“So where are you up to?” He asked me earnestly. And for a second, I naively, wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed. “I mean, the five stages of grief.” He clarified.
I think its actually seven, I thought to myself, my shoulders slumping. But I couldn’t remember and he was still waiting for an answer.
“Its not like that.” I replied. “There aren’t five stages that you go through in a neat chronological order, its not linear. It jumps around. I can experience all the stages in the course of a day, or an hour... or none of them. Its different for everyone and it doesn’t conform to the textbook.”
But he wasn’t following me, he had an expectant look on his face, like he was still waiting for me to answer the original question. Fine, I thought. I take a deep breath. I pick one.
“Denial.” I said, firmly. “Denial, because I don’t want to believe its true. Denial. Because I can’t believe I will never see him again.” In the back of my mind I had a vague idea that denial was still the “first phase”.
He sunk his head into his hands, not able to process the pain of my reply. I felt like I’d failed the questionnaire. Like I picked the wrong answer on the multiple choice. No, wait, I wanted to say... I’ll pick another one, to make you feel better, Acceptance? No. Bargaining? No. Hope? Is that even one of them? Grumpy, Sleepy, Sneezy, Wroth, Sloth? Does it matter? And why are they always listed conveniently in fives or sevens? No, wait... I am up to... Depression. Tick. What’s next? The “stages of grief” all blend into one. Except for guilt and anger. I don’t experience either. I’m not an angry person and I’ve always had the courage of my convictions, there is no guilt. There is no anger. They are two “stages” that I wont entertain. I don’t even contemplate explaining “Complicated Grief” to him or that I have PTSD.
There is unrelenting sadness. Sadness doesn’t even make Kübler-Ross model. And sadness is different from depression. I can distinguish between the two quite readily.
I waited for the longest time until he lifted his head.
“Oh Al.” was all he could muster. He shakes his head in despair and wipes a leaky tear from one eye and sinks his head into his hands dramatically once more.
I waited for him to compose himself. Its strange watching people not dealing with my grief. I drift back off into the land of disassociation for a few more seconds. As if I’m not really here, sipping wine. I wonder why the other people around me don’t say anything. I look at the carpet. I look back at him. I look at the fine bubbles of condensation forming on the wall of my wine glass. I look at the curtains and the swirly patterns in the carpet. I think its my turn to speak. He can’t cope with my answer. I try not to be ungracious.
There are times when I find myself comforting the people who don’t know how to react around me. I leave Disassocia I return to Pretendland.
“I have a long way to go” I hear myself saying. “Its OK.” I say, trying to make things sound normal and OK.
But in reality, there is not really anything “OK” about it.
