My Journey Through Bereavement

A personal account of bereavement as experienced by a former member of Sunday Scene Breakfast Club. The writer prefers to remain anonymous but is happy to share his experiences in the hope that it will help others in a similar position.

My wife passed away nine months ago.  I was persuaded to start coming to the Hospice Open Day six months ago.  There are those currently attending who have been coming for much longer than I, others much less.  I thought it might be of help to others if I share my experience to date.  Not that it will be radically different to others, but, for those recently bereaved it may provide at least a little hope that, eventually, some relief from the pain of grief is a possibility.

As we walk through the doors of the Hospice Day Centre for the first time, mostly still in shock, getting through our daily routine on automatic pilot, bringing in with us that seemingly grey cloud that presses down upon us, we see no hope of release or easement from our grief.  My first reaction was one of surprise; surprise that there are others who are going through the same traumatic life changing experience; surprise that there are so many others. For all of us, man or woman, it takes a certain amount of courage to attend for the first time, particularly when it brings back all the memories of the times we spent together across the way (Hospice) with our loved one.  We are also entering a room full of strangers, not knowing quite what to expect, or indeed, what will be expected of us.

If we have determination to come again and we listen to others we learn a little of their experiences and perhaps relate to many of them.  We also discover, maybe for the first time, that there is a common bond that unites everyone in the room.  This was a real “find” for me and became the driving force which kept me coming along in subsequent weeks, so different from meeting with friends we had when we were a couple, for however sympathetic they may be they cannot possibly know how we feel, they are still a couple.  This was like the first faint chink of light seen darkly through a grey mist of grief. Maybe these people understand how I feel, my despair, my loneliness, my emptiness.

As each meeting passes, first the Open Day then the coffee mornings, we actually begin to draw strength from the group, enough strength to start talking to people again, albeit tentatively at first but at least, for a brief duration, we do converse, which is in stark contrast to the all-encompassing silence which descends once we go home and close the door behind us.

From the outset, this hesitant progress, if barely perceptible to others, could not have happened were it not for the skill, dedication and compassion of all the Hospice staff, in particular Susie and Peter as bereavement counsellors; the wonderful catering staff who provide the sustenance; the admin staff who arrange and organize; and, those of whom I was most aware from the first visit but did not expect to see, those fantastic volunteers.  They come time after time with welcoming smiles, words of comfort, a listening ear and a commitment to help others at which one can only marvel. My sincere thanks go to all those who have helped me to start out on this long road.

As the weeks went by I gained a little more confidence from my conversation with others, from group talks and discussions, from topics designed to help us, but of most help to me has been the simple invitation to join a small number of people for lunch after the coffee morning.  The credit for this must go to one of the group regulars, who asks if anyone is interested, suggests where to go, makes sure that all have transport.  My thanks go to her for giving such a lead when I was still in a hesitant state.  The most significant thing about this is not necessarily the people who come along, although it is great to have a meal out with those we already know, not is it where we go as it can be any convenient pub. No, it is the fact that it is a neutral location in which we as a group are part of the normal world again for a short time.

Looking back at my experience to date I see it as a series of stepping stones across an unknown and potentially dangerous river of grief and despair which is both dark and wide.  So wide, in fact, that I cannot see the other side, even on a good day.  Maybe the first stone, although not the worst because one foot remains on solid ground, is the invitation from the Hospice to attend Open House.  The next one is the first attendance – the most vulnerable one where water separates us from our “comfort zone” of solid ground.  Then the meeting of strangers and listening to their experiences, and so on. Strangely, as we start to take these steps slowly, we are surprised when we turn around and see behind us – we have actually started our hesitant, painful journey over this river of grief and despair.

Part way through these twice monthly events I am told, again by one of the group, of another group of people, all widows and widowers, who meet each week just for a cup of tea and a chat. They are not connected with the Hospice, although some came via that route. Others had lost partners in different circumstances, but all found comfort and help in the same two key factors, a common bond and neutral locations. So, courage needed for the next stepping stone in order to meet more strangers, but a bonus this time is of one or two familiar faces.  Once I start getting to know the people I also start to appreciate this most important feeling of sharing the same experiences, each of us able to relate to all the turmoil, roller coaster ride of emotions and mood swings of recent bereavement.  Although individuals progress at different rates we slowly move from the stages of numbness, despair and dejection to continue the journey across the seemingly un-crossable divide of grief.

As we continue to meet and get to know each other there is the occasional light-hearted banter and I actually realized I had been laughing – yes laughing. How odd that feels, how inappropriate in this grieving process, yet it felt good after so long, but at the same time I felt guilty for being able to laugh spontaneously at such an early stage on this journey.  It was, after all, only a brief moment in the scale of things but a first nevertheless.  It was not the same as the smile you put on when a friend asks how you are and the you smile and say, “Oh, I’m OK thanks.” There is no laughter behind that smile.

The group has grown so large that it has had to divide into two; those who are further along this journey and are ready and able to laugh a little more, and those more recently bereaved who need continued comfort and help so necessary in the early stages. The former group now do many activities other than the cups of tea and there is always something to suit everybody and no pressure to attend.  So well have we gelled that we laugh quite a lot, which has to be recorded as progress.  In fact, we could now well be called “the merry widows and widowers.”

In trying to summarise my journey thus far I can say without doubt that I know that I have traveled some distance from my starting point.  I am striding with more confidence over these stepping stones. Yes, the dark river of grief is still there below me and were I to stumble and fall from my intended path I would, no doubt, we swallowed up by its murky depths.  Similarly, during those lonely times behind closed doors tears still fall when least expected, but I have found a practical lifeline in the self help of individuals in this group.  If one of us is feeling a bit down another will phone, or suggest a trip out to lift the spirit again.

The Hospice and all its good people gave me the means by which I could take the first tentative step on this unknown pathway. I had to come to terms with the fact that my life has been turned upside down and never, never would things be the same again, the old comfortable life as a couple has gone for ever.  What I am starting to find now, dare I say it, is a different life, not a better one, just totally different, and I have to adjust to that difference.  The important point is that the journey is under way.  It is fraught with difficulties; it is not easy to negotiate the rough bits alone without the support of a life partner, but the journey has started and I have made some progress. No, I still cannot see the far side of this river or where the stepping stones will end.  Maybe I never will, but I can look back and see the distance I have covered.

My question is this. What is to happen to those people who will suffer the same trauma as we but, because their loved one did not pass through the hands of our beloved Hospice, will have no guide to help the find the stepping stones over which I am traveling?  These people will suffer the same as we did in the beginning and will see the same dark, deep river of grief stretching before them, but will not readily be able to see a means by which it may be crossed. How long and deep will be their despair.

I do not have an answer to the question. I hope that someone will provide one.  I do know that I consider myself truly blessed to have been led towards the means by which this dreaded of all foes can be fought.