This Year, I’m Giving Myself the Gift of Grief
I’m done crying over gingerbread houses
Today, my appointment ended with tears. And I mean full-on sobbing. After months of meeting with my therapist, she finally cracked me. And honestly, I don’t think either of us saw it coming.
Some innocuous conversation had prompted her to ask me about my grandparents. But before I could even utter the word “Baba”, I’d dissolved into a weeping wreck.
In the many sessions before this, we had extensively covered topics including childhood trauma, sexual assault, debilitating self-hatred, and other unpleasant experiences. Yet none of those appointments rocked me quite like this one.
Breaking between tears, I explained that my Ukrainian grandmother had passed away 7 years ago from congenital heart failure. My therapist gave me a moment to catch my breath before hitting me with the next question.
“Do you think you’re at the point you should be in the grieving process?”
My response? A flat and shameful “No.” I am not unaware that I have fallen behind in the pursuit of healing. I’m always the one who has to leave the room when someone mentions her name. Last summer, my boyfriend pointed out a shirt that had “Baba’s Favourite” written on it. I broke into tears in the middle of the market. I know I’m a mess.
She followed up with: “How often do you take time to grieve?”
Take time to grieve? Her words echoed in my head as I pondered over her question. Lady, I barely have enough time to make dinner!
The only response I had was a tally of things I do to keep my Baba’s spirit “alive.” I explained that I keep a picture of her on display in my kitchen, try to mirror her compassion for others, and work hard to uphold Ukrainian traditions in our family — just as she did.
My therapist gently pointed out that those are great ways to honor her legacy, but not grieve the loss of her. (In retrospect, that seems obvious to me now.) I thought about it a little more until I finally had an answer for her.
“Well,” I sniffled. “I make a gingerbread house for her every year.”
During one of our last Sunday night phone calls, I told my Baba that my partner and I were building a gingerbread house. I was utterly shocked when she admitted that she’d never made one before. I promised her that “next year”, I would bring a kit over so we could make one together.
She passed away before that time could come.
Now, my partner and I make a gingerbread house for her every Christmas. We decorate it as nicely as we can (we’re still trash at it) and surround it with memorial candles.
I cry every time a stupid graham cracker door falls down, or the icing droops off the shingles in an unsightly manner.
And, yeah, that just about sums up my mourning process; once a year, over a dumb pile of cardboard sugar.
Evidently, this was not an effective way to mourn.
We both agreed that this was not enough for me to move forward. Clearly, I had latched onto the idea that “time heals all wounds” so I wouldn’t have to face my bereavement head-on.
I can pinpoint the moment I resigned myself to the concept; it was just minutes after the funeral service had ended. Strangers, friends, and family members passed on their condolences as I stood dazedly in the receiving line.
Then, a pair of hands tugged desperately at my own, as if trying to pull me out from the proverbial fog. I focused on a familiar face, her eyes piercing through mine with the utmost sincerity.
“It gets better,” she pleaded. “I promise.”
This cliché sentiment wouldn’t have meant much to me if it had come from anyone else. But this particular friend had lost her mother recently, so her words were invaluable to me at the time. That being said, I now realize that she left out a notable caveat — it gets better, if you do the work.
So today the work begins — with a simple coping strategy.
Following my therapist’s directions, I’ve gathered all of my Baba’s pictures and heirlooms, and placed them in a box. The plan is to set aside just 20 minutes a day to wallow in my grief. I will wade through her photos, notes, jewelry, and trinkets until my time is up. Then, the box will go back in the closet, and I will move on with my day (after doing something calming to recalibrate.)
And I will continue to do this until I no longer need to. The idea is that, with every confrontation, the blow will soften. It probably won’t heal every hurt; there are a lot of compounding factors that made losing my Baba so hard. But, maybe, I won’t burst into tears at the sight of some tacky T-shirt.
I realize it might be hard to uphold this new habit during the Christmas season, but I know once the holiday is over, I can’t afford to make anymore excuses. It’s a tough gift that I’ll have to open repeatedly. But I’m looking forward to healing.
Delayed grief is a slow, patient killer.
I think most people understand that our time is limited, and that we need to make the most of our relationships before they’re taken from us. The problem is more-so that we forget.
But once those loved ones are gone, do most people know how necessary it is to mourn? Sure, they probably realize that they’ll feel grief. But do they understand that it’s not just an inevitable emotion, but a vital action?
Because I sure didn’t. But in reflecting on my experience, I’m reminded of a Zen proverb I used to recite often:
“You should sit in meditation for 20 minutes a day. Unless you’re too busy, then you should sit for an hour.”
I think something similar can be said about grieving. In my case, I was too busy (socially, physically, emotionally) to grieve more than once a year. I didn’t know how to balance the stressors of my life with the need to heal — which alone should have been an indication that I was due for some serious emotional venting.
Every time I disassociated from my pain to prioritize some other task, I should have known that I was creating a habit (and lifestyle) that would never serve me. If anything, that mindset was slowly destroying me.
So, reader, take it from me: grief is not on a timer. It’s not something you can simply wait out. You’ll have to face it eventually.
And the sooner, the better.
