A Seriously Not So Serious Guide on Grief
Author: Rebecca Ehrnman
Step One: Crying with and without onions
Grief is boiling pot of soup. The contents bubbling and frothing over, teasing the flames below and stinking the whole place up. Memories cast a glossy sheen of fat across the top like little rainbows under your fluorescent kitchen lights. Mine is an angry pot of turkey soup, with lima beans in it some reason. What’s yours? I hope it’s not a rock. A phrase my father often said to me; “I got a rock.” quoting the quintessential Peanuts, which I never really got until I was older. Circling back, who puts lima beans in turkey soup?
Somedays you can trot on through life, taking up casual conversations and shopping as if there isn’t an ever-expanding hole in your heart. A shop window will tell you, “You are exactly where you need to be.” Am I? Is hollow and robbed the best place to be? Sometimes, yes. That’s the thing about grief—it’s ornery. It’s touching your eyes after handling an inconspicuous pepper, demanding your attention at the most inconvenient moments, eliciting hot tears burning down your cheeks and swelling your eyes.
“I’m literally ordering Starbucks right now, can’t this wait?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not!” It will scream back at you until you’re sobbing at the pickup window, avoiding awkward eye contact with that poor barista whom I hope isn’t scarred. Some advice, be careful asking someone how their day is going, they might be honest with you.
A guide? Right, you’ve been promised a guide. Well, I lied. There is no guide on grief because there is no right or wrong way to grieve. You know that.
Step Two: Add tear-soaked onions to the soup
If you’re hungry, they’re hungry too. When in the throes of grieving it’s easy to be consumed by it and forget to care for your mortal vessel. If possible, set a reminder to check in on your physical needs. Am I hungry? When was the last time I ate? When was the last time I had a good nap? Or a full nights’ rest? Am I clenching my teeth again? When did I last bathe?
I’m going to make this very clear. This step is not for others. This step is for you. Honestly, each step is for you. Be selfish. Again, step two is in no way to ensure that you are “presentable” to anyone else. It is wholly for your own enjoyment and pleasure. Grief wants nothing more than to be all consuming sometimes and will absorb every waking moment of your life. And while step one is to sit with your grief, don’t let it overstay its welcome. Make space for self-care throughout your journey with grief. It might feel weird at first, as if you’re not allowed to take a luxurious hour-long bath when you’re grieving, but that’s not true at all. So, take a moment to check in with your vessel, it deserves some gentle love right now.
My vessel demanded multiple Big Lebowski viewings, crying over spaghetti (it happens to us all, am I right?), and long bike rides on an ancient, and extremely heavy, yellow Schwinn from the 70s. Ancient might be a bit harsh, but Jefe is peppered with rust, his three gears rarely work, and only one of the two handbrakes function… most of the time. That being said, if all goes to plan, Jefe will outlive me. The plastic handlebar covers gave me something to grip onto for dear life, a project to pour myself into as my soup licked flames of the stovetop.
Step Three: Share your crafted soup with those around you
Step three is crucial and the instructions simple. Reach out to others. Being around people you love, who make you smile and breathe life into your wings, is so incredibly healing. Even if it’s just sitting and crying outside of your favorite coffee shop, but with your best friends beside you, your grief will thank you. Being present with one another allows room and space for hard conversations, while also feeling low impact. Pour a bowl, sans lima beans, and sit at a table together, or on the floor, or not at all. I like standing and eating at counters like a racoon sometimes. But when you do talk, don’t let it always be the small stuff. Small talk does not lead to big connections.
Growing up, my family gathered for major holidays, birthdays, and miscellaneous celebrations. There was food, alcohol, milling around various rooms of my paternal grandparent’s home. Sometimes there was swimming, but always there was a television on with whatever sport was happening that season. There was so much static and ambient noise that no one ever really talked. I mean, we spoke to one another, but it was always just what could be seen floating atop the thick layer of fat, whatever was skimming the rim of the soup pot. Alcohol, a necessity at family gathering, could always be a topic of conversation.
“Who brought the Fat Tire? Was that you, John? This is great. Here, try one of the Sour Monkey’s I brought, it’s wild.”
But when alcohol led to my dad’s death, suddenly no one wanted to talk about that anymore. It was his fault. He “succumbed” to alcoholism.
Is it?
There was suddenly a great big elephant in the room, and everyone just kept squeezing around it, like awkward little lima beans sinking to the bottom of the pot. The first Thanksgiving without my dad was the hardest. Ha had always barbequed a turkey for Thanksgiving, and my two Uncles handled the side dishes. A Thanksgiving without “Jeff’s barbequed turkey” was unthinkable. One year, my dad stuffed it with apples one year (because tradition stuffing is questionable to say the least). He was so excited and proud of his twist that he texted me pictures hours before it was even on the grill. It was these small acts, displaying his love of life, that stick with me the most. It wasn’t just small talk with him, it was “Do you want to know what’s cool about these old windows and why they look warbled?” and “You ever listen to Alan Watts? I’ve got a dozen tapes layin’ around somewhere… we should take a road trip and listen to only Alan Watts.” It’s a miracle my dad never burned a turkey with how all over the place his thinking often was.
As an aside, I do not recommend texting pictures of a raw turkey without any context or warning.
Step Four: Keep Living
There are probably more sub-steps hidden in here somewhere, and you’ll probably go back and re-do steps, or maybe make up your own, and that’s okay. In fact, it’s kind of the point. There isn’t a clear-cut path for navigating grief. There are a lot of mixed metaphors in grief, and some people might find comparing grief to a toddler in step one heinously offensive—to which, I am not sorry. Toddlers are always sticky and so is grief. Fight me. But from one person full of sticky grief to another, all the mixed-up emotions you’re experiencing are valid. Don’t be afraid to do something nice for yourself, and definitely reach out to others. Your friends and family might not know how to navigate it either, but it is nice to stumble alongside someone instead of alone.
Grief is still a stinking pot of soup, but if you season that bitch right (and for the love of God, leave lima beans out of it), it can fill your home with the most wonderful aromas. When I lost my father and met my grief for the first time, I was terrified. I didn’t know how life could ever feel the same. If it would, or if I even wanted it to. It didn’t feel right for life to remain the same after such a jarring twist. Loss has a way of making you reevaluate every little thing in your life: where you spend your time, who you spend that time with, and what you’re doing with your time. That’s that most unexpected part of my journey with grief. It led me to new connections with people and communities that explore the taboos of grieving, and it now feels like Dad’s passing wasn’t just a massive loss, but the beginning of a new stage of life. I value my time with others so much more, and it’s easy to walk away from a moment that don’t serve me. That’s what allows grief to be beautiful too. Yes, it’s still difficult, mean, challenging, but it’s eye opening, resonating, and powerful.
Your grief can and will evolve and change shape. If you allow it, and season accordingly, you’ll grow alongside your grief.
This piece is part of my Demons Wanted series where I celebrate you, yes you, you little demon! If you want to share your piece on death, dying, grief, (and it would be cool if it included food but not necessary), submit it to me by using the contact link below!