Hi there
Here’s a question:
How is it possible to have a close loved one die, be subsumed with grief, and yet have relief floating around too? Surely these two emotions cannot be companions? And even if they are, wouldn’t then guilt (for feeling relief) be lurking too?
Earlier this week I was having a meeting in a coffee house with myself, writing an article. A person I haven’t seen for years but had previously met at a business networking event approached.
“Sorry I didn’t see you the other night, because I wanted to tell you something. My mother-in-law has died recently after 4 years of dementia, the last two of those being bed-bound. It’s been an incredibly difficult time, I was so fond of her, and yet I felt such relief when she finally died. Grief with relief, is what I felt.”
We smiled together at that, both recognising a good title in those words. But not smiling as well, as we also acknowledged the way these two emotions really can sit together.
He then went on to tell me that because of the work I had done previously (my books Gifted By Grief, and Before I Go: The Essential Guide to Creating a Good End of Life Plan, plus the not-for-profit I had founded and ran for 7 years in this arena), he had felt confident to encourage his wife to find a good psychotherapist to help her with her grief (and relief).
My heart glowed. I love hearing how someone has been helped by my work, whether writing or coaching. It’s why I do it.
We parted laughing, with me thanking him for the topic of this post.
So back to the question of grief, with relief.
I remember when my late husband Philip was very near the end. He was in a private room in the NHS hospital in Aberdeen, had been moved there a few weeks previously. (At the time I thought he was there because I had requested the move; it took a while for it to sink in that it was much more likely they knew he was dying sometime soon).
After the doctor had said regretfully that there was nothing more they could do, I knew it would be only a matter of days before he died.
It’s possible those last few days might have been peaceful for him, except the medics couldn’t find the right combination of drugs to keep him pain-free as well as hallucination-free. It was extremely stressful to watch my lovely husband struggle with the effects of hallucinations, doing his best to interpret them as if they were real dreams (he had been a psychotherapist, so this was normal behaviour for him). The alternative was witnessing the effects of deep physical pain, not just from the stomach cancer, but also a massive bedsore.
In a strange sort of way I almost wanted him to die; I wanted him to be free of suffering, and for it to happen sooner than later. If he was never going to recover, why would I not want that for him? Knowing I would be bereft felt irrelevant.
So when he did eventually die, I was relieved. Not immediately, it took a while to sink in that he had actually gone (even though I was there and watched him take what turned out to be his last breath). But yes, I discovered quickly what it was like to be in the full throes of grief, with relief sitting alongside.
Did I feel guilty about the relief? No, not at all.
Did I find it easy being taken over by these emotions? No. In fact, I was knocked completely sideways by the strength of all sorts of feelings (see Gifted by Grief if you want to explore this more). Despite having studied bereavement and grief professionally, and having had some close friends die, nothing had prepared me for a precious husband dying.
It was awful. Awful. I don’t want to mince words here. And - I didn’t know at the time that I would come through this to a place where I could speak the words ‘gifted’ and ‘grief’ together. In fact, if you had mentioned that idea to me in the first year of grieving particularly, I would have been furious.
But life happened, experiences were had, discoveries made and I came to a place where I realised I was feeling ‘gifted’ by both Philip’s life AND his death. Weird, but true. Which is what propelled me to write the memoir.
I was reminded of all this when my colleague spoke so tenderly of his mother-in-law; it was easy for me to empathise and feel for him, as I had been there too, albeit in different circumstances. We had both been able to feel relief within our grief; guilt didn’t get a look in, because neither of us felt we were doing something wrong, which is the only place where guilt gets to grow.
So the question is answered.
Perhaps grief and relief are closer friends than we generally realise.
Love
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