The French word bouleversé seems to capture the feeling of grief very well.
And while there is no exact English equivalent for the word, the sentiment is to be upended or turned upside down or inside out by feelings of grief. The physicality of the experience is important because the body holds on to so much grief as it waits for the emotions to be ready to release it.
People often say that grief comes in waves – and yes, the tears of sadness that come to the surface at random moments can catch you by surprise. Sometimes, it can be like a gentle wave, softly immersing you before slipping back away again. Other times, it can feel like the more violent powerful push of a strong wave crashing against the shoreline – knocking you over with its strength and the unexpected power it carries only to pull you back down again as you try to catch your breath in the undertow. I’m reminded of the beautiful lyrics of the Ane Brun song, Undertow. “I must follow these movements wherever they go; wherever they go; I’m caught in your undertow,” she sings.
The analogy of the sea is a useful one, as the sea also nourishes the body and soul, seeking to replenish those who seek comfort in its waters. I know of many people for whom the sea has deeply helped them through unfathomable periods of grief in their lives.
When you lose a loved one, you also think of all the other people grieving and something inside you makes you want to touch their grief too: the sudden and unexpectedly loss of a loved one in a car crash; the death of a partner – or a daughter/son – after a long illness, the unspeakable loss following suicide of a family member or friend or those like me who are grieving the loss of a parent.
And we must also remember those who lost loved ones during Covid, who couldn’t be with them, who couldn’t host proper funerals to allow people to join them in their grief and share memories of the person they have lost.
One thing you notice too when you lose a loved one – in my case my 91-year-old mother – is that little line most people write at the start of an email “I hope all is well with you” or “I hope this finds you well”. Usually written out of convention rather than any concern before the real content of the email spills out, this cursory personal greeting is not expected to elicit a response.
But, for me – those gentle words at the start of an email came to signify that no, not everything was well with me even if I wasn’t going to randomly share the tumultuous feelings of loss with those who sent me emails about various tasks or projects.
Instead, I often replied more briskly or perhaps more impersonally than usual – as a means to protect myself from answers that might or might not bring comfort at this time if I dared to reply truthfully.
Grief permeates all our lives whether we acknowledge it or not. But it becomes an intense, upending, overthrowing kind of feeling in the weeks and months after a loved one has left this world.
During the days and weeks after your loss, you live in a kind of hyperreality, listening and looking intently at the world around you. Time passes more slowly too as this hyper-attentiveness allows you to linger over things people say, gestures they make or don’t make or indeed gestures you make yourself.
There is a precious quality to this time of early grief and while you are often cloaked or comforted by the shared stories of other losses, you rest in a liminal space, avoiding passing over a threshold that you are not fully willing or able to cross. You know life will never, ever be the same again but you are not quite ready to go there yet.
It is only in the following weeks and months that you will crumble, even fall over when those waves of grief overcome you. Mind yourself, look after yourself, be gentle with yourself, everyone tells you – but even as you do, you enter new territory where no one ever wants to go.
One psychotherapist friend consoles me with the insight that my grief shouldn’t be complicated – I was close to my mother, I understood and respected her feelings (at least in adulthood I did) and I did my best for her in her dying days.
And, yes it’s important to talk about your grief even if you can sometimes struggle to articulate how you actually feel.
In his extraordinary book, Faith, Hope and Carnage, Australian singer Nick Cave speaks both about the depths of his grief following the death of his son Arthur and the transformative aspect of suffering. “There is a great deficit in the language around grief. It’s not something we are practiced at as a society, because it is too hard to talk about and, more importantly, too hard to listen to,” he says. Yet, he acknowledges that sharing his grief and hearing other people’s stories in The Red Hand Files project was a form of spiritual sustenance and kindness.
The stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance – were created initially by Elizabeth Kubler Ross to describe people with terminal illness facing their own death but later generalised to grief. They aren’t held in the high regard they once were. In fact, Kubler-Ross herself made it clear that these stages of grief are non-linear and don’t happen in any particular order.
In my experience, the waves of emotion can sometimes surface as irritations at what others around you are doing or not doing. These irritations are a kind of cry for help but if you are angry or annoyed with someone, it makes it more difficult for them to reach out and assist you.
Grappling with this mixed bag of emotions can result in people saying things that they might regret afterwards. Maybe this is exactly where we need to “mind ourselves” and be attentive to how grief can push you beyond your personal limits and boundaries in relationships in a way that could result in lasting damage.
And so, this is the time to use the gift of silence because silence can allow strong emotions to settle. Silence can let disturbing thoughts subside. And silence too can allow vulnerabilities to ease and give others a chance to save you from your worst extremes and help you not to drown in the deep waters of your grief.
[ In memory of my mother – Frank McNally on a painful epiphanyOpens in new window ]
Finding ways to integrate your loss into your life becomes the challenge after the initial period is over. There is a certain wisdom to embracing the sadness when it comes but there are also practical things that nourish the recently bereaved.
In my case, sorting out my mother’s belongings became a strong focus in the early months after her death. Some people said it was too soon to go through the hundreds of photos, letters, cards and newspaper cuttings but delving into this personal archive kept me closer to the life she led.
Donating her clothes to charity after hosting a gathering for family and friends to choose pieces in her memory was also a sad but comforting exercise. We all now have favourite items of hers in our wardrobes that we will cherish.
I will host another gathering soon to coincide with her birthday so that people can select china cups, ornamental plates, vases or glasses to keep her memory alive as we all find ways to reshape our lives without her physical presence in it.
- Sign up for push alerts and have the best news, analysis and comment delivered directly to your phone
- Join The Irish Times on WhatsApp and stay up to date
- Listen to our Inside Politics podcast for the best political chat and analysis
