An evolution of grief
When I was a kid I had hamsters. I loved their cute fluffy little faces and the way they shovelled seemingly endless amounts of sunflower seeds into their cheeks so they could hide them away in their little plastic sleeping house.
I loved looking at them when they were asleep, all curled up in clouds of soft fluffy bedding. Their tiny eyes closed, the gentle rise and fall of their bodies as they breathed and dreamt their hamster dreams.
The fist time my hamster died (as in, when the first hamster I had died. I didn’t have any come back to life and then die again. No zombie hamsters here.) Anyway, the first time my hamster died, I was devastated. I’d lost my friend. I’d lost the cute ball of flooff who’d crawl over my shoulders and up into my hair, sometimes curling up to nap.
I don’t remember how old I was when she died but I do remember my grief.
I remember that feeling of loss, the feeling of having a hole in my heart. The sorrow of knowing I’d never get to watch her slowly pull herself up the carpeted staircase when we were playing, nor would I catch her monkey climbing the bars along the top of her cage.
I also remember telling someone, an adult (who was probably only in their early 20’s) that I was sad because my hamster had died . From the way they spoke and acted towards me I distinctly got the feeling that they judged the size of my grief as being disproportionate to my loss. Hamsters are small animals so my grief should be smaller.
When my step-mum died in the winter of 2015 I don’t remember crying. She’d been terminally ill for a long time so her death wasn’t a surprise, in fact it was almost a relief. She’d been in a lot of pain for a number of years and I’d already done a lot of grieving for her while she was still alive. When I said goodbye at the end of each visit to see her and my dad, there was always that thought in the back of my mind that this might be the last goodbye.
I visited her just before I moved back to Australia earlier that year, that goodbye was different. We both knew then that this probably was The Last Goodbye. I don’t remember if I cried as I drove for hours to my mum’s house.
When I got the news that she’d died I didn’t cry, I went straight into organising mode, looking for flights back to the UK, booking a hire car and began the process of telling friends and other family members that she’d gone. I went into work that day because I didn’t know what else I was supposed to do and, honestly, I wanted to hide from feeling. In the 10 days between hearing the news of her death and flying to the UK, I went to the gym, I think I taught my group fitness classes, I went to work, I shopped for groceries, I did my laundry. I didn’t really cry.
Checking in at the airport to fly back to the UK, I explained why I was flying and I asked if I could have a seat with no-one next to me. I remember thinking, “Now, now is when you should cry. All big and dramatic so you get two seats to yourself on the plane.” I don’t remember if I cried, I do remember feeling that the world was wobbly and that it was exhausting holding myself upright. I remember feeling empty.
At some point during the 24-odd hour flight from Australia to the UK I decided enough was enough. I had decided that the reason I wasn’t crying was because I didn’t want people to stare at me, I didn’t want people to hover over me asking if I was ok, I wanted to cry and be left alone. So… I put on my headphones, choose the saddest film I could find on the in-flight entertainment service and finally let myself cry… but there was no release. I’d done such a good job of disconnecting myself from my emotions that, whilst tears were finally falling from my eyes, I wasn’t wasn’t actually grieving, I was crying from the effort of holding myself together for so long.
I didn’t cry at the crematorium – I was on the verge but then I heard my dad next to be cry and, having NEVER heard him cry before EVER, I shoved my emotions back down so I could support him.
At the reception thing after the service, I again went into organiser mode, this time with a hosting flavour – “Can I get you another sandwich, something to drink, how are you I’ve not seen you in years?!”
Then, it was all over, and within a week or so I was back in Australia.
I never had that Big Crying Moment that I had envisaged. I had smaller, more contained bouts of tears and sorrow over time and I grieved that way.
When I think back to childhood me, big fat tears on her cheeks, feeling that pain of loss and sorrow after loosing her hamster I wonder,
what might childhood me think about this expression of my grief?
Would she find the lack of tears puzzling, would she understand that I’d already done a lot of grieving and crying over the years (crying in the bathroom at work anyone?) or would she feel that her grief was too much again?
If I could talk to her now, to childhood me missing her cute fluffy sunflower seed eating friend, I’d tell her that there’s no scale for feelings, that you feel how you feel. I’d let her know that what might be a big feeling to one person, might be smaller in another and vice versa, that there’s no right or wrong way to feel about anything. I’d tell her that, sometimes, how your feelings show up on the outside is different to how they feel on the inside.
I’d also tell her that I admire her for feeling her feelings and to never stop feeling them, no matter how old she grew.
