I think the idea of neat and orderly phases of grieving sounds amazing, but I am also certain that I don’t know anyone who has ever experienced it. As I walk my own path of grief, I’m also noticing periods of time that have included exhaustion, numbness, sarcasm, and the darkest of humor. The most recent experience has been anger, though.

I have not been especially good at the emotion of anger in the course of my life. As a moody, eating disordered teenager, my treatment providers gently suggested that I was burning with rage, an idea I shot down immediately. They were, of course, correct, but it has been hard for me to accept anger and express it in a productive way, not being destructive to myself or my relationships. I have gotten better at managing anger over the years, now that I am a less moody, less eating disordered middle-aged woman. Still, it often catches me by surprise.

When my younger brother died by suicide in 2010, all of my emotions seemed like they were turned up to full blast, including anger. I was angry at him, I was angry at myself, I was angry at the whole universe. In the wake of his death, we were all left picking up the pieces, the way forensic investigators gather every minute piece of an aircraft after a plane crash. During the process, I felt waves of rage overtake me, and I was left baffled and exhausted after they passed.

The death of my father has been a much different experience. For one thing, his death came at the end of a debilitating illness that he found frustrating and depressing. He was able to stay at home, and I was with him when he died. I was grateful for the opportunity to be with him at home, and he had gotten excellent care while he was ill. There seemed to be little to be angry about. And yet, almost a month later the anger seems to working its way into the tiny spaces in my life, subtle but unable to be ignored.

This is not the same rage I’ve felt before. It’s not annoyance or irritation. Anger comes in so many different flavors. I find myself feeling angry at people for things they couldn’t have helped. I’m angry at circumstances. I feel a particular fury at the time-off policies of my job, as they do not include bereavement leave of any sort. (’Merica!) Mostly though, my anger is looking for a target, rather than being driven by actual, rational reasons for frustration.

I am not alone in this experience. Sitting with many grieving people in my work, as well as friends and others in my life who are also on this path, I see the different ways anger can present itself. Someone feels angry at the people who were more interested in her daughter’s funeral than visiting her daughter when she was still alive. Another person feels angry at God for letting their spouse get ill and die at such a young age. Yet a third is angry at his family member who died because she wasn’t able to stop drinking. Their anger is not my anger, but I recognize it and can help my clients gently hold this energy.

What does one do about this sort of anger? In my case, there aren’t any steps I can take to ameliorate the situation. I can’t sit down with my dad and ask him why he decided to get cancer. I am highly unlikely to change major policies at my job to be kinder to people with recent losses, although it’s certainly something to consider trying. It seems that I need to do what I can with the anger, the frustration, the sadness, and that is to sit with the feeling, be kind to myself, and know that emotions never last forever, even if they feel like they will. Anger is a source of energy, and I am hoping to figure out what to do with it. Blow some stuff up? Or maybe try to make a positive change around me? For now, I think I’ll just try to combat the overwhelming fatigue I feel by allowing the energy of my anger to push me forward.

Discuss...

The day after telling my daughter about her grandfather’s death, she sincerely asked me, “Is Grandpa still dead?” I answered that he was, and reminded her that death is a permanent condition. Developmentally, it makes sense for her not to understand this seemingly obvious fact. On the other hand, do I really understand the idea of someone being gone forever? I know my dad is dead; I was there when he died. But there is still a part of me that wonders where he went. That part of me might still be looking for him, even though I know better.

My dad was not religious, or spiritual, and had no belief in any sort of afterlife. In line with his understanding of such matters, I cannot really allow myself to take comfort in the idea that he is out there somewhere, waiting for us. It would be nice to be able to, but it seems incongruent, somehow. I like to pretend that I am totally fine with the concept of death, that I simply accept that everything is finite, and I have a zenlike relationship with loss. This is, of course, a convenient lie that I enjoy telling myself. I’m like a preteen trying to convince the older kids that the movie we’re watching is totally fine, not too scary at all. I don’t even really believe myself, but I’ll put on a brave face no matter what.

The day of my father’s funeral, my daughter met a lot of extended family members. Living across the country, we don’t see them very often, and it was her first time meeting many of them. My aunt introduced herself to my daughter, saying “Your grandpa was my brother.” My daughter calmly replied to her, in the absolutely devastatingly nonchalant way of young children, “Well, your brother’s dead now.” If she had been older, or if she had been a more devious person, I would have wanted to shrivel up from embarrassment. But my sweet, kindhearted little girl was not trying to wound the great aunt whom she had met only moments earlier. Instead, it seemed that repeatedly pronouncing the factual state of her grandfather’s absence was how she was making sense of it for herself. Grandpa was here, I used to be able to talk to him, now I can’t because he’s dead.

Last year, our dog died. Ruby had been 13 years old and had also had cancer. I think this introduction to the world of grief and loss was helpful for my daughter, as she was able to begin to wrap her head around the concept of death, of someone being here one moment and not here the next. She never asked where Ruby had gone or any of the logistics of what one does with a dead dog. My daughter was sad, but accepted the information with a placidity beyond her years. However, a few months later, she found Ruby’s unicorn-festooned dog pajamas, a way we kept her warm in her old lady era. With true distress, my daughter cried, “Ruby left her pajamas here!” I explained that Ruby didn’t need the pajamas anymore, but my daughter remained concerned.

Do all dogs go to heaven? Do any dogs go to heaven? Is there a heaven to go to, anyway? While I don’t spend much time pondering the immortal soul of my late, beloved mutt, I do wonder if there is any way that the energy of those we have loved remains intact, somehow. Could I ever someday be reunited with a dog? Or a dad? Even in an abstract way? Are our loved ones gone, absolutely gone, when they die? Thousands of generations of theologians and philosophers and dudes on the internet have pondered the possibilities far longer than I have. The truth is that nobody knows, and the people who say they know are lying. So I’m left with tolerating ambiguity, something I don’t do particularly well.

I do believe that there is a wisdom to the frank acceptance with which my four-year-old approaches the subject of death. There is sadness, sure, but beyond that, loss is simply something to be taken in stride. We are here for now, and later we won’t be. We can talk about the people we’ve lost and the losses themselves without censoring ourselves too much. I can move forward after a loss without extensive, painful existential pondering. That can be good enough.