THIS WAS DIFFICULT to write. It is both extremely personal and absolutely universal. When I was first asked to write about this topic, I immediately turned down the assignment. What could I write that hasn’t already been written? The topic is rife with clichés and banality.
The topic is grief.
Admit it or not, we’re living in very mean times. Today kindness has become an exception and not the norm. I see this meanness almost everywhere, and one can hardly leave home or watch the news without confronting vicious, spiteful, explicit displays of meanness. For many, meanness is mistaken for strength. They are not the same. Strength comes from within; meanness is a choice. We should all possess sympathy and empathy for others. This isn’t supernatural or something to be learned, it should be hardwired into us, simply a part of being human. Without exception, empathy is a good thing. Sympathy should never, ever be considered ‘weakness.’
If you’re one of the mean ones, if you believe empathy and sympathy are ‘weak,’ then this isn’t for you, although the day will come when you’ll want someone with empathy to come into your life, because grief will come to you. It’s inevitable and unavoidable. All humans will experience grief in one of its many forms. It’s universal. Unless you’re a sociopath, grief is an emotion you can’t dodge.
Someone close to you, someone you love, will die. You’ll feel horrible. You’ll feel a depth of despair like nothing you’ve ever felt before. When grief comes to you, and it will, you’ll want others to express their empathy and sympathy for you.
I’ve lived long enough to have lost many friends to death. I lived through the AIDS crisis; I’ve lost friends to illness and accidents and warfare. I’ve had friends senselessly murdered. I’ve known far too many who took their own lives. I’ve lost beloved pets, whose absence hurt almost as much as the loss of friends. I’ve lost parents and other family members. I’ve attended memorials and funerals, where I’ve listened to priests who never knew the deceased express empty platitudes meant to honor the passed-on, serving no purpose other than to leave the survivors feeling extra-heartbroken. I’ve offered condolences and a shoulder to cry on, I’ve ‘been there’ for them, but there’s always been some distance, a psychological barrier that keeps deep grief at bay. I shared their grief, but it wasn’t mine.
Then one day grief came to me.
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Oh, I saw it coming. Intellectually I was ready, but it’s impossible to prepare for the emotional impact. It was a million-volt shock to the system; it enveloped me like a cocoon from which I couldn’t escape. It was devastating and debilitating. It was the ultimate darkness, and it was all mine.
It had been a slow, painful illness. Pancreatic cancer takes its time, but it’s 100% fatal. The diagnosis is a death sentence. I had become her full-time caregiver, a sacred duty that I had to perform. I had to be stronger as she grew weaker. That fateful morning I held her hand as she died.
I was numb. In the space of one last breath all the energy I’d put into her shifted to me. The inevitable had come, she was gone and I was alone. What was I going to do?
I took about half an hour to come to grips with what had happened, then I got busy with the ‘business of death.’ I called hospice for the doctor to come and pronounce her dead; he did his things and called the transport guys to come and collect her body for delivery to the funeral home. I led the guys to the bedroom where she lay, then I lost it — the moment I saw her, I knew she was truly dead, I’d never see or talk to her again. I couldn't watch. Later I reviewed the video from my garage-mounted surveillance camera and saw the gurney go into the van; it wasn’t a hallucination or a bad dream, she was gone, gone for good, permanent and final.
The busyness of visiting the funeral home, signing documents and other paperwork held the grief at bay temporarily. That afternoon hospice sent over a grief counselor. I’d always been skeptical about those folks, and my skepticism was confirmed. She spent about an hour with me and she was fine, but not useful. She listened with empathy, but offered no real advice.
A few days later I attended a grief-counseling group, but it was useless for me. I didn’t need them; I kept my own counsel, which worked best for me. I’d already come to the realization that no one can advise or guide one through grief. Managing grief is an individual thing, everyone deals with it differently, and I have no real advice to impart to anyone, I can only tell my tale and hope it may benefit others in some way. I’ll mention that my dog was a great source of comfort; animals know things we don’t, and he was a very good boy.
The next few days were rough. I couldn’t sleep, and a cocktail of drugs became a respite; I feel no guilt admitting this, and today I no longer use them. The following days and weeks were a strange combination of brutal, overwhelming grief and annoyance. I would’ve preferred to spend my time and energy grieving, but I had to deal with annoying banks and lawyers, crushing medical debt, and other unexpected things.
I’ll take a moment to address two things I’ve learned about our terribly inadequate American medical system. First, don’t believe anyone who says, “I don’t want the government messing with my healthcare.” Oh yes, you do! My experience with Medicare was outstanding. It paid for what it’d agreed to pay, and I didn’t have to worry about claims being denied, which is so common with our profoundly immoral for-profit health-insurance companies.
Second, based on the poor treatment I witnessed, if I should get sick, I’ll avoid hospitalization; I’d rather die at home in agony. I understand the underfunding and understaffing, but the doctors were profoundly less than empathetic.
One particular doctor, a ‘specialist’ who’d never even looked at her labs or imaging, misdiagnosed her with terminal liver cancer. Because I already knew she’d never submit to chemotherapy, I asked him, “How long does she have if this goes untreated?" He smirked and replied, "Oh, about six weeks.” Then he literally ran out of the room, and we never saw him again. We were stunned. I asked the nurse, “What do I do?’ Her gloomy reply was, “I suggest you make arrangements.”
My worry turned to abject terror. I went home and made a phone call nobody wants to make. This sent me into a tailspin of fear, depression and grief that sent me back to the phone, this time to call a psychiatrist.
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Fortunately the psychiatrist was an old friend who pulled me out of the hopeless darkness I was experiencing. It’s a damn shame that reaching out for mental health care carries such a stigma; that’s something else that needs to change.
Ultimately, after ten months of struggling with poor communication and misinformation at the hospital, our primary-care physician gave an accurate diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, which was equally horrible but not ‘dead in six weeks.’ Thankfully she delivered the terrible news with empathy rather than meanness, and didn’t run from the room. (This was our experience, it should not be taken as advice of any kind.)
When grief came to embrace me with its gnarly arms, I found I had a good support group of friends who stepped up to provide friendship and comfort. I realized I have friends all over the world. They were all helpful and kind. There were some I leaned on harder than others because they’d been there and done that before me, and I relied on their experience and advice as I navigated grief and the journey that would become my new life.
There were some who kept their distance, not knowing what to say, and that’s fine. I lost one friend of over twenty years; when I was at my most broken, he became hostile and cruel. The timing was bad, but I don’t need to associate with the soulless. There were a few who sent condolences simply as a matter of feeling religion-based obligation, and I never heard from them again. In times of crisis you really do learn who your friends are, and I have friends everywhere and love them all.
As expected, things for me were dreadful and terrifying initially. Waves of grief would spontaneously engulf me, bringing tears and debilitation. I didn’t fight the waves, I rode them, determined to reach the shore, where eventual joy and cheer might meet me. I mostly kept to myself and did plenty of ‘bedrotting,’ hoping to wake up in the old world that was permanently taken from me. I never got angry and worked hard to keep the morbidity at bay.
Knowing I have more years behind me than ahead, I didn’t want to become ‘the sad old guy.’ Grief is not something to overcome or get over. It never goes away, but in time (for me anyway) it did abate. You simply learn to live with it and not let it dominate you.
With time, each day I felt less sad, I can’t say ‘happy,’ but I began to feel the possibility of joy and happiness coming over the horizon. I didn’t get in a hurry. I slowly changed our, now my, home. I found some of her art projects, begun but uncompleted as she got sicker, and in her honor I completed them, a lonely collaboration. They now reside around the house as reminders of her.
After about six months I came out of the darkness. I hadn’t gone extinct, I’d evolved. I wasn’t the same person I’d been before; I was different and, I think, better. I’d found a new life and at last felt good, so good that I felt bad for feeling good, like I’d somehow done it wrong. Silly thought.
I became more social and began going out more. One evening over drinks a friend told me that I was ‘softer’ and, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Dale, but there’s a new feminine energy coming from you.” I got that, and he was astute to notice. When she died I felt a piece of me had gone with her; perhaps that ‘feminine energy’ was what she’d left for me?
I’m not religious, but I do believe in a continuation of consciousness after the body finally fails. I had my own near-death experience once, and there’s enough anecdotal evidence indicating that death isn’t oblivion, but something. I recall a statement made by the brilliant Nobel laureate Richard Feynman; to paraphrase: “The body isn’t a thing, it’s a pattern. Think of a wave approaching the beach. You see its shape, you see its form, you feel its power. Then it crashes on the beach, and its form disappears, but the water itself, each molecule of water remains.” I find comfort in those words.
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So this is what I’ve learned about grief. I can only describe my journey, which was mine alone. Everyone deals with it in their own way. There is no ‘correct’ way, only yours. I’m not offering advice or guidance to anyone; you’ll walk your own road and find your own destination, which will be right for you. Try not to succumb to the meanness that permeates society today. Don’t be bitter. Be kind, because one day you will want, no: need, kindness to come back to you.
There’s only one way to avoid grief, and that’s to never experience love, and you don’t want that.
I was reluctant to write this, but if these words benefit just one person, I’ll be glad it was published. This is dedicated to my wife of 33 years, exactly half my lifetime. Bernadette departed at 5:36 on the morning of August 14, 2025.
I also must thank publisher John Duncan for gently pressing me to write this, I wouldn’t have written it otherwise. I hope this helps someone.
If you’d like to comment or reach out, you can reach me at dalesv650@gmail.com or via Facebook. I’ll respond to everyone.
