Tonight I climbed that hill to the cemetery where my mother is resting. 5 December is her birthday. And I wanted to see her because I had to talk to her. Right now I am hurting the people I love, and my heart is full of questions. I so much believed in my power to save her, that her death left me literally exhausted, physically and psychologically.
As I knelt besides her grave, the ground was cold and damp from recent rain storms. Her best friend had cared to bring some flowers. Her grave is bare, as she refused to have tomb stone, or sophisticated things. She wanted to be buried among her Boxer dogs in our enclosed garden, but alas! French law is ruling this out. Six feet under and closed oak coffin with people you don’t know.
I have chosen for her a quiet place nesting against the wall of a small building holding the remains of Catholic priests. The cemetery is facing the west, and the sky is wonderful there, with salty ocean winds chasing away rain clouds. In Autumn the whole river valley below is veiled by fog. It is really a nice place, and she deserves all of it.
I am writing to share my feelings, but also to help. My beloved Belka encouraged me to write again, and more, with simple words about grief, and other issues I was facing as a human being. Of course, there are books, encyclopedias, but what matters is what you have been through and the message you can personally forward. What matters is the practical experience.
A few days after leaving France, as she was waiting for her train in Moscow, she saw a man approaching the rails, and really believed he would jump. So she drew herself so close to him, and looked at him, just to make her point. You jump, I jump. The guy was so distressed, he backed away, and we shared a laugh because it is possible he had no intention to jump at all.
But what matters is that she acted. She is aware and going out of her way. And that is a wonderful difference, the kind of which is filling my heart with joy and pride. This is my beloved Belka. So generous and caring. And her message has touched my heart, too. I am learning a lot from her.
I recall reading online about a person who had lost her dog to CHD, and it was so moving, as my own dog was dying from the same disease. I told myself I would share all my experience fighting that terrifying curse, but the folder with all the papers is still resting on my library’s shelf. It could really help Boxer dog owners, but I could not write about it. It is a shame. Really.
I do not pretend I can help people who are grieving, but I can at least try to write about my own experiences on a daily basis. Grieving is normal and healthy, but personally it is coming to the point I cannot face my days anymore. It is all the more dangerous that I have been recovering from severe depression for two years.
The first weeks after her death have been filled with shock and disbelief. They call it the denial stage. Then began the questioning, and finally the anger. I was angry at myself, for being angry, as I am quite violent and had issues with it in the past. Three years ago I had a therapy, after landing in hospital emergencies for the third time, for so-called panic attacks. And I changed, my relation to others softened. I felt more in harmony with society.
So the first step is to take positive action and ask for help, because after losing my dogs, I really became angry and dangerous to society. I began to fight with my mother about financial issues, and then about petty things. Ultimately I understood she was afraid of me, and this was like a bucket of cold water thrown at my face. How low can a man go if he is to threaten his own mother?
I thought, it worked before, as I was a soldier, I used to run, so I laced my rangers and ran every day five, six, seven miles in cross-country. I remember a day when snow was flying and filling my mouth. As we had no running hot water, it was always quite adventurous to wash perspiration away. It felt good, though.
But this time, the magic did not work. My nights were filled with nightmares. I could not cope with increasing work pressure in the forest, and so the vicious circle closed itself. Sometimes you have to break out, or break down. But the first step is to understand things are wrong, and you need help.
Asking for help is something more difficult than you think. First, it does mean you cannot get out by yourself, that you are failing. But failure it is when you don’t want help, and you think you are strong, but in fact you are just so scared. There will be a time of peace, as the doors you have closed are holding ghosts away, but they will manage to get back at you. So what are you going to do then? Running away is not the solution. The solution is to stand your ground and face your suffering.
So begins the healing process, as Lao Tseu said, the longest journey begins with a little step forward. Let yourself get overwhelmed and understand that grief is part of you, it is the love you have for the departed. And this love must not be fought against, but assimilated and distilled into a higher form, as if the departed was now resting within your chest. And she or he truly are.
I know how hard it is to just get up in the morning, and friends say, get a job, have a vacation. There is truth in it, because you need to have something to do. You cannot let the process diminish you to the point of sleeping all the time, forgetting about food, and watching the ceiling of a room. What you must know is that the way you are handling sorrow and guilt now will make a huge difference later. But let’s not pretend that having a job will ease the sorrow and make your recovery easier. It is like pushing dust under a rug. The dust is still there.
My little victory of today is that I put on the alarm clock and actually got up early in the morning. Oh, it was not easy, as yet another rainstorm was raging outside, and really my cat was such a fantastic sleeping pillow. But I got up and did all the things of the morning, and I felt good about it. Now I have more time in the day, and will be able to travel to town for afternoon walk.
Beyond grief there is destruction of routine, and habits. Both will appear to you hurting and shallow now that the departed one left such a void. You will think, I love breakfast, but where is she? Or why am I still cooking for two? My grief is showing up under the shower, after running. And the same image is coming back. I see her lying in that resuscitate room, with tubes everywhere, and her tongue out, bruised body, and I think, that body carried me, brought me to life, and I hugged her, and cared for her hair, stroked her back in winter. All this flesh is mine, too. Oh.
Some people say that we grieve because we feel how fragile life is, how fragile our life is. But it is not true, at least not in my case. I grieve because I love her, because we are so much alike. I am grieving the project we had to travel to Vladivostock by train. And I am grieving because she would not see my children. But above all, I am torn by the memory of those long days of suffering.
I am so proud of her. She was a dancer and model. She trained her body and mind. And in spite of disease, her heart was holding on. Five times did the heart stop and go. Five times. Oh, Mother, how proud I am, and how sorry I am about all of this. So sorry.
