Good Grief, Charlie Brown

Charlie Brown and the rest of the characters from Peanuts were always my favorite growing up.  Each week I remember reading the comic strip in the Sunday paper with my dad.  I also remember waiting with anticipation for the holiday specials to appear on TV. Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas really were not complete until Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Woodstock, Linus and Lucy kicked it off.  

Charlie Brown's catch phrase was "Good Grief."  And lately I have wondered why Charles Schultz, creator of Peanuts, chose those two words.  Grief has a negative connotation, so isn't "good grief" an oxymoron?  How can grief possibly be good?

I would never presume to know the exact journey of loss that others have been through.  I believe each experience to be as unique as each individual who goes through it and each occurrence that causes the grief in the first place.  But I have to think that grief has similar characteristics though maybe takes on different intensities and forms.

According to Merriam Webster, grief is defined as: 1. a deep and poignant distress caused by or as if by bereavement; 2. an unfortunate outcome.

Well, duh.  A great big colossal ginormous and resounding DUH!  Because those definitions, while technically accurate, do not come close to the true and complicated meaning of grief.  And I know, because I live and breathe this every day.

I have always loved the beach.  There is something amazing about walking on the sand with the water lapping at your feet and seeing an intricate and vast quilt of blue and green hues that seemingly goes on forever.  The ocean itself, in truth, frightens me.  Though it is a majestic, beautiful example of nature at its finest, it is also dark and mysterious.  The ocean brings light and life, yet it also brings darkness and death.  It is to be revered but also respected.

I have used the ocean in the past to describe what grief feels like.  For me, grief is like standing on the beach with my back to the ocean.  I am standing right at the point where the water meets the shore, typically lingers for a moment and rushes back out again.  If I tune out all distractions and close my eyes, I can hear each wave as it washes up on the beach and then washes out again in a natural and constant rhythm.

My feet are wet from the constant ebb and flow of the waves. My bare heels remain in standing water at all times though my toes go from being free in the damp sand to being immersed.  The ocean seems sometimes lazy and passive while at other times it seems insistent  and probing.  Sometimes it seems angry and relentless.  The rhythm may be slow or it may be frantic.  But regardless of the pace or frequency, the waves are constant.

While I can anticipate the regular pace of the waves, because my back is to the water I cannot see a wave until it hits the shore.  And if I cannot see the wave, then I have no opportunity to prepare for its arrival or its size.  The wave may be slight and gone almost as quickly as it arrived.  Or the wave may hit me unaware and with great force.  The wave may cause me to shift my weight from one foot to the other, recovering quickly.  Instead the wave may cause me to lose my balance and become uneasy on my feet.  Or the wave may completely overtake me and knock me down.  I may be able to recover and jump right back on my feet.  Or recovery may take only moments. Or hours. Or days.  Maybe even years.  I am fourteen months in so I do not know for sure. 

When you lose someone close to you, grief sweeps in.  It arrives like an uninvited guest to your party.  Grief begins as an unwelcome companion, an imposition, a roommate who is not of your choosing and with whom you have nothing in common.  Grief is irritating and frustrating and constant and you would give anything to make it go away.  But eventually you come to accept grief because you recognize that it is not going to go away anytime soon.  

Grief changes you.  That person you were before becomes a memory, a former version of yourself that you only partly recognize.  Grief creates a continual stream of thoughts and assessment of your actions, inactions and words.  It may be while you are in the shower or in the car driving back and forth to work.  Thoughts may come when you are trying to fall asleep or as you lie wide awake in the middle of the night.  Certain words or songs or people or places bring reminders of the past.  Sometimes those thoughts and memories arrive like old friends.  And at other times those thoughts and memories assault you, leaving you reeling and asking why.  

I became a widow fourteen months ago.  The ocean waves that knocked me down over and over at first do not hit so often now.  The water is much more calm but my feet will probably always be a little bit wet.  The difference is that I have learned to expect the waves and my feet are solidly planted when each wave hits.    

Grief has become my constant companion like a piece of clothing or an accessory that I wear.  Sometimes the grief is visible to others and try as I might there is nothing I can do to hide it or push it away.  At other times, these days most of the time, I may feel and appear more like my normal self.  People may think I am over my loss, but I live with it every second and it has redefined who I am.

From grief, I have learned many lessons.  Chief among them how fleeting and precious life is, how resilience may be defined, how the things we view as important are not actually important at all and the meaning of true love.  It just took the most awful experience of my life to completely enlighten me.  

So, maybe grief IS good, after all.  And maybe Charlie Brown is a whole lot smarter than the Peanuts gang gave him credit for.    

One of my close friends forwarded me a web link that came from the online publication Reddit. A  grieving person posted, "My friend just died.  I don't know what to do."  The following is the response that person received from someone only identified as G. Snow. Looks like G. Snow and I have a few things in common.  And perspective is everything.

“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.”