'Grief is its own size'

by liberal japonicus

A little bit back, Gary Farber linked to this Playboy interview of Stephen Colbert on his facebook page. (apologies for the various stuff around the interview, but I can't find a way to just link to the frame) From the interview, Colbert talks about the experience of his father and two brothers dying in a plane crash when he was a teenager.

The interesting thing about grief, I think, is that it is its own size. It is not the size of you. It is its own size. And grief comes to you. You know what I mean? I’ve always liked that phrase He was visited by grief, because that’s really what it is. Grief is its own thing. It’s not like it’s in me and I’m going to deal with it. It’s a thing, and you have to be okay with its presence. If you try to ignore it, it will be like a wolf at your door.

more rambling thoughts below the fold.

Synchronicity being what it is, I was driving home yesterday when the shuffle on my ipod played Utada Hikaru's Final Distance, which reminded me that the song was dedicated to Rena Yamashita, a girl who had been killed in the Ikeda School Massacre and had won an essay competition with an essay saying that she wanted to be singer like Utada Hikaru. The video, along with my poor translation of the first section lyrics are below. 

=====

I'm anxious but I can't hear you
tired of swimming towards you silently
I want to see you but unseen waves push me a little bit further away

Don't stop, keep it going baby
Tell me that we have the same feeling
I don't try hard to work things out but
Just a little more will be good

I wanna be with you now
the distance between us will shrink
from now there will be time enough
We can start over
I won't be alone

========

 

That's what I'm thinking about on a grey morning here.

Comments

[russell]

Grief is its own thing. It’s not like it’s in me and I’m going to deal with it. It’s a thing, and you have to be okay with its presence. If you try to ignore it, it will be like a wolf at your door.

My brother died of a congenital auto-immune disease in 1979, when he was 17 years old.

That was a long time ago, more than half my life ago. If he was still alive, his 50th birthday would be coming up in a month.

My wife and I attended a performance of a boy's choir last weekend. One of the younger boys looked like my brother when he was that same age.

In about a second, my memory of my brother and the grief and sadness I felt at his death was, immediately, present with me. It's present with me, now, as I write this.

It was, and is, in a way, comforting, because grieving for him is the experience of him that is most available to me now. His absence is the way he is present in my life, now. Grieving for him is the way I am with him, now that he is not here.

If that makes sense, at all.

Grief for those you love never goes away, I think. It just becomes part of your overall weather. Your days have clouds in them, now.

It's a new country, and you live in it, until your own days are done.

Thanks for this, LJ.

[sapient]

Thank you for that, lj, and for your comment, russell. I had very little loss until 2005, when the deaths began coming. Life will never be the same. Just as every life is different, so is every death, and so is every grief.

[hairshirthedonist]

I haven't sufferred what I would consider a major loss yet. I've lost grandparents, aunts and uncles, and a few friends, but only one I would say was a close friend. That one probably hurt the most, but even he wasn't someone I spent time or spoke with all that often, only because he lived several hours away.

My father almost died a couple years ago, and I was grieving for him when I fully expected he wasn't going to pull through. But he did, so it's not something I continue to live with, certainly not in the way I would had he actually died.

It's kind of scary, being in my mid 40s and not knowing how I will react to losing someone really close to me. I can't even fathom losing my wife or one of my children. It seems like either one would destroy me.

[debbie]

(Grief) just becomes part of your overall weather. Your days have clouds in them, now.

A great image and a great way to put it. I'm writing this one down.

My dad died in 1974, and my mother never got over it or past it. She lived 31 years without him and never found her own way. Her grief in the beginning paralyzed her and eventually she resumed her life, but as she told me shortly before she died, she never stopped feeling the gap my father left behind. My mother could still find joy in life whenever a grandchild was born, and she wasn't the kind to mope around, but her loss seemed to tether her to what her life and dreams had been, and they would not let her go.

[RedstockingGran]

My mom died in 2004. I have never stop grieving. She now has 14, going on 15, great grandchildren. Her mom lived to meet 23 great grandchildren. I miss her every time a new child is born. I long for her advice on how to be a mother of four mothers.

[Doctor Science]

I'm testing whether I can comment here.

[wesley olmsted]

I miss you Andy. It has been five years since my son died in Iraq. There has not been a day since that I have not grieved for him. There is no consolation for the loss of a child. To lose one in the case where no good end is served is unforgiveable.
Today, think of those still serving in Afghanistan and hope that they all return asap in good health.

[Ugh]

Amen.