Another Post About Grieving...and Poets.

I wrote about Josh in my last post and the memories of him that I hold on to.  Recently, a family very dear to mine lost their youngest son at close to the same age as we lost Josh.  This horrible tragedy has turned my thoughts once again to how we deal with loss like this.

I'm a firm believer in the uniqueness of grief.  There is no way that anyone can ever know exactly what another person is going through because people are unique and their relationships with one another are unique.  We can certainly empathize if we've been through a similar situation, but we can't know anyone else's experience exactly.  It's personal and identifying, like a fingerprint.

That being said, there are certain human experiences with grief that are universal, and a few writers and poets have grabbed ahold of those moments and turned them into something tangible, shareable, and relatable. 

Let's start with the beginning, the moment we receive the terrible news, and what we do next.  Seamus Heaney wrote a biographical poem called "Mid-Term Break."  In it, he recounts his own experience of being away at college and getting the news that his young brother had died.

Mid-Term Break Seamus Heaney

I sat all morning in the college sick bay Counting bells knelling classes to a close. At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home. In the porch I met my father crying-- He had always taken funerals in his stride-- And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow. The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram When I came in, and I was embarrassed By old men standing up to shake my hand And tell me they were 'sorry for my trouble,' Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest, Away at school, as my mother held my hand In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs. At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses. Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him For the first time in six weeks. Paler now, Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple, He lay in the four foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four foot box, a foot for every year.

I first read this poem a month or two after Josh’s death.  It resonated with me because of my recent experiences, and I felt connected to Heaney, who could so powerfully, yet simply, describe these experiences without editorializing.  Each image is so true.

He starts off just sitting there, helpless, which is a feeling I understand.  Everything is so final.  There’s nothing to do.  Just wait.  I remember driving home from the hospital after Josh died.  It was so strange.  We couldn’t do anything besides just go home.  Without Josh. 

I love the image of his father crying.  Men, especially tough Irish farmers like Heaney’s dad, don’t get to be fragile.  These events bring out different sides of people because we’re left so absolutely raw.  There’s nothing to hide, because only grief matters. 

The image of the baby cooing is also powerful.  Here is a child who has no idea what is going on.  I think young children are sensitive to mood and energy.  They can feel it when the adults around them are happy, tense, sad, angry, or loving.  This baby definitely feels something amiss, but life still goes on as usual for him.  I love that little glimpse of “normalcy.”  Images like that stand out when nothing is normal.

Then there are the awkward moments with people who have nothing but words.  Words are useless at a time like this.  Yes, I said it.  I meant it, too, so I’ll say it again.  Words are useless at a time like this.  I’m specifically talking about the well-meaning, loving clichés that arise.  “I’m so sorry.”  “If you need anything, let me know.”  “He’s in a better place.”  I’ll admit right now that I’m guilty of handing out the well-meaning, loving clichés.  As Sheldon Cooper might say, it’s dictated by social custom.  More than that, I think it’s discomfort.  We want to be there for our loved ones who are going through a horrible time, but we are uncomfortable with silence.  It’s the presence of others and their support that matters, not the words.  But we say them anyway.

Heaney beautifully writes the moment he sees his brother’s body for the first time.  “Paler now.”  Such simple contrast to the living boy Heaney saw six weeks ago.

But it’s the last line that gets me every time.  He sees such symbolism in that coffin of how everything is wrong with this death.  The rest of the poem seems clinical and numb, just a list of things he sees and does, but nothing about what Heaney feels.  The rhythm created by the rhyming and repetition creates that emotional release that we’ve been waiting for.  I understand that numbness, and I understand that moment when everything becomes agonizingly real.  I respect that Heaney cuts the poem off there, because that’s when his true, and personal grief, begins.

I absolutely love this poem, likely because I “discovered” it when I did.  I do think it takes empathy to really understand, though, at least on that human level.  I feel like I’ve walked in his shoes and seen through his eyes, and I project my own experiences onto the narrator of the poem. 

I’m not the only one who feels this way.  “Mid-Term Break” is among Heaney’s most popular poems.  I think it’s because he gets it right.  He takes us through those first hours, using images and experiences that most people have also experienced.  Perhaps they’re not in the same order or the right intensity, but I think very few people would fail to identify with this poem once they’ve been there themselves.  Heaney got it right, then he stops when his own unique experience would have to take center stage.

I’ll end this blog post now, since it’s getting long.  I have more poems I’d like to discuss that I think capture these human moments in the midst of loss, but I’ll break it up into manageable pieces.  It’s an interesting journey, and I hope you’ll walk with me and the poets who make something so surreal into something that can be shared.