Grief hits our body with the force of a dump truck, leaving us feeling battered and achy for months. Every morning we wake up, remember that our loved one is dead, and the truck runs over us again. Grief is visceral, yet its impact on the body is often ignored.
C.S. Lewis wrote that dealing with grief was like adjusting to life with one leg amputated. He said our whole way of living changes, and that while we may get around pretty well, we will probably walk with a limp and have recurrent pain for the rest of our life. After his wife died, Lewis didn’t think he would ever walk smoothly again.
We are body-mind-soul, and each part of us feels grief.
Our encounter with grief is so powerful, so eye-popping, that we are sure people can tell what has happened by looking at us. We feel physically different, rearranged somehow, and we stand in front of a mirror to see if we can detect the changes. Yet, as overwhelming as the experience is, as transforming as it feels, we see little difference on the surface of our skin. Our eyes, though, tell a different story.
Louise Gluck referred to her experience with grief as being transfigured, feeling that she existed more as spirit than in her body.
When my wife died, I physically felt detached from my body. I was cold all the time, food tasted like sawdust, and the roses in our yard had no scent. As the first impact of death faded, my senses began to return, but it would take a long time for sensual feelings to rekindle. Unlike many widowers, I didn’t seek the comfort or diversion of sex, and I wouldn’t have any interest in dating for two years.
A number of grieving friends said that people thought they were back to being okay because they were smiling again, but underneath they were still being torn apart by anger, despair, sorrow, and loneliness.
At a time when my mind and heart were in shock, my body knew what I needed and I went hiking in the mountains of Yosemite. I slept when I was tired, ate when hungry, sat by wild rivers and listened to their water flowing by. I watched the sun rise from the darkness, travel across the sky, and set. Slowly I began to enjoy birds singing, chipmunks playing, and felt the wonder of nature around me.
A year into grief, I visited my friend Judy. Her husband had passed away three years before, and both of us ended up widowed in our forties. She was getting remarried and I could see the excitement in her eyes, but there was also a lingering edge of sadness. Throughout the afternoon she shared her insights about grief, but all I needed was to see her eyes. They told me that I would survive, that I could love someone else, if I chose, and that I would always grieve the loss of Evelyn.
People came to my house to see how I was doing and hugged me. At a time when words held little meaning, their physical contact let me know that I was still part of the community. Their presence helped me move grief out of my head and into my body where emotions and tears could be expressed. They brought warm food to eat, wine to drink, and walked with me around the neighborhood.
Sometimes compassion isn’t spoke with words, but through touch.
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