There’s a meme that keeps surfacing in some online groups that says “Grief lasts longer than sympathy.” Maybe I’m misunderstanding the sentiment, but it feels like the author would like sympathy to last longer.
Not me. Not sympathy.
Empathy? Yes. Acceptance? Yes. Patience? If you have it to spare. Not sympathy, though.
In my world (and I’m only speaking for myself, about death), sympathy is the early, human response to someone else’s loss. It’s necessary and usually genuine, but short-lived, and I think that’s okay. Sympathy arrived with the coroner and lieutenant that afternoon and continued for weeks. Months, in some cases. People brought love and hugs, food and paper products, advice and gentle words, trees and flowers and memorial checks. It’s what we do.
And, in the natural order of things, people eventually get back to life—as we should.
Grief doesn’t stop there, but it’s okay that sympathy does. It’s really okay.
The sea of grief is vast—no land in sight, only waves that threaten to drown us broken by the occasional still water. In the place of sympathy, we grasp for lifelines—empathy, acceptance, patience.
This week, masks became optional in our school. I’ve kept mine on most of the time. Here’s the thing—my pre-pandemic face and my After face aren’t the same. Much has changed since I first donned a mask. Sure, my eyes-gone-flat (yeah, I’m aware) and often teary have been visible all along, but what’s remained hidden by my security blanket mask is the tentative-at-best smile. Maybe, when the mask is on, people can’t tell that it is physically hard to smile. For months, trying to force a smile brought tears. I know it sounds crazy; it felt crazy. Now, I don’t cry when I try to smile; it either happens or it doesn’t. I don’t enjoy wearing a mask, but in some ways, it’s made my days easier. Sympathy doesn’t moderate mask craziness. The thought of baring my face, of exposing that much more of my life, my sorrow, my ravaged existence to my students and coworkers? That’s a big ole wave moving toward me. Patience, please.
A beloved told me she can tell I’m healing. Maybe I am, but I feel entirely too shattered to also feel healed. Humpty Dumpty has nothin’ on me. Still, I responded that I do feel myself changing. More than healing, I feel myself morphing into a different version of myself, growing around my grief, incorporating my grief. Learning to live with it. My grief seems here to stay, and it’s changing me. Acceptance for Tonya of After, please.
I’m not sure this version of Tonya will be recognizable. We’ve already addressed the morose face issue lurking behind the mask, but it’s much more than my downturned mouth and lined cheeks, the dimple that now shows even when I don’t smile. The differences I feel developing aren’t surface changes. I want to help people; I want to make a difference. I want to prevent tragedies like Cooper’s and so many others. It keeps happening, over and over. Next week, our school has wellness day. We offer different sessions in several classrooms, and students attend the sessions they feel are most relevant to their lives. We will also have an all-school assembly with a speaker from AFSP. I will be their “school person” that day. Do I expect it to be an easy day? Nope. Am I proud to help however I can? Absolutely. Will I cry in front of people? Who cares. Maybe my openness can help ONE student. I look at wellness day as still water with the possibility of a riptide.
It’s so easy to feel lost and alone in this sea, but we aren’t alone. I am not alone. I know some excellent swimmers—human life preservers—who are willing to swim in my water, to buoy me when I forget to tread water or float. I’m less afraid of the sea than I was when I first fell overboard. I’m learning to swim, to ride the waves, to flip onto my back and float when I just don’t have the strength to do anything but breathe. And when I can’t even float? I have experienced, encouraging swim coaches. Empathy at its finest.
Start with a meme, end with a song? One of my favorite songs and charter member of my “Feel Better” playlist is “Even If,” by Mercy Me. It’s my driving home, sing along, cry until I feel better, maybe smack the steering wheel song on my darkest days. In Sunday school recently, we talked about music that helps us, and I mentioned this song. Mid-song, the lyrics say, “Give me the strength, to be able to sing, it is well with my soul.” I’m okay with that part, but am still working on being able to sing the last line, “It is well, it is well, with my soul.” Honestly, IT is not well with my soul. Not yet, but I’m working on it. I’ve never worked harder at anything. I don’t need (or want) sympathy at this point. This is the life I’ve been given, and I’ll live it. With empathy, acceptance, and patience, I’ll live it, one day at a time.
Woods Writes 