I originally wrote this piece back in 2016, two years after my Dad died. Now, its almost seven years on from writing this piece, and almost nine years since he died. Grief has shaped-shifted somewhat, death, of course, remains and as a family, we’ve lost more loved ones. Collective grief and suffering can also knock on the door of our personal grief. So I’m reposting this, knowing that in the years since I wrote this, I often have to remind myself, that that gnawing feeling that sometimes sits uncomfortably, just below the surface, is grief and sadness needing acknowledgment.
This is part one of a short series over the coming weeks, exploring grief, collective grief, and nature. Please feel welcome to share any thoughts or feelings on your own experiences in the comments.
I am acquainted with death.
In the last two years, I have been preoccupied with death. Initially, it was the threat of meeting death as my father fell gravely ill. Then later as he recovered the fear of death being so near lingered, diminished in force but still ever present buried under strained optimism, an unwelcome house guest in my mind. Eventually, death arrived, shattering the comfort of the walls we had built to defend against the possibility of its return. It was swift and traumatic and I haven’t quite forgiven death for being so unkind.
To the uninitiated the sudden prospect of loss is incomprehensible. So many of us are ill-equipped to deal with this basic fact of life. We do everything in our power to ignore what is as certain as living and breathing. Ingrained in us is a map of diversion, an uncanny ability to find the quickest route past the reality of our demise. We have created a culture that values the preservation of life with no regard for the nature of death. We revere birth, such celebration and love surrounds a new life, and yet when that life nears its end whether too soon or after great longevity we scorn death and try to deny its existence.
It is easy to understand why we avoid death, our bodies and minds are hard-lined to avoid it. Every fiber of our being is designed to continue life. We avoid the thoughts of our own death and the death of our loved ones for a myriad of reasons. Our own death brings huge uncertainty and fear while the death of a loved one brings with it pain, sadness, and loss. We view death as a malevolent force a life-changing event that brings with it an unending list of negative consequences. We live our whole lives with the anxiety of its impending and often unexpected arrival. The image of the grim reaper lurking insidiously to hasten our end is perhaps the ultimate symbol of our view of death
We have created a unique language of denial when it comes to death. With the best of intentions, we inadvertently rob death of its life and collude in its concealment. There are some stock standard lines that create that diversion from the reality we so desperately cling to. We know this language when the time comes to use it. Like an in-built microchip that programs cliches, “keep busy”, “in time it will get better”, “he/she had a good life”. The intention is always good but it is part of the avoidance, it’s designed to momentarily alleviate the pain. Joan Didion said “There’s a general impulse to distract the grieving person — as if you could.” Death is uncomfortable, we don’t want it around. It’s easier to offer polite platitudes than to acknowledge the pain and risk opening up. Sometimes when you’re sad and grieving you just want to say how shit you feel and that you’re not sure you know what to do with yourself but we don’t speak that way about death or emotional pain.
We were reintroduced to death when my father became ill again one night having previously recovered so well. We were in a total state of shock, we thought we had evaded death, one near brush was enough thank you very much. We thought we had done all the right things. We asked all the right questions of the doctors and when things went wrong we couldn’t understand why they didn’t tell us that this might happen and why did they not prevent it. Why couldn’t we prevent it? We were helpless to help him. Time was immeasurable as he slipped further from our grasp. We ended up back in intensive care where we had met the possibility of death once before. We thought we’d escaped it and here it was again, it seemed so unfair.
As his death became increasingly likely we pushed it away and saw every sign of life as a sign of hope. Our previous bedside vigils filled with determined hope seemed transformative. It seemed impossible that someone we loved so much could not be renewed, resurrected by the depth of our love and by the outpouring of concern and well wishes from our friends and family. Days and nights went by and the certainty of that transformation wained as we realised that we didn’t have that power over life and neither did the doctors. It was as though we were stuck in some other reality, like being in a film. As my Dad had commented after his first near-death encounter, “You never think this kind of thing could happen to you”.
None of us are immune however and he did die and we are still heartbroken. In the time since he died I have avidly pursued death reading all there is to know about it and the possibility of life beyond our bodies, looking for comfort in the experience of others who have grieved. I have revisited the Tibetan Book of Living & Dying with a newfound understanding, I’ve found comfort in Joan Didion and Megan O’Rourke’s writing their experiences on death amongst many others. I’ve sought solace in therapy when the inevitable wave of grief became too strong to withstand alone.
There are many things to be learned from death and the experience of loss. I’m quite sure the lessons go on as the grief changes and evolves. I’ve learned that love does not sustain life or protect us from death however love does not simply cease when someone dies, it endures and strengthens. The increasing magnitude of love you feel for someone in their absence seems at odds with the great sadness you feel. In some cruel way, it is as if the love fuels the sadness. I’ve learned you must allow yourself to feel sad. The truth is that death hurts, it can be traumatic, the pain can last indefinitely, it can hit you when you least expect it. The pain of loss is a constant presence, like the threat of death itself. Grief has no set course, you may or may not feel the famous five stages of grief described by Elizabeth Kubbler-Ross. Grief ebbs and flows without predictability. The smallest detail can set you off into streams of tears or fits of rage.
Death arrives in different guises, at the end of a long life, before birth, by choice, by force, by mistake, planned, unexpected, painful, and peaceful. We have no power over death, and while it undoubtedly causes much loss it can also be transformative. Death can help you to recognise what is important and what isn’t, it can be a relief and an end to suffering, a graduation of a life well lived, death often brings renewal and an outpouring of love and support. These are some of the things to be grateful for despite the heartache.
We don’t talk enough about death and it creates solitude in grief and huge fear and anxiety about our own mortality. It’s two years today years today since my Dad died and I move from moments of zen-like acceptance to deep sadness, occasional anger, and then unshakeable guilt. I understand now that these are normal responses to loss. I wonder if we had more dialogue about death and more understanding could we alleviate some of the pain? Perhaps not, but if we weren’t so unkind to death, if we acknowledged it with the same reverence we afford life maybe it wouldn’t be so intolerable. Don’t wait until your own death or someone else’s is close by, embrace it now and learn some of what you can expect from death, learn about how it might make you feel. Talk about what you would want at your funeral and what your loved ones want at theirs. Think about how would you like to be remembered. By embracing death you can live a little lighter. Unburden yourself of some of the weight of death’s impending visit to your life and live a more purposeful life before it arrives.
I am acquainted with death, I’m not ready to forgive death yet but I’m willing to make friends with it if it makes me feel a bit better.
Natures notes is proudly written on and inspired by Dharawal Country. I recognise the Dharawal & Wodi Wodi custodians and ancestors who have an enduring connection to land, water and skies.
Always Was and Always Will be Aboriginal Land.
Thank you for (re)posting this, Anna. It's beautiful and wise.
Such an honest, raw and powerful piece of writing. Simultaneously beautiful and heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing.