Surviving a Loss

“Grief is a sneaky thing.” This is a line from the best book I have ever read on how to get through the grieving process, no matter how tiny or profound the loss may be. Once upon a time, it was a thin little paperback titled How To Survive the Loss of a Love or 57 Things to Do When There is Nothing to Be Done. In the years since I first bought this book, it has been expanded and reissued until it has become a classic. I have given away so many copies; I don’t even have one of my own.

The book is compassionate, practical, instructive, and humorous. Its authors are Melba Colgrove, a psychologist; Harold Bloom, a physician; and Peter McWilliams, a very funny poet. When I first read it, I didn’t realize it was a somewhat simplified encapsulation of Katherine Kubler Ross’s stages of grief. Sometimes, simple is better—easier to grasp and remember, especially when one is in pain.

In How to Survive the Loss of a Love, there are three principal stages of grief: shock/denial, anger/depression, and acceptance/healing. When I’m trying to get through a loss, I can always identify the exact stage I’m going through. What I’ve learned is that these are not tidy, sequential stages I can tick off one at a time until I arrive at “healing.” Grieving is a messy process. Sometimes, I skip a stage and then have to double back and go through it later. Even more frustrating are the times when I think I’ve completed a stage and then find I’m temporary stuck there or have to return to experience it yet again.

If the grieving process can be simply categorized into three stages, loss itself is not so easily defined. The book is mis-titled in my opinion. It isn’t only a lost love one grieves for; it is any loss, and there are many in life. I attended a discussion on the subject of loss and was once again amazed at how many perspectives there are on this little word. This discussion covered losses ranging from divorce and death to family, friendships, aging, and physical abilities.

We probably could have sat there for hours, adding to our observations and recollections. Some losses were long past and faded with time; others were fresh wounds. It was an emotional conversation colored by compassion, caring, and concern for each other.

I came away with three realizations: There is love and support to help us survive the losses life throws our way. Yet, even with support, grief is a do-it-yourself process. It is a road each of us must travel alone. Finally, it is comforting to know we will make it to the end of the road, changed in some way, but healed nonetheless.

I'll take the elevator

I was at Borders yesterday, looking for a particular book. Instead of rambling all over the place, like most Borders stores, my Borders is a narrow, two-story affair. The book I wanted, of course, turned out to be on the second floor. “Follow me. I’ll show you where it is.” the salesperson offered and began bounding up the stairs. “Um, I’ll have to take the elevator,” I said. She joined me, graciously insisting I was saving her a trip.

The reason I balked at the sight of the steps is not important. What is important was my embarrassment at having to admit to someone that those stairs were going to be a problem. I’m sure that dozens of people take the elevator every day. That’s why they have one. Since the passage of The Americans With Disabilities Act (ADA), every place of business must be “handicapped accessible.” That law has made it possible for people with disabilities to go places and do things they had never been able to in the past.

I know a lot about disabilities and ADA. I learned from disability agencies, advocates, and activists. I wrote training programs and books on the subject. I was educated and enlightened … in a distant sort of way. The law was passed in 1990—twenty years ago. I was in pretty good shape in 1990, running and swimming and engaged in lots of physical activities. I guess I thought I would always be able to do those things.

I remember when I was learning about disabilities, I became friends with people I would never even have met under other circumstances. These experiences opened up my eyes to a world I hadn’t known existed. I was fortunate to be introduced to the disability community in the way I was, but I knew that for many people the sudden appearance of people with disabilities was disconcerting. They didn’t know how to act. They were uncomfortable. It took me a while to understand why.

While some people are born with disabilities, many are not. Accidents, illnesses, war, and age create them—sometimes suddenly, sometimes gradually. But we all know we are vulnerable. Anyone, no matter how healthy and strong, can become disabled. It’s a scary thought and one most of us try to avoid.

Here I am twenty years older than when I began writing about a subject that touched me intellectually and emotionally, but not empathetically. I didn’t really understand then, but I do now. I haven’t had an accident or a degenerative illness; I have just aged. And with age have come some limitations. One of them is the inability to negotiate stairs without becoming short of breath and feeling my knees pop with every step.

So, I take the elevator. But as I’m writing this, I’m finding myself asking, so what? What’s the big deal? Why was I embarrassed.? Why is that tiny event still on my mind?

I’m not sure I know the answers, but I do know this: If that’s the worst thing that ever happens to me, I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life that I can get where I need to go by simply stepping on an elevator.