Complicated grief. Ever hear of it? There is such a thing. Those who suffer complicated grief may feel guilt or responsibility related to their loss, have regrets about their relationship with the deceased, or have lost a loved one to suicide, violence, victimization or severe trauma.
Losing a child is also believed to contribute to complicated grief. After all, it’s not the normal progression of things. Both parents are equally impacted and possibly unable to support each other. And there’s a basic expectation that parents will protect their children, so a child’s death ends up feeling like the highest form of parental failure, however off base that may be.
Some parts of my grieving Tyler’s loss do feel complicated. Most of it is compartmentalized to his traumatic final seven weeks in pediatric intensive care. Those memories and images are still graphic and usher in what I can only describe as physical and mental anguish. They haunt me when they crop up, unbidden, in my mind. I wrote about this in an earlier post. click here to read post
Despite the reality of that particular struggle, I wouldn’t say I am experiencing complicated grief. A more apt description of my journey without Tyler is complicated joy.
Let me explain. I’ve discovered lately that grief is opportunistic. If I dare experience joy along my grief journey, grief insinuates itself into my joy. It sometimes feels like a tug-of-war: grief insists that pain dominate any joy in my life; I insist that joy dominate the pain in my life.
Grief and I, we are at counter-purposes. The joy is there, but it has become complicated.
The arrival of my grandson this fall brought unspeakable joy. His mom is the daughter of my heart if not my body, and Tommy feels like mine in every way. His dad says Tommy and I share honorary genes. That works for me.
Still, the joy, the wonder, the magic of Tommy has intensified a facet of my grieving. Baby memories that were tucked far away in the recesses of my mind race to the forefront, in high definition, as I hold, cuddle, feed, and sing to my grandson.
Beautiful, 18-year-old memories of Tyler, for which I’m forever thankful, now serve as stark reminders of loss.
And also in the midst of this particular joy, I am ever aware that Tyler has lost out on being Tommy’s uncle. As clearly as I picture the actual memories of Tyler as a baby, I can picture my grown up boy being in love with his perfect little nephew. I think Tommy’s Down syndrome would have made him all the more special to Tyler.
But instead of Tommy getting to experience Tyler’s arms lifting him high and making him laugh, any knowledge of his uncle will be dependent on photos we can show him and stories we can tell him.
That hurts.
Do I have joy in my new role as grandmother? Yes, in spades. It’s a beautiful joy.
But because of loss, it’s a complicated joy.
Those of you who have read this journal from the onset of Tyler’s illness know I take particular comfort and joy from contemporary Christian music. I’ve loved it since I was a teenager, which is when I first encountered both the music and a personal relationship with God through his Son.
There may not have been many teens in the early 1980’s who traded Pink Floyd and Blue Oyster Cult for Keith Green and Michael W Smith, but I happily did and never looked back.
When Tyler became ill, many of my favorite lyrics took on new meaning. The message in the songs grounded me, reminded me of many promises found in Scripture. It kept my faith strong and didn’t let me waver.
The lyrics became my prayers of praise to a powerful God who lovingly deigned to be by the side of a mother terrified for her only son.
A love for this genre was something Tyler and I shared. I’ve written in previous posts about how, for much of his childhood, Tyler and I listened to these songs on the radio every time we were in the car together, neither one of us fazed by our shared inability to carry a tune.
Tyler had downloaded his favorite Christian songs. When he was given coma-inducing paralytics in the PICU, I created a playlist of about 75 songs that we played in an endless loop, the iPad resting by his head to be heard over the incessant roar of his oscillator.
Doctors had told us it was possible that Tyler could hear even though he was incapable of moving, not even to blink his eyes, which remained open and fixed. I have no idea if Tyler heard any of it. But we did. Day in and day out, hours and hours on end. Even his nurses began humming and singing along.
Despite the passage of almost three years, most of these songs are still intricately linked with various horrors we experienced during those seven weeks. Some played when I experienced intense joy and hope each time we got encouraging signs that Tyler was doing better, only to mock me later when his condition would worsen. Listening to these songs now often takes me places I don’t want to go.
Do I still find joy in my music? Oh, yes. I listen all the time. I sing in my car, at home, and at church. The music still grounds me, strengthens my faith, and fills my soul with truth about the God I love and serve.
But because of loss, now that joy is complicated.
It’s Christmastime as I write this. For 45 years, Christmas brought me joy that only Christmas can bring. After Tyler died, I couldn’t reconcile the former joy with how miserable Christmas now made me. This is our third Tyler-less Christmas. Ron and I have done better this year.
We made no plans to escape and pretend Christmas wasn’t on the calendar. Ron dragged all the decorations out of storage, where they’d remained undisturbed the past two Christmases. We decorated early – before Thanksgiving – and that helped, somehow.
Tommy and his parents actually came by the house just as I was finishing the tree. Tommy’s eyes widened as he took in the new sight. And as I carried him closer, his little mouth formed an “o” of wonder, one of my favorite Tommy facial expressions.
The pain of Tyler’s absence at Christmas is entwined with newfound grandbaby joy. The pain of Tyler’s absence at Christmas is entwined with our enjoyment of the beauty of the tree, lighted garland, and bright decorations throughout the house.
I thought maybe joy would overshadow grief this Christmas. The first two Sundays of advent at church, I sang the Christmas carols and did fine. To be honest, I was starting to grow confident that enough time had passed to get me over the hump of Christmas-induced pain.
But during our third advent church service, a song triggered not just tears, but sobs. Then our pastor read the same passage from Luke that Tyler read every Christmas morning before we opened presents. I felt so bereft and unable to pull myself together that I thought I’d actually need to leave the sanctuary, something I’d not done once since Tyler died. After that, I couldn’t bring myself to go to church this past Sunday. I just couldn’t.
Yes, I’m kind of mad at my grief. Because of it, former joys are forever changed. New joys are forever complicated.
But life in the after of loss doesn’t mean I can’t find pure joy.
Because actually, there is a joy that is never complicated, never changed. It’s not impacted by suffering or loss. It’s the pure, unadulterated joy that comes straight from God, not from circumstances.
Psalm 16:11 – You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with JOY in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.
John 15:10-11 – If you keep my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my JOY may be in you and that your JOY may be complete.
Galatians 5:22 – But the fruit of the Spirit is love, JOY, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.
1 Peter 1:8 – Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious JOY.
This mother’s loss…this mother’s struggle with joy and happiness…it matters to Him. The simple fact is that He loves me. The simple fact is that I love Him back. And joy is a gift He offers. So I choose joy over grief. Grief may steal my happiness; it cannot steal my joy.
“The JOY of the Lord is your strength.” Nehemiah 8:10