After my dog died, I cried all of the time. I didn't just cry; I wore my tears as a badge of honor. I took pride in the fact that I was falling apart. I wanted the world to see how broken I was, and I feared the day I stopped crying would signify I had moved on, and that was something I never wanted to do. The grief was my last connection to Tovi, and I held onto it for dear life.
After months of blowing up my life, I saw a therapist who suggested I carve out five minutes — no more — a day to allow myself to cry. Her intention wasn’t to suppress my emotions but rather contain them so they weren’t spilling over into every aspect of my life (like quitting my job). I thought this was a terrible idea at the time, but now I’m not so sure. Could this be a healthy coping skill if grief is infiltrating your life?
Don’t get me wrong: There isn’t a set time frame for grief, and you certainly can’t control it when it arises. It will rise in waves, and just when you think you are okay, something will trigger it. But at some point, we must return to life. We don’t move on; we move forward. We pull up a cozy chair and sit beside the pain instead of sharing a chair with grief resting heavy on our lap.
As time passed (nine, ten, eleven months out…), I felt myself forcing the tears to fall. It wasn’t because I didn’t still feel sad, but after months of processing the loss, I wasn’t “as” sad. The loss wasn’t as raw. I wasn’t breaking out in tears at the drop of his name. I didn’t like anything about my After, but I was getting used to living there. And that terrified me.
Somewhere along the way, my “five minutes” began to replay as what I came to refer to as good grief. As I played back memories in my head, I noticed they would bring a smile to my face. I could appreciate what I had and accept that that time in my life had ended. Of course, I longed for the past and would have given anything to bring Tovi back to life, but I owed it to myself to move forward — even if the pain was going to travel alongside me.
It's been seven years, and I don’t cry anymore. There is a part of me that mourns the loss of my tears. Sometimes, I wish I could be transported back to the time of inconsolable tears because I felt connection to Tovi there. But that wound has healed into a scar that isn't painful to the touch anymore, and I have to be okay with that. I am grateful to have the scar.
When someone is new in grief and their world has crumbled, I find myself telling them: “It will always hurt, but it won’t always hurt this much.” It's not my most articulate moment, but it’s my instinctual ICU response.
I can only speak to my experience. Maybe for some, it never stops hurting This much. I like to think it can, though.
Cliche to the nth degree, but our pet would want that for us.
With hugs from Baltimore... Liz
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