a journey into grief

Journal of Religion and Health, Vol. 43, No. 1, Spring 2004 ( 2004)

A Journey into Grief

INGE V. DEL ROSARIO

ABSTRACT: The experience of the death of her Grandmother immerses the author in an intimateexperience of grief. She reflects on her journey into grief and presents insights into grief’s impacton her personal story as well as her professional life, i.e., her clinical work as a young psychoana-lyst-in-training. Other metaphors and dream images, such as life, death, home, homelessness,silence, speech, story, voicelessness, aloneness and loneliness echo throughout the reflection asthe author attempts to articulate an understanding of the profound Self-change birthed by death,grief and loss.

KEY WORDS: death; grief; loss; speech; voice and silence; home and homelessness; memory andstory.

Grief transforms. Grief changes you, as few other experiences can. As I lay inbed tonight and thought about the months that have passed since my grand-mother died, I realize that grief not only hits hard, it strikes deep, unsettling,breaking apart, shattering what was once stable and sure. And then, the long,seemingly endless waiting follows, a watch and wait for meaning to emergeand wholeness to form from within this journey into grief.

I

She was not supposed to die then; the doctors had told us she could be dis-charged. We elected to keep her in the hospital only because her town wasinundated by waist-deep flood. We feared she would insist on going out to hergarden, even if it were blanketed by muddied water, if she was home duringthose days of the monsoon season. We were surprised that she nodded herhead when we asked if she wanted to stay, and shook it when asked if shewanted to go home. This was so unlike her: she never wanted to be away fromhome for very long.

Inge V. del Rosario, M.A., was born and raised in the Philippines. Once a member of the RomanCatholic community of Missionary Benedictine Sisters for eleven years, she worked as a retreatfacilitator and pastoral counselor for four years before coming to New York in 2002. Inge is asecond year Resident of the Psychoanalysis and Religion program at the Blanton-Peale Instituteand Counseling Center in New York City. Her journey into grief has also birthed a deepeningattraction to, and appreciation of the Quaker spirituality, with its emphasis on spirited silenceand speech.

2004 Blanton-Peale Institute19

Journal of Religion and Health20

I left her side for the last time two nights before her death. She had sleptthrough most of my visit. This gave me the quiet, undisturbed moments to bewith her—to hum her lullabies, to rest my chin on her shoulder, to stroke herarm weathered by age, sunspots and scars from working long years in thekitchen and garden, to run my fingers through her long golden blonde hair,to marvel at the bushiness of her eyebrows and the creases on her face, tohold her surprisingly soft hand, just to hold her hand. She hardly spoke. Therewere no last conversations, no words of wisdom and love to carry away, toremember once she had gone. She opened her eyes once, saw me; her eyes litup in recognition, she smiled and asked, “Can you stay longer?” I smiled andstroked her hair, but did not answer since I could not stay. Her eyes glazedover yet again and she slept.

I wrote her obituary on my birthday. She had died the day before, peacefullyin her sleep. One friend gently reminded me of our closeness: “You had a realbond with her. Her Death, your Birth—follow each other.” The days until herfuneral remain a blur. Looking back, I am grateful for the dazedness of denial.The reality of death does not really sink in during those first few days. Itcannot. To experience death and then to realize it is forever, so soon after,would be too intense, too heart-wrenching, too devastating.

Her funeral I remember vividly. How could I not? I played the guitar witha choir of nuns who sang Oma’s way to heaven. The songs were carefullychosen: “We remember how you loved us to your death and still we celebratefor you are with us here” . . . “I thank my God each time I think of you andwhen I pray for you, I pray with joy!” . . . “Du bist der Mutter kind: Vergiss,vergiss est nicht.” (You are our Mother dear: forget, forget us not.) The Ger-man song was special, as was my aunt’s tender, aching, breathtaking rendi-tion of Edelweiss.

Born in Berlin, Oma married my grandfather, then a Filipino medical stu-dent. They left Germany when she was just 23 and settled in a small northerncity in the Philippines. She learned to speak one of the country’s most difficultdialects like a native and Dagupan City became her home. She only returnedto Germany more than a quarter of a century later, when Opa was appointedconsul to Hamburg. They moved from Hamburg to Vancouver, Canada toAgana, Guam before Opa retired from the diplomatic service. They settledagain in Opa’s hometown, six hours north of Manila, in the late 1960s. Shelived there for the next thirty-five years, twenty of which were alone, as Opadied shortly after their golden wedding anniversary. During her last days, Irealized how much at-home she was in this provincial town. When she didspeak, in that fugue between waking and sleeping, sometimes incoherently,it was not in German, her first language, nor in English, which she learnedto speak later. Her mumbling and startling, startled expressions, her re-sponses to questions spoken into her ear while she lay on what was to be herdeathbed were in the native language of home, the dialect of her adoptedhometown.

Inge V. del Rosario 21

II

I lost my voice two days after the funeral, on the day I flew back to the UnitedStates to resume clinical studies and training in psychoanalytic and pastoralpsychotherapy. I dismissed this as a natural reaction to the stress of Oma’sdeath and turned my attention back to the clients I had left three weeks be-fore, for what I had assumed would be a restful, uneventful vacation.

The days were full and distracting yet the nights were lonely and hard. Ihad brought with me a copy of Oma’s obituary, her Scrabble set and some ofOma’s other possessions—pictures of her when she was younger and thenolder as I remembered her, a hairbrush with strands of her hair still runningthrough, the coffee cup she had used for breakfast and dinner, her playingcards which had seen endless games of solitaire on her sleepless nights—andkept them in a Ziploc bag. There were nights I took the bag and emptied it ofits contents, and just picked each up, held it almost with a caress, and lay itdown. I went out to a store one afternoon and bought picture frames, cut outsome of her photos, and framed them. I read and re-read her obituary. And Icried and cried. There were nights I called out her name, over and over, as ina dirge. There were times I spoke to her. I even told her how slighted I felt,that she did not say goodbye before she left, that she did not tell me she wasgoing. But most of the time, I simply wept. Alone and at night, I wept mymissing her.

I felt heavier during the day, tired, as if I had needle-prick holes all overme with energy oozing out. I did not feel like eating—the very thought of foodnauseated me. My stomach had been troubled since the day of Oma’s deathand remained so until three weeks after. Peanut butter and fruit comfortedme. Getting up and out of the apartment was effortful. The world looked somuch bigger and seemed overwhelming at times. I was also perturbed: Howcould the world go on living when Oma had died? Why was no one stopping?I could not understand how people could suffer the death of a beloved one dayand move on, as if nothing had happened, the next. Where do they put thememories, their grief, the ache of loss, when they left home, walked out of thesubway and into their places of work? I had yet to find a place big enough inme for Oma, for my pain of losing Oma. Where could I put my grief? And yetevery day, I walked out of the apartment, out of the subway, into my ownplace of work. I, too, could not stop.

From Manila, I heard news about Oma’s house—how it had been sold for$200, how it was to be bulldozed and the wood taken to a far-off barrio tobuild a shanty for the woman who had cared for Oma during her last years,how squatters from her neighborhood had looted the house until it was butan empty shell. Even now as I write, I find myself catching my breath, over-come by a gripping pain. I have no memories of Oma separate from this house.After Opa died during my first year in college, I spent more time with her.During my years in the convent, I had my home-leave and vacation days with


her. Her birthday fell on Christmas day and I often came the day after, bear-ing two gifts as she pronounced, “one present for my birthday, and anotherfor Christmas.” I cared for her during those days her caregiver went home forthe holidays, and toasted her with a glass of wine as we welcomed the NewYear. After I left the convent, I did not come as often, finding it painful to faceher, knowing she was disappointed that her granddaughter was no longer a“Madre,” as she called the nuns.

I also struggled with seeing her withdraw slowly into her own solitaryworld. She lost her hearing during the last years of her life and where shehad once been sociable, outgoing, constantly telling stories, she had becomelost in unheard conversations, unable to join in and become a part of thegathering of family around her dinner table. There were times she seemedsuspicious, fearful perhaps that it was of her that the family spoke. While shehad been to me the Woman of Stories, now she spoke less and less, untilfinally, she uttered only a sentence or two to me when I would visit. Always,however, the last that she spoke before I left was, “Can you stay longer?”Normally stolid and reserved, Oma turned to me once and said, “You shouldcome more often. I feel so lonely these days. It gets to be hard living alone.”

During the first years of my time with her, when I was a college student,we would often walk to church together. While she prided herself on being anindependent, self-reliant woman, she never pulled her hand away from minewhen I held hers to cross the busy city streets. As the years passed, we did notneed to have to cross streets for me to take her hand. I could hug her and shewould hug back. I learned to tell her I loved her and cherished the memory thatshe never failed to tell me she loved me too. (It was only during our last timetogether, when she did not, could not answer when I whispered, “ I love you,”as I kissed her on her forehead.) I spent hours sitting at her dining table, play-ing Scrabble and listening to her stories. There were times she would not letme leave the dinner table until she had won her game. When she became impa-tient by her slowness and inability to form words from the disparate letters, wejust sat together with her stories. When she grew deaf, she became quieter andwe sat hours at the table in silence. In losing her hearing, she almost seemedto lose her voice. And then, in losing voice, she lost the life-energy of memoryand story. Looking back, I realize—She began to die when she could no longertell her stories. During these last years, our visits were made in her living roomsofa where we sat side by side, quiet, still, just holding hands. At night, beforeI slept by her side, I would take her hand and hold it till we both fell asleep.

III

Grief paralyzes and cripples. Grief slows and dulls the mind. Words areharder to grasp and comprehend. Even the world seems to be moving at aslower pace. At Oma’s gravesite, the family sat before her coffin, watching as


if in a theater, waiting, stricken with grief’s pain. No one moved to begin theend of the burial ceremony. I realized only then there was no priest, no minis-ter to say the last prayers, to finally lay Oma upon her resting ground.

A liturgy was hastily prepared. A friend walked me through the rite. I re-member her speaking to me, telling me what to do yet I could not follow herleading. Her voice seemed a buzz, a droning in my ear. Only when she toldme that I would need to signal to the men from the mortuary when to closeOma’s coffin and when to lower the coffin into the ground did I look at herwith awful comprehension dawning. Why me? Why do I have to lead the rite?Why do I have to give the signal? Is there none else? I remember both of uslooking at the crowd, looking at my family, and realizing—there was no oneelse. And I remember trying to swallow a suffocating lump in my throat thatwould not go away.

I remember the last viewing of Oma. I remember wiping off the fern thathad fallen on the glass cover, obscuring her peaceful face. I remember askingher oldest son if we could close the coffin and his eyes saying no as his headnodded yes. I remember turning to the men at my side and motioning themto close the coffin. Oma’s golden hair and the outline of her face were the lastI saw before the coffin was closed this final time. I remember motioning oncemore for the coffin to be lowered and remember how—almost like a magnet—its movement to the earth pulled the family up from their seats and to themouth of the grave. I remember the sound of orchid stems as the flowers hitthe wood of her coffin and the louder thumps of soil as a small shovel waspassed around.

And I remember grief erupting inside, almost as a volcano, and my turningaway to stifle sobs that could not be quieted. I found a shoulder and wept,then abruptly stopped, knowing the service was not yet over. I turned back,wiped my eyes, watched and waited till all in the family had taken the shoveland poured earth to cover her body. I wanted this time to end. And I did notwant it to end. I knew my uncle’s grief, the grief spoken in the eyes that saidno: No to closing Oma’s coffin, no to the burial, no to her death, no to her end.I turned to the nuns and asked them to sing the Latin hymn that ends therosary, Oma’s favorite daily prayer during her years of widowhood. “SalveRegina, Hail, Holy Queen . . . to thee do we send forth our sighs, mourning andweeping in this valley of tears.” I remember the haunting melody and how itseemed to signal the service’s end. Here it could at last end.

IV

But it never seems to end. Grief comes and goes in waves. Grief stays as anumb deadened feeling at the pit of the stomach. I experience it within as thepounding of rolling waves, dispelling only to creep in and well up again. Iwatch it from afar as an ocean. I let the waves nip at my toes. I wade in it, I


swim in it, and at times, I feel I can drown in it. Grief comes like a suffocatingblanket over the head, and I find my hands trying to reach up past it, as ifgroping for air, for life beyond the death. There are days I think I am almostnormal again. “I have not thought of her today . . . ” and then I do. The hurtis sometimes in-my-face. At other times, it recedes to the background of living.There are times I want to show her pictures and tell her stories to friends.There are other times I feel as if any speech would blur the vividness of im-ages I hold in memory. I fall silent before friends, I move away. The Womanof Stories began to die when she could no longer tell her story. I find myselflosing voice as she herself did. Into her silence and mine, I retreat, as if tofind safety, comfort, home, to hear her stories again, so to find her once again.

I think of the biblical Job sitting in silence for days on the ash-heap. Wordsare powerless to speak to grief. Words wither in the face of grief. I think alsoof the friends of Job, how they came to comfort him in his suffering, and howthey did not recognize him when they first saw him upon the ash-heap. Grieftransforms. I believe it was not just Job’s changed appearance that stoppedthem in their places. Grief changed him deeply, radically, unequivocally, thathe could never be the same again. In grief, one is never the same again.

In the weeks after Oma’s death, when I had returned to the rhythm de-manded by my clinical training—being with clients, going to supervision,seeing my analyst—I did not slip into it with the same smoothness and flowwith which I had left it. Even the visits to my analyst were different. I spokeof nothing but Oma’s death in the first few sessions with her. And then,slowly, almost imperceptibly, I began to sink into a void of voicelessness. Atfirst, the silence lasted ten, then fifteen, then thirty-five minutes. When sheasked me about it, I groped for words, as in the daze of the graveside service.My mind seemed crippled, paralyzed, unable to reach into and open up to therecesses of the unconscious. Even that part of me seemed to have retreatedinto its own still and silent depth. No speech or words: none seemed worthyto be given voice. In grief, silence was my resting ground.

Only one image comes, stays and finds voice—that of the view from thelong driveway as it led to Oma’s house. It feels almost like the mouth thatopens into the warm, soothing cave of her home. Her home was that to me—stable, secure, safe, the sanctuary of a cave. She was home to me. On the daywe buried her, I walked down the driveway and was faintly troubled by thenewly painted graffiti on its walls. Today, I grapple with the picture of a housenow only a shell, soon to be bulldozed to the ground. There is a sense of beingdisturbed and intruded upon, sacred space violated and home destroyed. Andthere is the needing retreat but not knowing where to go, to hide, almost toflee, so as to find her again.

With my clients and in my work, I find myself less equivocal, more defini-tive and firm, especially when it comes to effecting the boundaries of the ther-apeutic process. I am not less personable but I am more direct and forthright,more emphatic about keeping the frame and less patient with those with bare


motivation for maintaining the therapeutic relationship. At the same time, Ialso find myself sitting in greater silence. There is presence in my being withmy clients, but the texture is different. The silence is deeper. One or the otherhas noticed the change, “You seem different, not quite you.” I realize this—Iam not quite me—and I worry about the impact of my grief upon their pro-cess. I wonder: if I am silent, if I am unable to move out of the silence of aninner solitary safe cave, how will this affect their process? Will they move intotheir own quiet, solitary spaces and not allow me in with them? If I cannotmove out from under my grief, will it weigh them down as well? Sometimeswhen I am in my grief, I hear them almost as if with an echo, from the innardsof a cave. I worry: how am I to be with them, empathetic, at-one, attuned tothem, when grief disconnects me, and loss separates me from my self? I won-der: will the grief that changes me, change them as well? Will it touch theirown losses and buried grief, will it awaken deadened aches and stir numbnessinto feeling? Will they dare to move into the waves? Will my taking the jour-ney into grief let them know they can take their own as well? I worry and Iwonder. Will this be a grief shared?

V

Oma long wanted to write her life-story. It was a fascinating history of awoman resolved and resilient, firm and forthright. She told snippets of herchildhood life, which she retreated to often as she grew older. She spoke ofthe time she was three and a fortune-teller told her mother she would go offto a faraway land. She spoke of the time she was six and top of her class, butunable to sing a note as she was tone-deaf. She remembered her father, whofavored her, and her mother, who favored her older brother. Her father diedwhen she was eight. She spoke of the hardship of the first World War, whenshe was not yet in her teens. She told of the time her headmaster wanted togive her a scholarship to middle school but her mother thought that womenwere meant to stay in the house and learn its trades. When she was in Guam,already in her late fifties, she applied for college. When they asked for herhigh school records, she boldly told them they had been destroyed in the war.None were the worse for this untruth, since she proceeded to pass the qualify-ing examinations, continue on to make high marks in her classes and gradu-ate with a degree in English.

She told of the time she and Opa left Germany for the Philippines, and shewas pregnant with her second child. On the day the boat docked, she wentinto labor and gave birth in an unsanitized room in the unfamiliar heat of theprovincial city, lying on a woven mat on the floor, her son’s birth lit by thehaze of kerosene lamps and the whispered words of aides speaking in a lan-guage not yet known to her. “I left my country and my family to go to a landI did not know. It must have been love,” she declared as she told this story


once at the dining table. During the second World War, she sustained herfamily back in Germany, famished because of the strict rationing in effect forGerman soldiers, by sending care packages of sugar, powdered milk, cocoa,coffee, powdered eggs, and flour. Because the Japanese occupied Manila atthat time, and the Germans were considered their allies, Oma and the family,while on a meager diet, were safe from the caprice of the occupiers. Opa, as ageneral surgeon, continued to treat patients who came to him, some of whofought as guerillas. He, more often than not, received compensation in theform of poultry and produce, and Oma quickly learned to bottle jams andmake juices out of the baskets of mangoes and bushels of native grapes thatwere given as payment for Opa’s medical services.

She was a Woman of Stories and would tell stories into the night, as we layin bed together, until one of us would fall asleep. I remember once awakeningat midnight, after having slid into slumber an hour earlier, and Oma continu-ing to weave stories in my sleep. Oftentimes, she would be reading a book ormagazine, with one hand holding a magnifying glass, and she would start astory from remembrances awakened by a line in its story. As the years wentby, she took more naps, needed more hours of rest. She would awaken, turnand gaze at me, as if wondering who I was and then, remembering, wouldturn over and return to sleep. More than once, noticing I was uncovered, shewould take the sheet and pull it over me, pat me heavily on the shoulder, andthen lie quietly. She often looked into the distance, as if gazing, thinking,pondering deeply. Her stories would begin from this silence.

One day, I will write her story. Yes, with this, I have begun. But one day,out of my own silence, I will write my story of Oma. Right now, I find I needto hold my memories of her, of her stories, as if they were a deck of cards inmy hand: hold and caress them, lay them down, one by one, and then pickthem up all in a pile again. It is almost like a hand of Solitaire. That is theimage I have now, on quiet, sleepless, Oma-filled nights: the Woman of Storyplaying Solitaire in the silence, Oma sitting at her dinner table with her bentand grayed cards, playing away the lonely, alone silence of the night. Pieceby piece, memories shuffling gently, gingerly until meaning comes, meaningforms, and there is no piece that is left untouched, unreconciled by the whole.Her last deck of cards had only 47 pieces. One day, when I am ready to writeher story, I will buy a new deck and complete her playing hand. Gently, gin-gerly, meaning will come, meaning will form for me, and no piece of Oma’slife and memory will stand alone, untouched, unreconciled to the Whole thatwas Her, in the culmination of my journey into grief.

Postscript

Immediately after Opa’s death twenty years ago, I dreamt of him. Today, thepicture remains clear in my memory: Opa dressed in a white native Philippine


suit, healthier, almost robust. He is smiling and his eyes have that mischie-vous twinkle. I remember our dream dialogue: my apologies that I had notvisited him more often, his assurance that he is happy, his wish that I takecare of Oma, my promise to spend more time with her. A month after Oma’sdeath, I wonder why she has not made herself felt and known, why she hasnot come to comfort and assure me that her spirit is well. My family sharesdreams they have had of Oma since her death and I wonder why I do notdream of her. I hope for a glimpse, just to feel her again, oh, to see her again.At dawn, I awaken and search the remnants of dreams that linger, for imagesof Oma. I am downhearted that none are of her.

On my birthday, the day after Oma’s death, I am given the musical sound-track from the play “Les Miserables.” My excitement at receiving this favoriteis dampened by my grief. The compact discs are set aside in the grieving.Forty days after her death, I awaken to a tune dancing in the fugue betweendark and light. First I dismiss the tune, then, when it comes repeatedly themornings after, I notice and attend to it. I find myself groping to identify fromwhere it comes. The tune, it dawns on me, is from “Les Miserables.” In JeanValjean’s prayer over the young and wounded Marius, I unravel the lyrics andbegin to hear Oma’s song to me:

God on high, hear my prayer. In my need you have always been there.He is young, he’s afraid. Let him rest, heaven blessed.Bring him home, bring him home, bring him home.

He’s like the son I might have known, if God had granted me a son.The summers die, one by one, how soon they fly on and on

And I am old and will be gone.

Bring him peace, bring him joy, he is young, he is only a boy.You can take, you can give. Let him be, let him live.

If I die, let me die, let him live.Bring him home, bring him home.

Bring him home.1

Somehow the song soothes me: I play it over and over. I am amused byOma’s wit and humor: while a lover of music, Oma despaired from her youthof ever being able to sing in tune. Yet, I hear Oma singing to me, singing ofme. I hear Oma speaking to me words of love at her bedside, Oma aware ofdeath’s closeness. I hear Oma knowing of my loss of home in her. I hear Omapraying to calm my fear of homelessness and assuring me of Home’s unceas-ing presence. I hear Oma acknowledging how much I mean to her and yes,how much, as home, she means to me. In song, I hear her voice. Almost as ifI am again by her deathbed, I listen to her prayer. Within, grief continues todwell but now, it is no longer so unrelenting, so overwhelming.

For days after, the tune continues to resonate in me as I awaken. I wonder:have I heard all I need? Does Oma have more to say? I continue to listen to


the soundtrack and discover, in the finale, another prayer of Jean Valjean,this time on his deathbed as he waits for his adopted daughter, Cosette. Oma’sprayer is unfinished and once more, I hear her voice:

Alone I wait in the shadows, I count the hours till I can sleep.I dreamed a dream Cosette stood by. It made her weep to know I’d die.

God on high, hear my prayer.Take me now to thy care.Where you are, let me be.

Take me now, take me there.Bring me home.Bring me home.2

Once again, I weep. My tears now are for Oma, for the awareness that herlast hours were solitary. Oma died alone. She could die no other way. Sheassuages my guilt and regret at leaving before her death: I could never havestayed. I could not have held her hand and companioned her as she movedinto death. The memories that emerge are of her alone-times, the twentyyears she lived by herself, the days of loneliness, the Solitaire nights she satat her dinner table while waiting for sleep, Oma struggling with the solitarylife. Her journey into death was hers alone, made ready by an appreciation oflife’s fullness slowly woven from story and memory, made gentle by years ofwaiting and watching in voiceless silence, loneliness and longing. Out of soli-tary silence came her stories, from a pondering and cradling of her memorieswith care. With the tender weaving of memory into Story and her acceptancethat her Life-story was indeed whole and full of meaning, she could rest beforethe approaching, eternal, endless silence without fear or grief, without guiltor regret. As she lay in the shadow of death, praying her letting-go, Oma knewit was time to be taken home to Home.

References

1. “Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables in Concert at the Royal Albert Hall (lyrics by HerbertKretzmer).

2. “Epilogue (Finale: Beggars at the Feast)” from Les Miserables in Concert at the Royal AlbertHall (lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer).

a journey into grief

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