Grief

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Grief

On the ceiling of the dank church basement, the harsh fluorescent lights buzz. The lights spread a sickly yellow pall over the room. On the wall by the door, there is a large bulletin board. On the bulletin board, hang announcements and an event calendar. A yoga class is scheduled to use this space on Monday mornings, a writing group on Tuesday afternoons, Tai Chi on Wednesday and a bereavement group on Thursday. Accompanying the bulletin board, several pictures dance merrily across the wood paneled walls. The pictures add flashes of colour here and there. They are the bright, rainbow-coloured crayon art of a Sunday School class. As this is Thursday, the furniture has been rearranged to accommodate the bereavement group. In the centre of the room marooned on the pumpkin orange shag rug are black vinyl and silver chrome chairs. The eight chairs form a circle. Upon each chair sits a solemn, sober participant. In the centre of this circle is a small table. On the table rests a large box of tissues and a stack of books. This collection of books includes titles such as On Death and Dying by Elizabeth Kubler Ross as well as When Bad Things Happen to Good People by Harold Kushner. Another larger table stands against a wall, away from the group. This table holds coffee mugs, a coffee maker, pitchers of juice, and a plate of cookies. These items rest on the table as a promise, a reward: a reward for attending, a reward for sharing. The room is deathly quite. All participants sit with their heads bowed. They try to hold on. They try not to move. They try not to breathe. They avoid looking at one another. They all know that this uncomfortable peace is temporary. Sooner or later, someone will break: all the participants pray that it won’t be them.

It is the duty of the group facilitator to guide the group through the stages of grief: confront your emotions, let go, and reframe your life. He knows the work they must do is difficult. He will guide but he refuses to push. He has a calm, soothing voice and soulful eyes.

Most of the participants are middle-aged woman. All regularly attend, if only to sit in silence.

Suddenly, a participant stretches her hand forward toward the box of tissues. Bev McDonald grabs several tissues and between sobs, she begins to talk.

“If I had, had some warning it would have been easier. If he had been sick, bedridden then I would have had some time to adjust, time to face reality. But I had none of this. One minute we were having a discussion – the next minute he was dead. No warning, no nothing.” She pauses, attempting to regain composure. Then she continues, “I wish I had been the one to die. I mean he’s just dead. He got the easy way out. Not me. I have to live on. I have to live on when my whole world has come crashing down around me. No one understands. Everyone is uncomfortable about my grief. They don’t know what to say. They don’t know what to do. They want me to be happy. They want me to snap out of it. They want me to snap out of it so they don’t have to deal with it, so they don’t have to deal with me. Everywhere I look there are happy smiling faces and they make me sick. I don’t want to deal with them. I’m too tired to be around them. They drain me of all my energy. All I want to do is sleep. I can’t see anything but grey. I can’t see any colour. Colours hurt my eyes. All I want to do is dig a deep pit and climb in. I am in a pit. I’m trapped in a pit. Worms climb all over me. Dust fills my lungs.” Her eyes fill with tears. Her tears threaten to drown her words. She fights to continue. “I can’t stay in this pit. I have to escape. I need to escape. Tell me how. I can’t be stuck here. I can’t. You have to help. You have to. If you don’t. If I can’t then, then…” she breaks down into uncontrollable sobs.

(c) ldyck