Black Lives, Deaths, and Grief matter

 I’ve been journeying with Black people through grief before the Pandemic, but even more so since 2020.  For 25 years I have walked in this space with my community, as a hospital and hospice chaplain, educator, activist, and death doula. I’ve learned that grief is not just associated with the death of a loved one. We are grieving the loss of normalcy, the loss of jobs, the loss of peace and relative stability, and now we must deal with the loss of community when we need it most, due to COVID restrictions. Many are carrying the generational grief and trauma of their ancestors. We carry disenfranchised grief due to the inhumane system of mass incarceration. Additionally, we are grieving the loss of possibilities, dreams, and opportunities. For Black people, loss is experienced daily, through food deserts and housing discrimination, through the inability to get a fair and equitable wage, and through police and community violence. We must consider this when talking about what it means to experience a “good death.”

Just as all humans breathe, all humans grieve. Grief is a natural response to loss. The idea that all humans breathe in the same way and all humans grieve in the same way is erroneous. In fact, both are faulty assumptions; we do not all breathe in the same way. Our breathing can be greatly impacted by our physiology. For example, my sista friend’s mother has pulmonary fibrosis, and over time her breathing has become drastically slower and increasingly labored. Our breathing can also be impacted ecologically as we continue to cut down the trees that give us life-affirming oxygen, and environmentally—as we’ve witnessed with corporations flooding less affluent communities with chemicals, truck traffic, and other pollutants which have increased the percentage of people living with asthma and other respiratory diseases. Anti-Black policing also impacts the way we breathe—like the way a knee to the neck can be an obstruction to your breathing as with Jaises Elam, or the cause of a premature death as with George Floyd. And we do not all experience grief in the same way either.

Each culture has its own approaches to dealing with death and grief, which almost always involve core tenets and shared understandings, spiritual beliefs, rituals, expectations, and etiquette. Those of us who enter the lives of people who trust us to hold their stories, their grief, and even their hope must know what it means to be able to acknowledge the inherent value in everyone whose path we cross, especially those whose gender, sexual, racial, and ethnic identity is different than our own. We must also be aware of the ways systemic injustices affect grief and the dying experience. Because almost every system within the United States is either founded upon or informed by racism and anti-Blackness, it is critical that we learn more about the unique and unparalleled experiences of Black people specifically and the Global Majority in general.

As a doula, I have come to recognize the ways my siblings’ lives are and have been consistently shortened or burdened by racism and how it impacts end-of-life experiences. Although death care, death positivity, and death doulas are becoming more mainstream, we must consider what a “good death” is for people of African descent. For real, like what does it mean?  However, we must not stop there; we must also invest our time, energy, and resources into ensuring a good life for people of African descent. If we aren’t invested in the latter, how do we even begin to consider the former?

Our Change Companion

 Life is good, relatively speaking. I mean, there is still a pandemic, mass incarceration, violence against Black people, violence against my Nonbinary siblings, high costs for housing and the medications that people need for living a quality life, complete disregard for the planet, food desserts, etc. There's still a lot happening in our world- a lot of it is not good. 

I’m just saying that life is good for me, with all of the stuff that ain't good taken into consideration. I don't have any pressing health concerns. I am not overwhelmed by debt, and I can do the work I love for the communities I love. I am surrounded by a loving and supportive family- biological and chosen. I haven't experienced the death of a loved one in a while. And I just got married. I really do feel good. And that's why I am writing this little letter. Well, it has just become a letter. 

Jamie, a follower in the footsteps of Black Jesus,
To all my siblings in Southwest Philly, South Jersey and beyond, Hope and healing to you from God and this #Phillyjawn. 

I don't want you to misunderstand grief because grief is not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe it ain't a good thing either. Neither bad nor good, grief just is. 

Rather than thinking of grief as something expected when there is a change that is perceived as negative, I wonder if we might see grief as our change companion. Change, even when positive, like a new job, ending a toxic relationship, the birth of a baby, a move or a marriage, is a disruption in existing connections. And grief often accompanies these disruptions. 

It can be helpful to identify the changes you've experienced not related to death so that you can allow yourself and others time and space to grieve. Those losses also impact us. 

This is week one not serving as a hospital chaplain, full or part-time. It's a loss, albeit a chosen one. As I sit here thinking about how excited I am to continue moving into this new space, I also recognize the people and things I will miss. My whole routine is changing- and that will take some getting used to. And yes, I am Stevie Wonder Overjoyed (you've seen the pics with me cheesing all big), I am also acknowledging the grief that is present. I'm just pausing to notice and name it for myself. I didn't do that in the last couple of weeks. 

So as you go, may you too notice and name your change companion. May you imagine and cultivate rituals that you find supportive through your changes. May you not rush through the process even when it feels uncomfortable. I know you're strong. Strength is also saying “I need some help with this.” And may joy be an intimate friend. 

Also, I have no idea why I did that whole letter part. It sounded good when I started writing. 

Remembering Ourselves

 Memory is a funny thing. Remembering, even for those of us with good memories, is only partly accurate and often incomplete. James Olney once said that Richard Wright is a powerful example of the autobiographer of memory- a creative memory that shapes and reshapes the historical past in the image of the present, making the past as necessary to this present as this present is the inevitable outcome of that past. I am on a journey of reframing/reshaping my history such that the pieces of me that were left behind, silenced, or hidden are now able to be fully present- not that I am about to start sharing all of my business with people. But I am re-membering myself whole. This means that I am no longer only including the most traumatic and painful experiences of my life when telling my story. Even the way I was remembering my story was causing me unnecessary grief. I needed to take another look at my life.

That look came around this time three years ago. I posted a picture on Facebook. It was to wish my cousin a Happy Birthday. It was a picture of us at my grandmother’s house. The picture shows me with this smile that brought tears to my eyes. It was in looking at that picture that I realized that I had experienced more than trauma as a child. It was looking at that picture that I remembered joy.

This reframing of my life's narrative has been a helpful tool as I navigate my way through grief. I didn’t realize that I had unprocessed grief from my childhood. And that unprocessed grief was impacting me in ways that I couldn’t quite explain. It was impacting the way I viewed my life; the way I understood my life and the way I told my story. I needed to process this stuff. And one of the ways that I process stuff is journaling and writing poetry. So, I wrote. 

Sleep Without Sleeping was the poem that came out of this “Re-Membering” and processing period. It was in this poem that I revisited this unprocessed grief and shame. It was here that I went back to talk to the six-year-old me so that the thirty-six-year-old me could experience some healing. I’m not going to share the entire poem here.  You’ll have to look up Getting Naked to Get Free. But here is an excerpt:

I told that six-year-old, “It wasn’t your fault.”

I told that thirteen-year-old, “You shouldn’t have had to go to the clinic alone.”

I told that twenty-year-old, “You are special just the way you are.”

I told that twenty-seven-year-old, “You don’t have to hide who you are. You just have to be the best you.”

I told that thirty-year-old, “You’ve come a long way but still have work to do.”

I told that thirty-five-year-old, “It is okay to smile and cry because it doesn’t say you’re weak.”

I told that thirty-six-year-old, “Get yourself some sleep.”

Because I had learned to sleep without sleeping, to always be aware of every movement around me. And at thirty-six, it was becoming tiring.

It was necessary for me to address some grief that had gone unchecked for years. Perhaps you need to do the same. Don’t be afraid to go back, to revisit, to re-examine old wounds, for your healing. I’m not suggesting that this is necessary for everyone. However, so often, we try to move forward, to press our way, before we've had the opportunity to do the hard work of healing. Yes, healing is work. But it’s worth it. This is not judgment for those who moved forward with the wounds before getting the healing. I moved forward, too. I was surviving. But let's examine where we are today. Do we have an opportunity today to set aside time for healing? Do we have time for remembering ourselves whole?    

*Frederika, J.. Getting Naked to Get Free. iUniverse. Kindle Edition.*

Name Your Grief

It was during the Fall of 2019 that I was asked to give the eulogy for my cousin. His wife, my biological cousin, died roughly thirty-years earlier. Although I had only seen him a handful of times over the years, I loved him. I loved him and was honored to be trusted to eulogize him.  On the morning of the funeral, I arrived earlier than everyone. Although it's a significant part of my work and life, dealing with death and dying sometimes leaves me feeling inadequate. It's because I never want to say the wrong thing. I am still nervous about not showing up the way people need me to show up. I even walk away from end-of-life rituals, hoping I provided what was needed. And I know that this is work that has called me.

I'm glad I arrived early because it allowed me to deal with the overwhelming sadness that washed over me. It was like a flood. The sadness bubbled up so quickly that I could not prepare for the tears. They were warm. They fell fast. I walked, no, I ran back to my car and cried- a deep guttural cry. I missed Pauline. That's my cousin's name. And at that moment, I remembered that grief may show whenever it pleases. And that day, grief smacked me right across the face. I sat in the car, called my significant other, and cried. He said, "I told you not to do that funeral." But I wanted to do it. And I knew that I had people with whom I could be free to name and express my feelings. I knew that after today, I would not have to be alone- if I didn’t want to be alone. 

Once the tears stopped, I applied a little more make-up and returned to pray with the family- my family. But it was hard. I know that grief and loss are part of life – for all of us. Everyone is grieving; yet, the way we deal with grief leaves much to be desired. Instead of encouraging people to name their grief, they are encouraged to ignore it. Rather than sitting in the discomfort of their grief, people are told to push it aside. We treat grief like the RONA and those who have it as if they should self-quarantine until they are no longer sad or angry or anxious and can highlight for us how this loss has made them a better person. Quite frankly, I'm an ordained clergywoman, and I am still not so sure that every loss will make or has made me better. I’ll admit that part of me believes that some wounds are neither healed by tears nor time.  

What are we to do with the wounds (or grief) that linger? Yes, some wounds heal without much difficulty. For example, if you cut yourself while making dinner. If it's a small cut, you can rinse it, maybe apply a small bandage and go about your business. But not all wounds are small cuts. Not all wounds heal without difficulty - some wounds cause significant damage requiring much more than a Band-Aid. I think the same is valid for grief. Some of the grief we experience, we can navigate our way through without much difficulty. But what are we to do when it feels like we are being worn down by grief? What are we to do when it feels like death and loss keep coming?

I don't know that there is just one answer, but I know the importance of naming what you feel. I know what it means to have a person or community with whom you can articulate your feelings. We all need a safe and non-judgemental place- a place where we don't have to worry about being shamed because we are grieving. 

Do you have a place to name your grief? Do you have people with whom you can share?  If you don't, I recommend finding a therapist, a coach, a counselor, a Doula or Midwife, or even a friend. Find someone you trust enough to let in to hold space for you- someone who can hold your story and hold you, too.

Just Be Present And…

More than ever, we need people who will hold us and our stories. Many of us have been carrying grief for a long time. This grief can be heavy. Sometimes it sits on us. It weighs us down. It keeps coming, and just when we thought we could come up for air, grief grabs us again. We need to have people around us to hold us and our stories. We need people who will be present and listen. I’m learning how to do this.

The problem with listening though is that it is so easy not to do. As much as I like to believe that I am an excellent, well, better than average listener, I know that this is not always true. And I listen to people for a living. More than just receiving words and sounds, listening requires us to give our full attention to someone other than ourselves. It requires humility, curiosity, availability, and, perhaps, vulnerability. Listening draws us closer; it invites us into an intimate dance with the speaker- a dance that can be complicated when the listener is also grieving. The fundamental paradox of listening is that it requires that we bring all of ourselves to the moment and keep ourselves out of the way, simultaneously. Active listening requires us to pay attention to what is said, what isn't being said, body language, tone of voice, and more. It necessitates that we notice and honor silence- that we learn how to sit with silence. And oh, how we like to fill the silence; it makes so many of us uncomfortable.

Intuitively we sense when people aren't listening. Sometimes they are looking away, or their responses don't align with what you've said. It frustrates us when people try to finish our sentences when we are talking. Sometimes, nodding and throwing in an "mmm-hmm" here and there sound more rehearsed than it does reflective. Have you ever felt like you weren't being heard? Eventually, even when we are hurting, we will stop talking if we believe no one is listening.

When people are grieving, listening is necessary; providing answers is not. I know for many of us, fixing is what we do. We like to fix things. I mean, I want to fix stuff. But I've learned, over time, that fixing stuff ain't really my job. Listening allows me to be present, with curiosity and without judgment- without escaping the emotions present in the moment to solve a problem. In listening, we do not rush people from grief to gratitude. We listen as people describe the pain they feel as they wake up in the middle of the night to a bed half empty. We do not rush them from pain to praise. We listen to the few words they've been able to speak between the sobs and the silence. And when people are grieving, our ability to be present and just listen is so critical. It's human. It says, "I SEE YOU." When people are grieving, honoring their humanity is to hear their grief, see the grief, and acknowledge the grief. At some point, we can talk about navigating our way through and living with it. But, sometimes, we just need to listen. I’m still learning how to do this.

let’s Journey Together

It was late February. I barely made it through the workday. You see, my relationship ended a few days earlier, and although it had been ending for months, the finality of it was piercing. Now that it had finished for good, it felt like he had snatched my breath away. Knowing something is ending doesn’t necessarily lessen your pain. It wasn’t that the love was great, but I had invested so much, hoping it would become remarkable. I had even allowed myself to love- to love deeply. But here I was at the end of the road, and for my investment, there was no severance package, no reimbursement, nothing.

“Knowing something is ending doesn’t necessarily lessen your pain.”

So after barely making it through the day, here I was in my SUV, stuck between levels 6 and 7 of the parking garage at the hospital. Did I mention that I serve as a chaplain in a level one trauma center? I’m rehearsing the day. That day, I had to fight back the tears as a husband said goodbye to his wife of twenty-six years. He talked to me about how they met and how she "handled everything." He tried to find some meaning in the days they spent together before she became too ill to speak. He found joy in the stories he shared with me about her being able to “know what he wanted to say” before he could even form his thoughts. He smiled. I watched him and listened. I felt a deep appreciation for him, for them, and their love. As he talked, I could hear disappointment as his voice cracked. When we prayed, only because he asked, I listened to his acceptance and, in his prayer, was hope that a miracle could still occur. When I left the room, I remembered this quote:

“To love means to open ourselves to grief, sorrow, and disappointment as well as to joy, fulfillment, and thus an intensity of consciousness that before we did not know was possible.” — ROLLO MAY.

 I don’t recall any other people or stories from that day. I fought back the tears as I walked swiftly from the room. After I charted, I spent some time with a colleague to debrief. I remember sharing that our loves were different but that we were both in pain.

I remember that our “losses” were different. I don’t believe that we lose people in death, but that they move on from this world, so we don’t experience them in the same way as when they were physically present. No, we were not “losing” in the same way, but we were both experiencing a loss, and experiencing loss SUCKS! I know there are far better ways to say it, but it sucks.

Fast forward to the end of 2020, and to say that this has been a year of unprecedented loss would be an understatement. Whether death, a breakup, loss of a job, a sense of normalcy, it has been a hell of a lot of loss. With the losses we've had to navigate our way through this year, many of us have had to do it alone. That day in February was right before we began to practice physical distancing. It was right before hospitals overflowed with patients and were closed off to visitors. It was right before many churches moved congregational gatherings to a virtual setting. It was right before virtual funerals. My patient's husband had someone, albeit only for a few days, to sit with while he named his loss and feelings. He had someone normalize his sadness, grief, and anger. Someone was there to listen. My loss was different, but I had friends and colleagues. I could talk about my loss. For the record, my loss was one that needed to occur, and I still grieved. Just because it needed to end doesn't mean you won't grieve. Though not impossible, grief and loss are not easy to navigate alone. And no one should have to do it alone. And that’s why we are here. Thoughtful Transitions is here to journey with you as you navigate your way.

 You matter.

Your loss matters.

We listen.

We know grief isn't linear; it's raw and messy

and won't ask you to clean it up.

We don't have all the answers, and we are comfortable sitting with you in the tension and the tears.

Let’s Journey Together.