Waves of Grief

Death and grief have their way with us in life. They change us. These beautiful thoughts from an old man ring true and bring comfort.

When Asked for Advice on How to Deal with Grief, This Old Man Gave the Most Incredible Reply


Someone on reddit wrote the following heartfelt plea online:

“My friend just died. I don’t know what to do.”

Many people responded with words of encouragement, but one response in particular, by an older gentlemen, really stood out from the rest…

Alright, here goes. I’m old. What that means is that I’ve survived (so far) and a lot of people I’ve known and loved did not. I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here’s my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter”. I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love.

So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.


In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out.

But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.


Was this you in This Is Us season premiere?

For those of us who have lived with an alcoholic, the storyline of Jack, the beloved father, and his wife, Rebecca, in This Is Us will be hauntingly familiar. In this scene when Jack confesses to Rebecca – “I’m drunk right now. I’ve been drunk for weeks” – she’s not just heartbroken, she’s shocked.

Have you ever been asked: ‘How long was he drinking? Didn’t you know?’ Yes, we eventually discover their secret, but at first we second guess our senses: I must be mistaken. It can’t be. My husband was a social drinker. How would I know when that first drink wasn’t social, but medicinal? How many of us know when the alcoholism began?  To this day, almost nine years after Robert’s death, I still try to pinpoint when he slipped from a Scotch with dinner, to sneaking in Scotch before breakfast. I’ve constructed timelines, and re-read a decade of day planners. My mind constantly rewinds snippets of yesteryear: the thud of his car trunk being closed in the dead of night; never being without his backpack; overdoing the mints and mouthwash. When did all the secrecy and deceit begin?

For those of you who don’t watch This Is Us, please watch this scene. It was validating for me, I wonder if it will be for others.  His wife hasn’t yet realized the enormity of it all; it’s a ‘drinking problem’ not alcoholism. “I know you’re not an alcoholic.” To which Jack replies: “You don’t know everything about me. I’m drunk right now. I have been drunk all day. I’ve been drunk for weeks. And I thought I had it under control like the first time, but I have a problem, Rebecca. And I’ve hidden it from you for a very long time. And I’ve hidden it from the kids. And I need to get a handle on it before I walk back into that house. I’m sorry, baby. I’m very embarrassed. And I am very sorry. I need to fix this, on my own.”

Rebecca takes Jack home, vowing, “If you have a problem, we will fix it together.” Most of us have learned it’s impossible to fix someone else’s problem. But I didn’t always know that. And Rebecca’s shock and innocence was validating as I recalled my own.


Starring Alcoholism


Alcoholism shows up on the movie screen, in TV shows, the pages of books and for some of us, in our lives. For those who have lived with an alcoholic, these words may sound hauntingly familiar.

“I don’t know if I started drinking ’cause my wife left me or my wife left me ’cause I started drinking.” ~Ben Senderson, played by Nicholas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas.

He came with his date…alcoholism.~Tina Fey’s character, Liz Lemmon, talking about her father on the TV show 30 Rock.

In The Lost Weekend, Helen is in love with Don. “I know you’re trying, Don. We’re both trying. You’re trying not to drink and I’m trying not to love you.”

Don’s brother, Wick, talking to Helen:  “Who are we fooling? We’ve tried everything, haven’t we? We’ve reasoned with him. We’ve baited him. We’ve watched him like a hawk. We’ve tried trusting him. How often have you cried? How often have I beaten him up? Scraped him out of a gutter and pumped some kind of self-respect into him and back he falls, back in every time.” The Lost Weekend

Everything seemed possible over a beer. ~Pete Hamill, A Drinking Life

In the film, Flight, Denzel Washington plays ‘Whip’ Whitaker, an airline pilot. Before appearing in front of a Hearing Committee, he gets some advice: “Remember, if they ask you anything about your drinking, it’s totally acceptable to say ‘I don’t recall.'” Whip responds:  “Hey, don’t tell me how to lie about my drinking, okay? I know how to lie about my drinking. I’ve been lying about my drinking my whole life.”

Later in Flight, Whip tells the Committee:  “I’m drunk right now, because I’m an alcoholic.”

In the film 28 Days, Gwen, played by Sandra Bullock, ruins the wedding of her sister, Lily, by giving a rambling drunken speech, knocking over the wedding cake and stealing the limo. Lily tells her: “Gwen, you make it impossible to love you.”

From the film, My Name is Bill W, the story about the founders of a support group that became the basis for Alcoholic Anonymous. When asked by his wife, Lois, why he drinks, Bill responds: “I found that a drink…a few drinks…makes me feel comfortable. Like I always want to feel. Gives me courage…to be with people…do things…to dream. The money, the success, the respect, it was all good for a while, but it never seemed enough. I always want…doubles of everything to make me feel alive, worthwhile inside. And then… it all began to slip away. I feel cheated. Angry. Always so full of fear. So I drank… more… and it makes it okay for a while. I convince myself that things will turn around tomorrow. Soon. That I’ll make it all up for you, but it only gets worse. I…I keep promising you…others, myself, that’s it, no more, going on the wagon, THAT’S IT! And I think I mean it, but…but the guilt…and the depression…I can’t look in a mirror…or at you… especially…especially at you. I’ve stopped believing in everything. People. God. Myself. I know it sounds insane, Lois, but in spite of all this, what I want right now more than anything else…is another drink.”

Life After an Alcoholic Husband

Alcoholism segued subtly into our marriage, stealthlike, until it was everything in our lives. Now, years after my husband’s passing from alcoholic hepatitis, a glance in the rear view mirror.

  • I don’t anticipate with dread what I’ll find when I come home.
  • My basement no longer smells like Scotch. And urine.
  • I sleep through the night.
  • Broken promises and lies are no longer the norm.
  • I’m not constantly making excuses.
  • The tension in my neck and shoulders has disappeared.
  • I finally, finally realize that there was nothing more I could have done about his drinking.
  • Constant worry has been replaced with tranquility.
  • I live in the present, no longer haunted by ‘what if’ scenarios.
  • Chaos has been replaced with happiness.
  • There is nothing I miss about life with an alcoholic.

Selling His Stuff


The trio of 8″ inch tall plastic dolls that Kellogg’s issued in the 1960s—Snap, Crackle and Pop—guard my kitchen from an overhead shelf, next to a Bluto Pez dispenser. My late husband was a collector: Hollywood kitsch, World’s Fair memorabilia, Atomic Age toys. Robert would return from Saturday morning bike rides laden with yard-sale finds; or pull into the driveway with a trunk load of purchases, the result of having scoured the aisles at a flea market or a World’s Fair show. But not everything seemed valuable, at least to my eyes. Besides vintage pens and antique tins, his haul might include an ugly gardening pot, that odd rocking chair, those tasteless orange Playboy Club ashtrays—and anything Disney. I’d greet him at our side door like a customs inspector: “No junqué beyond this point!”


Now, eight years after Robert’s passing, I’ve begun to sell his stuff. Sorting through the items elicits reflection. They are a throwback to the good days, before Alcoholic Robert took up residence. A rebirth. Those last few years, when alcoholism hijacked our lives, often overshadow all the good years. And all the good. Sometimes it’s a story or picture that triggers memories; other times, it’s his collectibles.

Back then, Robert would joke about the value of his stuff, usually in response to my questioning the clutter. It was one of our sweet and silly routines.

“In this box,” he’d proclaim, “are my Huckleberry Hound lunchbox and thermos. They’re easily worth the price of our next Broadway tickets!”

I’d raise a quizzical eyebrow.

“This box here,” holding up a collection of MatchBox cars—including the Batmobile—in its vintage car case, “This is our next vacation!”

“Domestic or international?”

Ignoring my question, he’d continue.  “And in this box? All my original GI Joe’s, plus accessories. This is our summer home!”

“Where’s the box that will let me quit my job?”

“There is no box.”

We’d both laugh. Despite his estimates, inflated for entertainment value, I was surprised at some of the prices of those collectibles, and well aware that he’d never sell his treasures.

But now I am.

My goal:  clear space and make money. It’s a huge undertaking. While there are a few pieces I’ll keep for sentimental value (Snap, Crackle, Pop and a few World’s Fair souvenirs), the bulk of it is getting posted on ebay.  It’s time. I’m ready to de-clutter and send these pop culture artifacts back out into the world for another collector to keep.


Once I make a sale, I mention my late husband’s passion and his eye for a gem in my shipping confirmation email. To my surprise, many buyers have responded with assurances that the treasure has found the right home, and provide additional background about their latest acquisition. Reading between the lines, I sense their excitement about their find. I feel like a matchmaker, connecting eager collectors to that missing piece in their collection. Making a sale isn’t always about getting the best price, but finding the best person whose passion for the item matches Robert’s.

After selling a rare 1939 World’s Fair wooden box with an etching of the fair’s symbol, the Trylon and Perisphere, I received this message:

“Rest assured it is going to someone who shared your husband’s collecting passion!” Lenny (trylon39)

Robert would like that.


A Hopeful New Year


Unlike any other time of the year, the end of December pressures us to take stock. Looking back is painful. Looking ahead is scary. Whether your loss was last month or ten months ago, it feels fresh now.  But remember, you have an incredible resource, YOU.


Surviving the loss of your partner is one of the most difficult challenges you will face. Whatever the circumstances, you’ve gone through an emotional upheaval. And though you may not know it, you’re moving on. Perhaps you don’t want to hear that phrase ‘moving on’? It may sound trite, like a section heading in a bereavement brochure. But the truth is you are moving on.

When it comes to loss, you’ll discover a few universal truths. Perhaps the most relevant today, as we contemplate the year ahead, is this well-worn phrase:  time heals. Yes, it’s cliché. It’s also true. From one widow to another, I can tell you that each month felt different, that a week made a difference…though sometimes I didn’t realize that week was better until a month later. Slowly but steadily, my grief changed. It wasn’t as suffocating. It stopped greeting me first thing in the morning, and eventually wasn’t the last thing on my mind before I succumbed to sleep. While there are no rules or timelines for grieving – and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise – as the days and weeks and months pass, healing takes place.



I wish all my widowed friends a hopeful new year. Let your memories bring you comfort. Find the strength to pursue new dreams. Make it a point to find joy in every day. Don’t be shy to cry, don’t feel guilty when laughing, be good to yourself, you deserve it.



Good Grief, It’s the Holidays


The last thing you want to do is celebrate, but it’s everywhere. Office parties. Family gatherings. Friendly get-togethers. Is the scent of balsam making you teary? Does the sound of sleigh bells have you pining for seasons past? We can’t stop Christmas from coming, but we can cope. Here are a few tips to tackle the holiday season.

Take Charge & Step Down – If you’ve been hosting Christmas Eve or Hanukkah these past few years and have no desire to do so this year, reach out to family members – they may be shy to ask if you’re up to the task, but happy to help.

Shake It Up & Host – For those who haven’t been hosting, this year might be the time to step up. Sound crazy? Not really. For some, being busy is half the battle; preparing and cooking is a much-needed distraction. Plus, you’re in control when the gathering is on your own turf, making the get-together during this difficult time more palatable.

The White Lie – Perhaps your mind is set on no party. While others may be dreaming of a big white Christmas there’s no reason you can’t tell a little white lie. I did. It was the first Easter after Robert had passed and I felt like being alone. I told friends I’d be with family; and told my family I’d be with friends. Easy peasy. I had a quiet day alone, went to the gym, cooked my favorite foods and binged on TV in comfy clothes. The day passed painlessly and without a hint of pity. Avoid the awkwardness of being on the receiving end of an invitation you know you’re going to decline by having your alibi ready. If you stammer an ‘Oh, I don’t know…’ the good-natured inviter may pressure you into a ‘Yes.’

Find Comfort in Common – Reach out to other widows/ers, perhaps you kept in touch with members of your bereavement group. Meeting up with others in the same situation can be an oasis in the midst of holiday hell. There’s no pressure to be jolly and a mutual understanding about the challenges of the season can be therapeutic.

Pamper Yourself – If ever the rejuvenating and calming effects of a spa day were needed, it’s now. Go!

Let Yourself Spree – Indulge. A bit of financially responsible self-gifting might help ease the holidays. A pair of great boots. Maybe a makeover. Upgrade your cable.

Refresh – Don’t be afraid to start new traditions. Now more than ever, you may welcome that sense of newness. Initiate a Day-After-Christmas-Dinner at a favorite restaurant. Perhaps it’s time for a scaled down tree? Or replace the tree with poinsettia plants and some funky new house decorations.


Holiday Health – If you see a therapist, schedule an extra session or two during the holidays to help alleviate any added pressures of the season.

Home Alone? – You don’t have to stay home. Go to the movies. Plan a museum visit. Volunteer.

The Great Outdoors is Calling – There’s something about being cooped up inside that wreaks havoc on our mood. Get out. Take a walk. Go for a run. Bike. Let Mother Nature have her way with you.

Get Cozy – When you are inside, make sure your home is comfortable, uncluttered, clean and filled with good food, including healthy as well as not-so-healthy treats. ’tis the season.

Be Accepting – Your inner circle wants to help – let them. Accept offers of help with your holiday shopping, babysitting, cooking, dog walking, snow shoveling.

Be A Gracious Guest – If you feel ready, say ‘yes’ when asked out to dinner, for a drink, to a party. Please try.

Be Good – Get involved with a volunteer organization. Offer to help a sick friend. Find time to spend with an elderly neighbor. Do good, feel good.

Remember – When you’re with friends and family, stories inevitably are told and retold. Share memories of your loved one. Say their name. Tell their stories. Feel their presence. It will help all of you through your grief.