h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

There really is no way to *deal* with grief. It's a mistake to assume that you can cure grief and go on with your life. Grief becomes a part of you, and in time, you learn to live with it.

My sister Elanor died four years ago. She was young - only nineteen - and lived her life as she wanted. I've always respected her for that. I don't respect the manner of her death - she had a car accident in Arizona, and because she wasn't wearing her seatbelt, died almost instantly. It makes me angry to think about it, and if I was ever to crusade any cause, it would be the mandatory wearing of seatbelts.

When she died, it felt like somebody had given me a lobotomy, or amputated a limb - I felt that my life was changed forever. That's really the meaning of grief - we mourn for the loss of the person from our existence, rather than their death. I will always feel the loss. I think about her every day. Sometimes I dream about her; usually happy dreams, when we were kids and on vacation with our parents. Sometimes the dreams are sad, and I wake up crying. I take every dream as a gift. Even if they're sad, I'd rather be dreaming about her.

How do you learn to live with a loss?

• First of all, realize that it's okay to cry. Crying helps you compartmentalize the pain. While you're crying, remember all the good times that you had, and try to cement the memories in your mind.

• Spend time in quiet reflection. This can be any activity from mowing the lawn to yoga to taking a jog around the neighborhood. Two years ago, I began to exercise faithfully three times a week, and I think this more than anything else has helped me to live with my grief. There's nothing like spending thirty minutes a day with nothing to do except distract yourself from how out of breath you feel; I spent it thinking about Elanor's death. Gradually, that shifted into thinking about what I was doing with my life, and whether I wanted to make any changes. It turned out I did - both mentally and physically, I think I'm a better person now. But as I told my dad last year, I'd rather be a raving bitch and have my sister back. It's not an even trade.

• Grieve with others who share your loss. For me, it was my parents. Neither my parents or I were capable of talking about Elanor for a long time after her death. I think it would have been better for us if we had started talking about it as soon as we could. It wasn't until two years ago that we could start talking about it openly, without breaking down in tears.

• Don't expect anything from yourself. Grieve as much as you feel like grieving. Don't force yourself to cry, or force yourself to stop crying. (In those awkward moments when you're in a public place, find a restroom quickly.)

• IMPORTANT!: Be very aware of your physical condition. In the first year after Elanor's death, I was sick with something at least once a month. Keep yourself hydrated, take your vitamins, and make sure your diet is well-rounded and has lots of green vegetables. This is good advice in any situation, but when you're grieving, your immune system is weakened, and you're susceptible to all sorts of things.

• Make sure that your friends know how you feel. Some might not be as understanding as you want them to be, and get upset when you don't communicate with them. Don't feel guilty or apologetic - just explain calmly that you're going through a period of grief, and you aren't yourself.

• Finally, realize that everything dies. This isn't a statement of gloom and despair; just a fact. With that knowledge, live the life that you want to be living NOW. Don't put it off until tomorrow - you might not have a tomorrow.

Thank you for posting such a moving entry. I lost my younger brother 11 years ago as well in a swimming accident; small world.

You are absolutely right. There is no ending, as such, to grief. Only coping. Right after Patrick's accident, I was filled with all sorts of grand notions about what life was going to be like, and my own role in it. I fancied myself a "bridge" between the dead and the living, because I felt as though, emotionally, I had a foot in both camps. I was alive, and yet a part of me wasn't anymore. I was reading the legend of Gilgamesh, and feeling poetic.

Years went by, and I wondered, "What happens now?" All those grand notions and feelings I was overflowing with seemed to just dissipate, leaving me with a feeling of suspension. I seemed to feel that I should have some sort of final answer, probably as a result of poetic excess early on. I wanted to know what answer I had decided on. The simple fact, I realized, is that this doesn't resolve, not here, not until I myself die and meet God. Meanwhile, there are no final "answers" to grief, just the mereness of day to day living with it. It used to bug me to no end when well-meaning Christian friends that I had known and worshipped with would come to me and ask me if my brother had converted before his death. As if that made the fact of his death any easier to bear. This "Jesus is the Answer" approach didn't make my questions go away. It just made me mad. I would get furious when they would speak of having a "broken heart before the Lord". I nearly decked one of them when he used those words in a Sunday School class shortly after Patrick's accident. I remember telling him that, no, he really did not want a broken heart, because I had one and it was hell. I was shaking with rage as I said it. I left the class before anything happened.

I digress. The things that helped me the most were simply being able to acknowledge my loss, talk about it, feel everything honestly, from rage at God to despair to fear (because you're quite right, grief is close cousin to fear. I've never slept quite as soundly since Patrick died.) In the end, the simple permission to be human is what I really needed the most, and the liberty to feel everything I felt. Outlets helped. Listening to the Who's "Love, Reign O'er Me" helped. Even telling God off helped, ultimately. Now I understand Him more intimately than before.

I haven't cried in 11 years, but I'm about to now. Thank you for such a moving post.

Writing some words for this forum was actually very difficult - it took me a couple of days to work up the courage, and to think of what to say. It's still hard to open up to people about how I feel. When people ask how I'm doing, they don't really want to know. Fortunately, the answer nowadays is 'good' or 'groovy,' which isn't true, but it's more true than it used to be, and is an answer that they'll feel comfortable with.

One thing a pastor said that I remember was that "People will tell you that this was God's will. They're wrong. This is just a tragedy. Bad things happen to good people." (or something to that effect - my memory is blurry around that time.)

You're very welcome - I'm glad that venting my emotions has done some good!