More thoughts on grieving

I've found the book Surviving the Death of a Sibling to be comforting.  I guess that's the best word for it.  Seeing how universal many of the physical and emotional ticks I'm developing is somehow comforting.  I want to quote a few paragraphs that I found to be surprisingly accurate.

From the chapter on the reactions of others:  Another condolence no-no is to make false promises or statements that on the surface sound very caring and sincere, but are really just fluff.  A good example is the ever popular "Call me if you need me."  Rest assured, a grieving person will NEVER call you.  It's not that they don't need or want you around, because they probably need all the help they can get.  The reason "Call me if you need me" never works is because most grieving people simply lack the emotional energy to call and ask for help.  Some feel too embarrassed, while others recognize the statement as insincere to begin with.  It's probably a better idea to say something like "I'm going to call you tomorrow to see how you're doing."  Better yet, decide on a time to visit, and then follow through.

This is very accurate.  Some of the best responses I've gotten have been from good friends or relatives who keep checking in with me, rather than waiting for me to call them.   They assume the initiative, because I have none.  Sometimes even  the smallest kindnesses make me cry with gratitude.  My friend Danny who fed & watered the boys while we were out of town and insisted on coming over twice a day to play with them, when once would have been sufficient. 

What helps:  Making promises you can't keep, offering pithy insights, minimizing a sibling's loss, and ignoring the situation by not saying anything are by far the most common condolence mistakes we've probably all made at one time or another.  But what can you do if  you really do want to help?
    If you can't use the old hackneyed expressions or send the standby staple--the drippy sympathy card with a preprinted verse--what can you do?  First, say what you feel:  "This is terrible!  You must be heartbroken."  Don't try to come up with a theological reason for an untimely death (trust me, they're aren't any) or some powerful, otherwordly explanation for why the mourner is suffering.  Just be honest and sincere.
    When my brother died, a friend of his called and said simply, "This really sucks.  Your brother didn't deserve this, and neither do you."  This was the most genuine expression of sympathy I received.  Often it's the small expressions of sympathy that comfort the most.

If you're an atheist, or at least a non-theist, as I prefer, saying he's in a better place doesn't help.  He was doing very well here on earth with his family and friends, thank you.

And finally from the chapter on searching for solitude, she talks about the overwhelming need to be alone.  The solitude feels right, like the special spot on the sofa we claim as our own.  But craving solitude and actually having quality time alone can be two very different things.
    During this time, my life seems overwhelmingly cluttered; caring for my family, working, cooking, even walking the dogs are all obstacles to what I really need--solitude.  So I try to find relief in small ways.  For instance, I keep to myself at school, eating lunch at my desk rather than in the crowded faculty room I used to love.  Besides, I'm feeling increasingly uncomfortable in the faculty room these days.  The other teachers have stopped asking me how I'm doing; most seem to avoid talking to me altogether. It's that tenuous time between the actual loss and what other perceive should be an end to mourning; they've extended their sympathies, but now it's time to move on.  They have no idea that the real pain of my loss has only just begun.
    At home, I've stopped answering the phone and glare at it when it dares to ring.  I turn down lunch and dinner invitations from friends and feel almost annoyed when they thing to include me in their parties or other celebrations.  Can't they see I've changed?  I'm not the person I was several weeks ago.  Their phone calls and social gatherings seem trivial and specious.  All I really want is to be left alone.

This is probably the strongest reaction I'm experiencing right now.  Everything is a struggle, and even little things like making plane reservations to go back to DC for one of his memorial services seems like too much work.  At work, I'm on auto pilot.  Don't talk to me, don't ask me to think, just tell me what the problem is and give me access to the computer and I'll fix it.  By the end of the day I'm emotionally wrung out.  All I want to do is sit on the couch and pet the cats.