Endurance

Many years ago, we learned some startling news that a close family member had received a terrible medical diagnosis – one of the dreaded few that many of us fear as we age. We were all shocked and saddened and deeply concerned.

As doctors explored the nature of the illness, they sought to answer our most nagging questions, “How serious is his condition?” “How rapidly is this progressing?” After much examination, the doctor returned with good news – the best you’d want to hear in these circumstances. He said, “He’ll die with this condition, not from it.” Phew. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

 I think of that assessment now and apply it to grief. I’ll die with it, not from it. In this case, though, it doesn’t feel particularly reassuring.

I'll start with the latter part of that statement. I won’t die from grief. That’s hard to believe in the darkest moments. Because How will I survive this? is the only thing that loops incessantly in your brain for a very very long time.

Grief turned out to be more than I bargained for and, as the true struggle slowly unfurled, I was less and less able to see myself overcoming it.

In the beginning, I had a plan. I got myself up – for my girls. I set a goal for myself – to step out through the darkness and find the horizon. Then I set off, hopeful and energized. 

I can do this! I told myself. After all, I can accomplish anything I set my mind to. Why would grief be any different?

The trouble is, there are no guideposts in the jungle of grief. So it’s just really hard to know where you are or what kind of progress you’re making. Unlike a hike in the local park, there are no colored tick marks on the trees to keep you on the right path that will eventually take you where you want to go. You can embark with the best intentions and keep on moving and you may even come to a point where you congratulate yourself,  You’re doing this. Keep it up.

But then comes a moment that can undo all those feelings of accomplishment. After all that movement that felt like progress, after all those moments where you say to yourself, You’ve got this!, you arrive at a place that gives you pause. You look around, confused at first at what you are seeing, but slowly a troubling thought comes to mind. I’ve been here before. With uncontainable anguish, you realize that you’re right back where you started.

Can you imagine? It’s like you’ve planned to run a marathon. You’ve courageously set off on what you know will be a long and difficult run. Along the course you conquer tough hills, long, lonely stretches and many mental hurdles. You endure it all but are grateful to see a finish line up ahead. As you approach, though, you realize that there’s no tape drawn waist-high across the road. There are no cheering crowds. No booming voice of an announcer calling out your name.

Instead, it's still and quiet. There is a line on the pavement but just beyond it are the stenciled letters S, T, A, R, and T. Confused, you cry out, I’m back at the start?! 

Why am I back here? What am I supposed to do now?

A cheerful guide approaches and replies chirpily, “Just keep going.”

This is where the hard work of grief really begins.  And this is where it starts to come undone for many people.

Because if you thought getting up in the immediate wake of loss was the hardest part, then you’re sorely mistaken. The hardest part is picking yourself up to start anew after what has already been the longest trial of your life. The energy you summoned for your first steps has long since faded. Yet you’re still expected to keep going….with no real promise of when the finish line will appear.

It’s beyond frustrating. It can be downright debilitating. And this is where that question arises, How can I survive this? How do I endure?

Strategies abound. I explored them all. Next week, I'll share what I found to be the least and most effective ones.

Go Forth in Love + Remember Jay