It’s been three years since my father died, enough time for grief to take a back corner. This is what I thought anyway. Or expected? But yesterday as I sat in a support group, my grief jumped from the shadows into my lap, where it weighed on me for 90 minutes.
I was in a room with eight or nine others, listening as they shared stories about people they had lost. There was a middle-aged man whose wife died a little over a year ago. He talked about how he missed the life advice she would give him. “Don’t take things personally, John*. It’s not about you. It’s about them.” A couple spoke of the son they lost a few years ago, the woman recounting memories of him as her husband gripped her hand. She smiled through tears.
Next to me was a woman whose son died a year ago. The police notified her. A few years before that, her dad passed. Another woman spoke of her husband’s sudden death and how hard it was to sleep in their bed the first night and many nights after. A young woman talked about how she doesn’t like to go to hospitals, because they remind her of where her father died. On the last day of his life she watched through a window as he was given CPR.
Before the discussion, we saw a video with counselors and people talking about the grief process. It was easy to sit there silently watching because nothing was expected of me. I blended in with everyone, just another person sad from a loved one dying.
It reminded me of film days during grade school. I felt protected by the darkness, the narrator droning on. But then the lights would come up, spoiling it. I could see and be seen.
How can one want to be ignored and also acknowledged? It makes no sense, but that is how I felt at the grief group. I wanted to stay on the edges, listening and offering nothing but sympathetic nods. A few times, I snuck a glance at the clock, wondering how it could move so slowly.
Everyone shared as I sat there mute, their expectations hanging in the air. You are not doing your part, Eileen. They’re all wondering.
The moderator asked how family and friends have supported us in our grief. Ok, might as well get it over with, I thought. I shared a brief story about how alone I felt in grieving my dad, and even guilty sometimes, as if I should be over it by now. I was stuck writing sad blog posts, while others had “moved on.”
Just a handful of sentences. Should’ve been easy enough to get through, but I felt my throat tightening and tears falling. I remembered a book I read once called She’s Come Undone. The woman next to me, who also cared for her dad, touched my shoulder and said, “It’s different when you’re the caregiver. People who aren’t doing that don’t understand. They don’t want to deal with it.”
Her words and the touch of her hand pushed me into the spotlight. A few others were looking at me with understanding expressions. Realizing people could see my pain unsettled me. Please let the film start again. Please let me out of this interminable meeting.
There was another day a few months ago when I wanted to bolt after venting to my supervisor, Jack*, about an issue with a coworker. I had been upset about it for several days, running it over in my mind at night as I struggled to sleep. Finally, I decided I needed to talk to him about it. He sat across from me, intently listening, never interrupting even to ask a question. He let me tell the story in my way, an impassioned rant that took several minutes to trickle off.
When I stopped, I felt embarrassed and nervous about Jack’s reaction. He waited a few beats and said he understood why I was upset. He said it hurt his heart that I was carrying stress around with me. He asked what I needed from him. What could he do to help me? His tone was gentle and his eyes were kind. He seemed content to sit there indefinitely, as if he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Yet he’s the owner of the company.
A few weeks ago, I had my regular one-on-one with Jack. I don’t know how it came up, but I mentioned how grateful I was that he hired me after I’d been out of the workforce caring for my father so long—7 years. I told him after my dad passed, I spent two years looking for a job in my field without success. I usually wouldn’t make it past the resume stage, just countless email rejections. I assumed employers were turned off by the extended gap. It’s about what you’ve done lately, and I hadn’t done anything.
Once a recruiter told me I needed a “filler job” to explain my absence. I described what I had done for my dad—not just caregiving and medical appointments but managing his finances, reconciling his back tax issues with the IRS, and fighting for his VA benefits. It felt more like a life manager role than a caregiver one. “I mean something else,” she said, “An actual job.”
Did she expect me to make something up? I wrestled with the devil on my shoulder, its voice cajoling me to simply add five or six years to my last job. Most companies won’t even check, it said. This flitted through my mind, lasting only seconds before I dismissed it. But I felt ashamed that I had the thought at all.
Once I did get an interview. The hiring manager said it was admirable I had cared for my dad, calling it meaningful work. As I thanked her, feeling relieved, she added that I was “brave” to include it on my resume. “Most people wouldn’t put something like that on there,” she said. About 20 minutes later, she stood up, signaling the end of our session. She’d asked virtually no questions, nor given me a chance to ask any of her. I walked to my car in a daze, taking off my new perfect-for-interviews blazer and throwing it in the trunk. I knew I wouldn’t wear it again, nor would I hear from this woman.
After listening to some of this, Jack said, “Eileen, I admire what you did for your father. I don’t see it as a negative; I see it as a positive. It tells me a lot about your character. It didn’t even occur to me to be concerned about your time off. And it was clear you still had the skills I was looking for.”
Again, tears in my eyes that came from nowhere. I don’t know if it was due to Jack’s kindness or memories of my dad that flashed before me as I was talking to him. Maybe it was both, but I was teetering on a precipice. Not a good place to be during a meeting with my boss. After three years, I’d brushed up against the pain of my father’s death. It was fresh again. And Jack’s compassion made me feel exposed in a powerful but uncomfortable way. I was in the light. There was nowhere to hide.
Maybe the same thing happened at my grief session yesterday. I was seen and heard in an unfamiliar way. Since my father died, I haven’t experienced that much. Nor have I throughout most of my life. Usually, I seek refuge in the background.
*Not real names