A Conversation with Grief: Part 2

“So, why is it no one ever really talks about death?” I looked over at Grief as we walked together across the field.

“That is a very good question,” he smiled, “it’s strange that people don’t because it’s going to happen to you all.”

“Yep,” I looked down at the daisies as we walked, suddenly aware of my own mortality, reminded of the song I’d listened to that morning about being buried and covered in daisies, I actually really liked the song.

“People try, I think,” he interjected, noticing I was clearly thinking about something else.

What do you mean?” I asked, as I turned my attention back to him.

“People try to talk about death, it creeps into song lyrics every now and again.”

I looked at him, slightly concerned that he could actually read my mind.

“Like that one by Evanescence, years ago.” he suggested.

“What, My Immortal? I haven’t heard that for ages.” I mused.

“Or Maroon 5, Memories,” he added.

“Oh yes, I like that” I grinned, “it gets played a lot at funerals”.

“Oh and Deathbed!” He really was on a roll now.

“Powfu?” I asked. “I find myself singing that but I’m no good at the rap bit..

‘I don't wanna fall asleep, I don't wanna pass away,

I been thinking of our future cause I'll never see those days,

I don't know why this has happened, but I probably deserve it.

I tried to do my best, but you know that I'm not perfect.

I been praying for forgiveness, you been praying for my health.

When I leave this earth, hoping you'll find someone else.’”

I tried my best sultry rapper/moody gangster impression.

“Yeah, I see what you mean about the rapping! He laughed.

“Oi, rude!” I laughed too as I pushed him away, playfully. “I didn’t ask for your opinion on my rapping skills, but I would like to know why you think death is so taboo as a topic of conversation.”

“Well,” he began, “I think, for a start, people don’t want to admit it happens, then some people think that if they talk about it, or if they get that life insurance or write their will then they going to kind of make it happen, or maybe like Powfu, they think that they deserve something that bad and that scares them.”

“Mmmm, yeah, I get that.” I sighed.

“What? You?” he questioned.

“Yeah, I used to more so, especially when the children were small.” I stopped.

“Say some more.” he invited, gently.

I was reluctant to explain, I felt vulnerable but I continued. “Well, writing the will was OK, I could separate the practical from reality, but being pregnant, knowing my grandma had died because of complications in childbirth, that freaked me out every time.” I looked at him, almost knowing what he was going to say.

“But you have seven children!” Grief exclaimed, with a look of disbelief.

“I know, and every time I have battled those fears. I’ve spent years trying to embrace the concept of death, but always with that lurking fear that if I did embrace it, try to understand more about it, then it would happen, sooner, to me, or one of the kids…I still have times when I’m more vulnerable to thinking like that.” I paused, not really sure what else to say.

“So what do you do with that?” It was his turn to try to understand.

“Well, I guess I find that like with most things, it’s the unknown that’s fearful, and so the more I can understand me, death or you, the less afraid I am.”

“That doesn’t work for everyone.” He argued.

“Maybe not, I don’t know.” I paused to think, “I’m not saying it’s the only answer, I guess I’m just aware that we’re so shielded from death, more often than not it happens behind closed doors, hidden away in a hospital or care home, we’re not exposed to death like the generations before us.”

“That’s true,” he agreed, “so what, you think people should actively seek to see it?”

“No, no!” I clarified quickly, “I just think, we should talk about it more, as a community, as a cultural thing, that’s all…so when it does happen, we’re less, I don’t know, alone with our…” I paused.

“What, with me?” he smiled knowingly but he looked hurt, unwanted.

“Yes, but that’s exactly my point, if people knew more about you, they’d know more of what to expect, of how they might feel, that it’s not all, completely awful.” I tried to recover the conversation.

“Nothing can prepare people for me.” He looked intently at me, his eyes full of tears, sad, as though he wished it was easier too.

“No I know but if they knew that other people knew you, that other people had experienced you, that they’re not the only ones to have sat crying with you in the middle of the night, or found themselves angry over something seemingly trivial, or felt guilty for laughing a joke, or just felt numb, or…”

“Or walked with me across fields confused because some days are actually OK?” he interrupted.

“Yeah, that too.” I smiled, relieved that he was smiling again too.

“So what now?” Grief asked.

“I don’t know, I guess we just keep talking.” I grinned, picked up a daisy and offered it to him.

He studied it and smiled. “Sure!”

By Deb Bridges (Director, Writer and Life Coach for Prodigal Collective)