be dead when I wake up tomorrow. He’ll be dead next year. We have to learn – and are learning – how to live and exist in this new reality.