“To weep is to make less the depth of grief.”
(Henry VI, Part III, Act II, Scene I, Line 85)
I have learned something important about grief from wound care.
Last summer, before my days shifted into darkness and just before everything I have ever been sure of in my world dissolved, I wrote an essay about the curious medical language of wound care.
In May and June of 2018, I accompanied my then 94-year-old aunt Virginia on her weekly visits to the Presbyterian Hospital Dallas wound clinic to treat the stubborn, angry wound she suffered from somehow hitting the outside of right ankle on her wheelchair. It simply refused to heal. The folks at Presbyterian Village North, her assisted living home, had run out of options.
At that time, little did I know that in a matter of weeks, my precious son Elliot would soar over the miserably inadequate barrier on the LBJ TEXpress entrance ramp – while riding his beloved motorcycle.
Little did I know that my brilliant firstborn son, a truly astonishing human, would take his last shallow breath in just over a month at that same hospital – where he also took his first breath 26 years prior. It’s all too much to process and handle for this bereaved mom. To tell you the truth, it takes every ounce of my depleted energy to barely function every day – still, over a year later. Don’t know how I ever breathe at all? Some days, it takes too much effort, and in some ways, it’s getting more difficult with each passing moment.
One of the reasons is this peculiar and uncomfortable statute of limitations on grief we perpetuate in American culture. Our “get over it, because it makes me uncomfortable” vibe is like living every day with a sheet of Saran wrap on your face. And no one seems to notice you can’t breathe.
I know it’s unpleasant.
I know people mean well. But death sucks. It’s unavoidable. I know they don’t know what to say, but we all need to figure it out – and do a better job seeing each other and caring for each other emotionally. It’s not weakness. We need to stop ranting at each other about all the “big, bad -isms” – and start paying attention to ourselves as individuals with open hearts and tender souls. Being present for each other is what matters – life and death matters. The loss of a child is an emotional wound beyond measure – one you will never get over. You must learn a new way to live. My soul sister Patty says, “If the loss of child were a physical wound, we’d be in the ER.” I’m not saying we all need psychology degrees. It’s about intentional acknowledgement – recognizing the profound wounds of loss – physical and emotional – early and often.
The fact is that we need to talk about the loss to move ahead. I treasure the friends most who say Elliot’s name and ask me to talk about him. His friends Chase, Brian and Alec – they are angels on earth. Overwhelming loss is the deepest, the most insidious kind of wound.
Grief needs air to heal.
We can’t just let it scab over and ignore the tissues below. And, like my aunt’s deep, festering physical wound, an emotional wound often needs debridement. That’s one of the wound words that truly resonates. You may think talking about Elliot will upset me, but that’s exacting what I need. It triggers the pain, but the tears are a tonic. The pain never goes away, anyway. Not ever. And, pain plays a role – signaling that something is horribly wrong, rallying the body’s resources – calling in the Navy Seals of the heart!
Technically, debridement is the term for the medical procedure that deliberately aggravates the wound in order to help it heal. With grief, we must do that – revisit the pain that makes us physically wince. It’s a necessary cringe, but we must not linger there. Telling and retelling our stories – that is our task. Finding situations and people who will listen, allow and support us unconditionally is essential – people who give us the space to remember the losses in our past and foreshadow what they mean for our futures. These people are rare and cherished. Without their divine grace, we will never emerge from this murky miasma (one of Elliot’s favorite words).
With debridement, we remove the unhealthy tissue and promote the healing – exposing a new day. The body is designed to heal, but the muck is heavy. The wound can become senescent or old when the cells are still alive and metabolically active but not able to divide and thrive. They are merely surviving, not thriving . . . senescent.
We can’t let that state persist – with unattended wounds scabbing over, harboring our deepest traumas.
4 thoughts on “Terms of Debridement: Living into Grief”
This is fantastic and so well put. We lost my nephew 10 years ago, to cancer. He was 18. We mention his name all the time.
Thank you, Judy. What a tragic loss — and so young. How difficult that is to carry. Good to hear you speak of him. The awkward, tiptoeing around the memory of one lost is so exhausting and isolating. xo
Thank you for sharing this Elaine, it’s something I’ve been feeling but hadn’t iterated; It’s a good reminder to consciously make the necessary room for other people’s grief. I know we’re lucky to have great friends who listen and know what a singular, lovable guy he was. When I’ve suspected that I’ve overtaxed those friends I’ve developed playlists and found texts to bring the tears that burn like anger when they can’t be shed but it’s not the same as having a willing ear and a hand to hold . Doesn’t it seems odd that more people aren’t crying in public more often? When I’ve seen people crying on the subway or on the sidewalk, it’s usually provoked the most humane responses that cross age, gender, and class lines. On a practical level, I bet we’d all be a little happier, healthier, and I hate to say it but more productive if we could conscientiously, shamelessly clean those pipes more often.
Such exquisite words, dear David. Pipes filling now. But, then, that’s where I live — on the precarious edge of tears. “Doesn’t it seems odd that more people aren’t crying in public more often?” Indeed. xoxo