The gift of uncomplicated grief

When all there is to process is sadness

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I have always been puzzled by people’s resistance to facing the reality of death. It does, after all, come to us all. 

That said, I realize that death isn’t just about the act of a heartbeat stilling. Whether we’re thinking about our own demise or that of others, there are so many potential complications inherent in the act of being human; for example, active conflict, unresolved baggage with a loved one, regret over things not done, guilt over situations where we have not shown up as our highest self.

And that is why the space I am occupying following the death of my dear mentor and friend Lucy Myers is so unusual. My grief is uncomplicated. We had no conflict, no baggage, no regrets, no guilt. The relationship was all love and support and sharing of experience within a communicative container that involved Christmas cards, lunch/dinner dates, and emails. 

This means that all I have needed to be is sad, which is still effortful for me. While I have a hell of a lot more emotional intelligence skills than I used to, my immediate reflex is to clamp down, and that tendency can be exacerbated in certain circumstances. 

For example, when I first learned about Lucy’s death, it was during the workday and I didn’t want to burden anyone else with my feelings so I burst into ugly, brief tears in my office. I then dried my eyes, touched up my makeup, and put myself back together to finish the work day. I was exhausted by the day’s end given that it felt like an emotional version of that Star Wars garbage compactor scene. The feelings were pushing in on me and I was trying to keep those emotional walls from crushing me by using the pole otherwise known as my determined, creative mind to keep solving problems for my clients.

And then at Lucy’s memorial this past Saturday, I found myself in an unusual situation. It was the first memorial I have ever attended where I didn’t know anyone. As far as I could tell, I was also the only person who wasn’t white. I don’t mind being the stranger in the room (small talk isn’t my favorite but I am great at it) and I’m certainly familiar with being the only person of color in a room. However, I later realized that I could have benefited emotionally from the safety of another known and trusted human being at my side. There were several instances where the want and need to cry was so raw, but—to be blunt—I didn’t want to create a situation that may lead to questions like, “Who was that Asian woman falling apart in pew 6?” Everyone else seemed, on the outside at least, to be in a space of memorial joy, save the occasional wobble in a eulogizing voice.

And so I held my breath, opened my eyes wide to try to make the tears evaporate, blinked furiously as if my sparse eyelashes could serve as windshield wipers to my tears, and clenched down hard.

It all felt very familiar.

After the memorial, which was as lovely and heartfelt as I imagined it would be, my original plan was to be the friendly stranger at the basement reception. I wanted to offer my condolences, hear more stories from people who loved Lucy, and make it known that one of her students had shown up for her (Lucy’s commitment to her career as an educator was mentioned numerous times). 

And yet, I just couldn’t do it. I was so exhausted and emotionally fragile from clenching through the entire service that I didn’t have the capacity to be an “other,” charging my way into conversations. I didn’t think I could keep holding it together. And so I decided I would write a condolence card to Lucy’s partner and left the building.

I later realized that I had last been at the church where the memorial was held 20 years prior, when I was 41 weeks pregnant with Laurel, attending a wedding.

Lucy and I talked a lot about writing and it occurs to me now that in broad strokes, my writing has carried specific focus in different decades. In my 20s, my writing was technical in nature, documenting experimental methodology and results as a scientist. In my 30s, I was driven towards resource-oriented communication through my Boston-based blog. And in my 40s, writing became a powerful way for me to process my clenched feelings, whether in public or private.

And so it is here, in the comfort and privacy of my office sketching out these words on a beautiful Sunday, that I am working on unclenching, letting the tears flow, depleting the tissue box, and feeling the full arc of sadness that is possible when there is no conflict, baggage, regret, or guilt with which to be deal.

After I wrote this essay about Lucy after our last meeting, I shared it with her and she wrote, "It made me cry. Of course it’s a great piece of writing. I am so touched. It makes my years of teaching worthwhile. You are amazing and wonderful." I'm deeply grateful she had an opportunity to know the details of her impact through my eyes. It’s common to leave so much unsaid. And I will just type these words in closing, which I trust in some cosmic way will wing their way to her. Or really, because of who Lucy was, I’m sure she already knew these things.

Thank you, Lucy, for seeing me and encouraging me in a way that no other academic educator did. You changed the trajectory of my life and helped me see (then) unimaginable possibilities for myself.

Thank you, Lucy, for never prying into why I was struggling. You never put me in a position to articulate my shame. You never were voyeuristic or self-serving in your support. You simply were there for me with unconditional care.

Thank you, Lucy, for your Christmas cards all these years. I will miss yours this December.

Thank you, Lucy, for meeting me for lunches and dinners; for sharing laughs and stories and beach plum jelly, and for letting me embarrass you with waitstaff, telling them they were meeting the world’s best person.

Thank you, Lucy, for sharing your vulnerabilities with me so I could show up for and support you. You modeled what it looked like to be a whole, complicated, nuanced human being.

Lucy, I am deeply grieving your absence and it feels so pure and so selfish. It is rare—for me, anyway—to have relationships in life that are all about love. At your beautiful memorial, your niece shared the perspective that with you, “it’s all about love,” I now see, and am not surprised to know, that this was a great gift you gave so many people. How lucky I was to have been in your orbit of love.

I know that your gifts and joys and advocacy for others will live on in those whose lives you touched. I will do my best to show up for others with the same care, joy, and love. 

It is, indeed, all about love.

P.S. If you also need support with emotional fluency, I recommend you listen to this recent interview with Dr. Jenny Woo. At one point, Jenny said, “When we suppress our emotions, we're essentially holding a buoy down with one hand at all times. That gets so tiring, right?” Indeed it does.