Acceptance

Although this will be a series, I intentionally waited a few days between posts because the painful way the last post ended felt right, somehow. I needed to sit in the pain. It would not have been honoring or authentic to try to find some happy note to add. Grief is not despair, but it is one of the furthest things from joy I have yet experienced.

I’ve learned about the stages of grief over the years, but the huge misconception is that they are in some kind of sequential order. Like once we get through shock and anger we will somehow transcend to acceptance at the final stage.

I have found that this is fundamentally untrue. All stages of grief come and go like waves, and they also can come like a jolt you weren’t prepared for or a slow wave of sorrow that passes leaving you feeling both relieved and exhausted.

One moment I can feel incredibly grateful knowing that Robin is in Heaven with her Father and the next moment, a pang of sadness washes over me so deeply that a sob comes to my throat before I can catch it.

Watching my children grieve their grandmother is the epitome of absolute helplessness. Even while holding them, I cannot make it better.

It is almost like watching a rain shower. I can pray the rain away or pray that it will end quickly, or I can lift my hands up and get wet but ultimately, I have no control over the rain.

Another big misconception about grief is that we think we can measure it. We can count the days or months. We think we can measure if we are doing it correctly; if we are processing well, if we can talk about it, we must be doing it ‘right.’ The truth is there is no right way to grieve. I find myself comparing how I’m doing to others, and this is also stupid and unhelpful. My relationship with Robin was unique to her and me. My feelings are unique to me alone. I miss her in different ways than others do.

Comparison is the death of a healthy perspective.

When will acceptance come? It comes in minutes and days and then disappears. Sometimes I forget entirely and when I remember I feel badly for forgetting. When I see a picture of our family before Robin got sick, I cannot believe pancreatic cancer is even a disease. I don’t understand how it could have happened. It does not seem real that she died and even writing the words ‘she died’ feels like an exercise in playing a nightmarish game of pretend.

I think that experiencing the death of someone we love is more than losing that person in our lives and from the earth. Watching a loved one die disturbs us at the deepest and most core part of ourselves. This part of us that is absolutely certain beyond a shadow of a doubt, in a way we cannot fully articulate, that it is not supposed to be this way.

So, have I accepted that she is gone? Yes. No.