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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
October 22, 2006
Published as a “Report of Emotional Health”
in a WIP dated August 14, 2001.
© 2001 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Last Portrait, 2000
© 2000 by Bud Grossmann
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WHAT HELPS?
More than a year has gone by since my son died, from respiratory failure related to Duchenne’s muscular dystrophy. He was eighteen years old. “How are you doing,” a good friend recently wrote, “with your grieving over David’s death? What do you find is helpful?” These questions came from someone whose beloved wife unexpectedly passed away this past January. In the several weeks since my friend’s letter arrived in the mail, I haven’t known what to say.
How am I doing? I’m okay, I guess. I am pretty good. No, actually, the truth is, much of the time I’m a mess.
What helps? Nothing helps a whole hell of a lot. But, then, on second thought, everything helps a little.
What helps? What helps? Why is he asking? Am I going to think of something this man has not already tried?
Crying helps. Whether I do it alone or with someone else. Crying helps; laughing helps, as well.
Listening to other people’s sorrows does me some good. By giving comfort I am comforted. And, though it’s a terrible thing to confess, I am often glad to meet people who are evidently worse off than I.
Does Heaven help? Not much. Not right now. I seldom think of Heaven or wonder whether Dave is there or if he and I will someday meet again. I don’t think about whether my son (as many well-intentioned folks assure me) has now put his wheelchair into storage and is sprinting across the cottony clouds beyond the Pearly Gates, fleet as a deer and happy as a clam.
Heaven is over my head, but does faith help? Sure, it does. Nonetheless, I am full of faith and full of pain.
Church helps in the here and now. The services and routines, the caring congregants of Church of the Crossroads, Honolulu, Hawaii, give me strength. The Scriptures sustain me. I feel the presence of my Lord, in and out of church. God is good. Am I making any sense at all?
A support group has helped. I’ve been going to once-a-month meetings of The Compassionate Friends, where I talk and cry and laugh with other parents who have lost a child or children.
Sleep has helped. Beer has helped.
How about counseling, how about pills? I haven’t tried them myself, but an astonishing number of other grievers have spoken appreciatively of therapists and Prozac.
Books may have helped a little. Books and brochures have shown me I am not alone. My deep, deep gloom and occasional “paralysis” are “normal,” according to what I’ve read. One volume stands out, and I feel I should mention it even though I haven’t yet followed its recommendations: The Grief Recovery Handbook, by John W. James & Russell Friedman, revised in 1998. The authors claim their step-by-step approach will “accelerate your recovery tenfold.” I didn’t go through the steps because the authors seemed to focus on situations where a grieving person had significant regrets, and that’s not the case with me. As far as I can see, there wasn’t much that needed fixing in my relationship with my son. Not much I must apologize for, not much David ever did for which I would hold a grudge. I might use The Grief Recovery Handbook when I want to deal with a loss involving more regrets.
Cards, notes, and phone calls have helped. I’ve appreciated them on David’s birthday, at Christmas, and on the anniversary of my son’s death. I’ve been particularly pleased when someone has reached out “just to keep in touch.”
Flowers help, especially the ones that anonymously appear from time to time at the niche in which David’s ashes have been placed. “In Memory of David. Love you forever,” said the little card on a big basket of roses that showed up the first week of August. No signature. Handwriting gave no clue. I burst into tears.
Now this one may seem odd, but I do believe I find comfort in the small resentment I bear toward people who have been less attentive and less supportive than I would have hoped. Their neglect eases my guilt for my own countless sins of omission.
Hugs help. Family helps, more often than not.
My son’s possessions cheer me. We have kept most of Dave’s belongings. I am in his room at this very moment, typing on his graduation-gift computer. I’m surrounded by photos, car posters, music CDs, model cars, movie videos I will never watch, graduation leis, a Disneyland rifle, a hospital bed, soccer trophies, books, tools, and radio-control cars. I see David’s power wheelchair, his ukulele, quilts, magazines, high school yearbooks, stuffed animals, a pair of Honda seat belt shoulder pads, shoes and slippers, a stereo, and a step stool David built in Cub Scouts. Dave’s calico cat naps atop the bed.
What helps? Time helps. You help. God help us all.
Thanks for asking. Check on me again, won’t you please? I don’t think I am finished with this reply. ♦
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