Grief & Continuing Bonds

Grief is a fascinating experience. The story I want to tell has a beginning that I’m not ready to delve into. Yet, there are parts that need to be said. My mind wants to give order to this messy experience, and chronological is the easiest structure to follow. However, it’s not the one I’m able to use.

Yesterday, my mom was texting me about my deceased ex-husband, Richard, who was also the father of my only child. My daughter and I had been on a video call with my parents the day before, and they had mentioned gun violence while we were talking. My ex died by gun violence. My mom was worried she had upset us by bringing up the topic, and she was apologizing for doing so. In the midst of that conversation, I told her how my daughter and myself often talk about the funny things Richard would do, like drive our VW Beetle in manual mode like it was a sports car. He’d buzz around town, shifting gears, and this large man in a little Bug pretending to be a race car driver was kind of annoying and rather funny. After sharing that story, my mom recalled a time at the celebration of my daughter’s high school graduation that Richard had put his arm around my mom, teasing her, and how she’d been sassy and asked him, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” They always teased each other and laughed, and I think they both missed that connection after he and I divorced. This text conversation with my mom lasted off and on over an hour. It faded, and I went to my desk to prepare for the day.

My daughter was in the room sorting through some stuff behind me as I woke my computer from sleep. As the computer lit up, I gasped and felt like I had been punched in the stomach when I saw the image on the screen. Adobe Lightroom was open and a picture of myself, my mom’s hand, and Richard was on the screen. It was a photo my daughter had taken of us with her new camera that she had opened for her high school graduation present in 2017. Tears are in my eyes as I type, and I still feel a little dizzy at the fact this happened. I hadn’t opened Lightroom on that computer. It’s old and doesn’t work very well anymore, so there’s no way I’d open a program that requires a lot. I haven’t seen that photo since 2017. I have no idea how that program was open and how that photo was the one being shown.

The only explanation that I can find is that it was him. Richard wanted us to know he’s still around. He’s still here. He knows we are talking about him and laughing at his silliness. There is no other way to describe that moment.

I started crying. My daughter and I called my mom. We all were crying. We talked about the way we still feel connected to those who have died and how so often we get signs that they are near us.

There’s a theory of grief called Continuing Bonds (1986) that suggests our relationship with the deceased does not end when they die, but instead it changes over time. This theory was the first to suggest that continuing the adapted relationship with the deceased is healthy and helpful to the bereaved. In moments like yesterday, it’s clear there’s still a connection to the deceased, even when they are not a phone call away.

Richard always told me he’d haunt me after he died. It was a joke we’d had for a long time. He was older than me by 11 years, so he believed he would be the first to go. Soon after he died in September, the same Mac computer started ringing in the middle of the night, even though it’s always set to do not disturb. It rang and rang, and I couldn’t get it to stop. I had to shut the computer down to make it stop. No call showed up on the computer or my phone’s history.

I say grief is fascinating, and that might not be the way you describe it. I studied it in my doctoral program, and my experiences of it since then have provided me the knowledge and experience to be there for others as they grieve. Yet, I still know so very little about what it all means. I know that from September until the weather shifted into warmth and sun just a few weeks ago, I felt like I was in a fog. I was able to fully function in life, yet there was a haze that made many things seem a little blurry.

I also think the grief, and trauma that went with it, caused me to disconnect a little, especially from those closest to me. Each time we experience a loss, we are reminded of all whom we have yet to lose. It’s scary, and we don’t want to think about it. I don’t necessarily think we have to focus on death, yet we do have to relish in the moments that we’ve been given, especially with those we love.

One of the best ways to do that is to be mindful in the moment. Really notice the colors and textures, the tones of voice, the smiles, the way a tight hug from someone you love feels. Sink into the feelings that course through you. Absorb it all, so that when the hard times come, you can pull that memory up and feel the moment again. And, for those you have lost, pay attention to the little things. The song that plays at just the right time, the flutter of a butterfly or hummingbird, the reminders of those whose spirit still surrounds. Trust that the bond is still there, and nothing can take it away. It’s yours to keep.

Who do you miss? What would it be like to connect with them again? Are there signs that make you think they’re near, yet maybe you feel unsure or don’t trust it? Take some time to recall a good memory and see if you feel them nearby.

Don’t forget the Moody Weather playlist. There are several songs that really help me sink into the moment and feel all my feelings.

Take good care.