Analyzing Grief and Mourning
    At this point, I think becoming consciously aware of and analyzing my grief and mourning are emotionally productive activities. Already, after becoming aware of my image problem regarding my mother's body on her bed, a bit of my sense of being stuck in mental sand is dissipating. After writing the immediately previous post I headed out to our usual grocery to pick up a few staples I use that have dwindled. At the grocery I decided to make myself a "formal" dinner: roast chicken, a spicy orzo/feta salad with sun dried tomatoes; steamed Brussels sprouts with a Greek feta vinaigrette. I haven't done this since Mom died...I've just been eating bits of leftovers and, occasionally, one of the fairly tasteless Stouffer's entrees I bought less than a day before her death, anticipating that her appetite might return. Roast chicken with steamed vegetables and a starchy side dish (usually some sort of rice concoction) was/is one of Mom's and my favorite dinners. I used the oven and the vegetable steamer, neither of which have been used since before company left a week ago yesterday morning. It was reassuringly natural to cook for myself again, something I haven't done in years.
    While at the store I also looked for something to use as a black armband. I found a black, stretchy headband and modified it for use on my left upper arm. Although I haven't yet worn it outside the house, wearing it as an expression of how deeply affected I am by my mother's death seems to make me feel less grief-bound. It's as though I am transferring my grief to the armband, where it remains in my peripheral vision and doesn't stand between me and my ability to view the world directly. I find it curious that this simple act allows me to feel a bit less thrown, a bit more competent.
    For the first time in the two weeks since my mother's death, as well, last night I slept a little over eight hours. I didn't make it to my bedroom. My intention was to nod off on the couch for a bit then spend the late evening watching a movie I'd rented a few months before my mother's death that I'd planned on reviewing for this journal, The Ballad of Narayama. I wasn't at all displeased, though, when I awoke from a refreshing night-sleep early this morning. Yes, my awakening image was of my dead mother. This morning I took it in stride.
    I ran a simple search of "black armband" on the internet. It is not only a straightforward symbol of mourning: It is a symbol of the IRA. It is used to protest shameful, mournful political acts. A Canadian blogger used the wearing of a black armband almost a year ago to bring attention to the senseless murder of an intellectually disabled young man; and, per comments to his post, was joined by others. "Black armband history" is a type of historical view/critique originating in Australia's overt awareness of the cultural violence settlers from other lands have wrought on Aboriginals.
    My grief over my mother's death has kick-started a review of other episodes of grief in the wake of deaths in my life. I'm discovering that I have never grieved someone even close to as deeply as I find myself grieving my mother. My history is not without deaths, some of which were expected, some of which were shocking, some of which took people from my life in whom I had significant emotional stakes, like my father when I was in my mid thirties and a lover when I was in my early forties. Other deaths I easily remember are: A couple of friends in my youth, none of whom were expected to die; one of my mother's colleagues when she was a teacher; the brother of a long time, very good friend; maternal and paternal older relatives, a slew of them, actually, since Mom and I began our shared life. Along the way, as well, I've become aware, in arrears, of deaths of teachers who made a strong impression on me; the deaths of parents of long ago friends; the death of a blogger whose intention was to blog himself through ALS right up to his death, an intention he accomplished. Even in the cases of my father and my lover, I was content to acknowledge that I'd miss them, bid them good-bye and move on, surprisingly quickly. I don't find myself reviewing, critiquing and/or reliving my reactions to previous deaths in the wake of my unanticipated reaction to my mother's death. Rather, I'm heartened to know that I have the emotional capacity to be derailed by death. I wasn't sure I did and have, at times, idly wondered if this was a character defect.
    Later.
- posted by Gail Rae @ 06:05   email  this post