When an Introvert Grieves: I Am an Actor

The show was A Few Good Men. I was a company member, hanging out with the actors backstage during the show, when I saw a transformation that will remain in my mind for the rest of my life.

He played a young lieutenant, harsh and by-the-book. The actor was anything but. We were kidding about, laughing, when he heard his cue. He excused himself, stepped up to the entrance, bowed his head and took a deep breath. In the next five seconds, he physically, mentally, and emotionally turned into the lieutenant. He looked different, and when he stepped out onstage, he sounded different.

He transformed.

This is me, in the weeks following Rachel’s death. Every time I step out of the house, I am “onstage.” I straighten myself, mentally and emotionally, and I compartmentalize the grief. When someone asks, I respond, “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

This isn’t an attempt to deceive, or even to keep everyone at bay, which is my initial instinct. It’s self-preservation—and it’s the truth. At that moment, I’m fine. And I don’t want to talk about it.

As a friend of mine warned, grief is a “wily beast,” gripping and occasionally unexpected. The grief remains raw and real, and triggers appear to be everywhere. Sometimes it takes a major effort not to collapse into tears. Which is what happened to me Easter Sunday at church. The kids had a program, and when they started to sing, I lost it. I left, composed myself, and held it together long enough to get through the anthem (I sing in the choir). After that, I bolted.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m an introvert…or just odd. But I do not want to talk about my grief, especially in public. I KNOW people care, and I don’t mind if they express it.

Because the truth is…I don’t want to talk about. And I do NOT want to show it. This doesn’t mean I’m not feeling it; it just means I’d rather do my grieving in private, or with a close friend or two. But I did want to say a few things here, so that those who care might understand how I feel.

1)   I lost a child. So did Phyllis, who was, in all the important ways, a second mother. Not a handicapped child, or a child who was expected to die. A child, and the feelings are as raw as if she’d been “normal.” She will always be gone, and there is a PERMANENT hole in my life. It will get easier to live with, but it will always be there.

2)   Just because she was handicapped did not make her death “easier.” Yes, I’ve lived for almost 30 years with the idea that I would outlive her, but after all this time, we got complacent. It MIGHT have been easier had she died sooner, or after a long illness (such as she had two years ago), but I don’t know that for certain.

3)   Because of this, her death was UNEXPECTED. She was well Monday. Baseline. Life as normal. Tuesday she started acting uncomfortable, but no more than if she’d been constipated or had an upset tummy. Wednesday, she was worse, but we still thought she might have a UTI, but little more. By Thursday morning, we’d removed life support. THIS WAS SUDDEN!

4)   Yes, I believe she’s with Jesus. Probably dancing with my mother. This does NOT make grief easier. We’re all still adjusting to the changes in our lives. That takes time.

5)   Words often meant to help actually hurt. We know people want to help. We understand. But you don’t have to, and saying anything that hurts only makes the grief—and our “guilt” that we are not “over it”—worse. The BEST thing anyone can say is “I’m sorry for your loss. If you need to talk, I’m here.” Anything more is just risky for us.

6)   We need to hibernate. That’s OK. Don’t feel as if we need to “come out of our shell.” No. We don’t. We need to hibernate and heal in our own ways in our own time. We are intelligent adults. If we need help, we know how to ask.

As I write this, we’re approaching the two-month anniversary of her death. I still have periods in which I’m non-functional; Phyllis still has days. We are both better. We are both trying to get back to day-to-day living. I, for one, am going to be broke shortly if I don’t. Our “regular” lives must go on.

And the best thing anyone can do for us at this point is to do exactly that. Treat us as you would every day, even if you know that I’m “acting.” Simply leave a space open for us if we suddenly burst into tears. Don’t try to “say the right things.” It’s OK to be silent and wait.

To be honest, there are no words that will help, no actions. It’s all about us working through what we have to, and in the time it takes. Whatever time that is. Until we're fine, for real.