We can’t grieve all the time
It’s nice to remember the light moments, too.
Eight years ago this week, my husband Jamie and I came home to discover a high-heeled shoe full of green M&M’s on our front porch. It was the best thing ever.
Also eight years ago this week, my dad passed away, suddenly and unexpectedly—as they say. In the span of less than a week, he was rushed to the hospital, diagnosed with cancer and kidney failure, admitted to hospice, and died. It was the worst thing ever.
Right now, I’m in the thick of my personal grief season—a heightened period of painful reminders and difficult anniversaries. It starts in late September, with my and Jamie’s wedding anniversary; October includes Jamie’s birthday; last Monday marked one year since I was in the mental hospital; and yesterday marked eight years since my dad’s death. After the holidays pass, there’s a final whammy: Jamie’s death date, on February 4.
As much as I appreciate writing about grief and am grateful for this newsletter, I’m tired of facing painful date after painful date. Lately, it feels like I’m bouncing from one difficult anniversary to the next, with not much breathing room or life in between.
Some of that might be due to this newsletter—because I write about grief, I give these heavy moments more reflection and weight than I might otherwise. I also suspect I’m feeling this way because I don’t have a ton of opportunities for lightness right now. My time away from work and family obligations is minimal, my options to go places with a still-unvaccinated child are limited, and my chances to recharge are scarce. It’s like I’m constantly holding my breath, with no break to exhale.
As I was bracing myself to face yet another grief anniversary, I remembered that the week of my dad’s rapid decline also included some especially sweet, funny, and meaningful moments. And this year—when I could use an extra dose of lightness—I’m choosing to reflect on those.
Which brings me back to the green M&M’s. Earlier that day, as Jamie and I were getting ready to return to the hospital to visit my dad, we ran into two of our friends, Nicki and Germain. They expressed their sadness and concern and offered to do anything that might help.
“I know that’s a ridiculous thing to say,” said Nicki. “Because nothing helps in a time like this.”
There was a second of silence, acknowledgment of how bleak things were. Then, Jamie broke it with a joke. “I want a high heel full of green M&M’s!” he shouted. He’d been reading a book that detailed the ridiculous demands that celebrities make in their backstage riders, which clearly influenced his request.
The four of us laughed, hugged, and heaved giant sighs. Then Jamie and I drove off to face yet another grueling day.
That night, we returned home, heartbroken and depleted—it was only a matter of time before my dad would die. And there, on our front porch, was one of Nicki’s high heels, full of green chocolates. While we had spent the day saying goodbye to my pops, Nicki and Germain split a bag of Christmas-edition M&M’s, eating all of the red ones.
The bizarre and unexpected sight made Jamie and I laugh until our sides hurt. It was a moment of levity that was needed so much more than we realized.
There were many other magical moments that happened eight years ago. A ragtag group of musicians donated their time so that we could hold a second-line procession after my dad’s funeral, delighting neighbors as we marched through the streets. A friend brought over homemade chicken and dumplings, a meal so delicious and comforting that I can still taste it. People offered stories and memories of my pops, which my mom, brother, and I greedily received. My dad’s students—he was a middle school art teacher—filled his classroom doors with drawings and messages of love.
I can list many moments of lightness from all of the darkest periods I’ve faced. Just like I remember the vivid details of each tragedy, I can also clearly recall all of the ways that people reached out to help. I remember the fancy tube of waterproof mascara that my friend Kristen gifted me ahead of Jamie’s funeral. I recall the delicious pastries that my buddy Kathryn delivered to my house the weekend after my dog, Henry, died. I can still picture the colorful flowers that my fellow new-mom friends sent following my stay at the mental hospital.
Each of these moments, however fleeting, brought me joy. Even days after a major loss, when I was racked and raw and stunned by grief, I felt glimmers of lightness thanks to the thoughtfulness of others. And I will be forever grateful for that.
The gifts themselves—the makeup and pastries, flowers and meals, stories and shoes full of candy—were thoughtful and special, but the greater gift was how they made me feel. They reminded me, in my deep despair, that I am loved and that there is plenty more in life worth living for.
Sooner or later, we discover that it’s impossible to grieve all of the time. We can’t withstand it, physically or mentally. At some point, we need an opportunity to breathe, to laugh, to set down our heavy burdens. We can, and will, pick our sorrows back up, but every once in a while, we need a break.
My dad was a joyful person. He had a deep, hearty laugh and an even deeper appreciation for making others happy. He would have loved that story of the green M&M’s. He would have loved all of the ways that people reached out to offer his wife, son, and daughter bits of joy, even amid our incredible sorrow. And I bet he’d love that I’m reflecting on those happy moments this year, not just the awfulness of losing him.
In Learning to Walk in the Dark, Barbara Brown Taylor writes, “There is a light that shines in the darkness, which is only visible there.”
On any other day, the light gifts I experienced during dark times could easily have been sweet but ultimately forgettable moments. But because they happened in times of deep sorrow, they’re seared into my memory. I can’t tell you what I ate for dinner two Mondays ago, but I’ll never forget the salmon pasta that my friend Alexios brought over the Monday after Jamie died.
Being alive means that we will lose the people we love and that, one day, we will die too. It also means that, up to that final point, we will encounter endless moments of lightness amid the darkness, opportunities to breathe when we need them most.
Those times deserve to be remembered, too.
xoxo KHG
p.s. Tell me about a light moment you experienced in a dark time. Is there a special gift, work of wisdom, or heartfelt action that has stuck with you? Was there something, like the high heel full of M&M’s, that made you laugh despite your sorrow? Share your stories by replying to this email, sending me a message, or leaving a comment below.
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Thank you, Lance! I heard back from many of you who put my get-shit-done tips into action last week. It makes me happy imagining all of us using tomato timers and taking lots of well-earned breaks. Here’s to working smarter, not harder.
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My Sweet Dumb Brain is written by Katie Hawkins-Gaar. It’s edited by Rebecca Coates, who encourages you to reach out today to someone who is grieving. Even if it's been months or years since their loss—chances are that it will mean a lot to that person to feel acknowledged.
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This one made me laugh cry :) I've had so many moments on that grief roller coaster but two always stand out for me. After my dad died, I remember, me and my sister at the funeral home saying to one another how it was interesting or odd (I don't remember the exact words) that everyone was crying so much. And it wasn't because we didn't understand the pain of grief. We were also devastated. But we looked at each other and said "well, that's not really him in there.... he's (and we both looked up toward heaven)" and then started cracking up. I'm sure it was an odd sight to others but ever since then, I look for those moments in times of extreme sadness. Another time, I will never forget, is immediately after my mom died, within hours of me calling two of my best friends in the middle of the night, they immediately hopped in the car and drove four hours to just be with me... not fuss, or tell me how to feel, just to be present.
There was the scallop casserole given in November - a month one usually cannot do scallops. Our priest came over immediately with communion which we we administered to each other, my husband and I, out on our deck overlooking the lake. After our 33 year old daughter died unexpectedly, we were flooded with cards, calls, visits, food, flowers two funerals. There was tangible love. I changed from that love. WE are changed forever. Her life gave us and others new meaning. She was a special light, and that light burns again, in a changed view of God and the world. Last autumn was a blur. This autumn, as I can now see nature, her light is everywhere.