To Whom Shall I Tell My Grief?

A Grandmother has ears that truly listen, arms that always hold, love that’s never ending, and a heart that’s made of gold.

My grandmother (my mom's mom) passed on Sunday. That's three grandmothers in the last six months that I have lost. While I'm lamenting their absence from my life, I am celebrating their peace and Heavenly embrace.

There’s a story by Anton Chekhov entitled, simply, “Grief”--also sometimes called "Misery"--which speaks to what grief may require--and to how the process of writing might contribute to the healing of grief.

The Chekhov Story –
When the story begins a cab-driver waits at twilight in the snow for a fare. His son has died the previous week. He waits a long time in the snow, and then finally—a passenger. As the evening wears on, the cab-driver attempts conversation with three different passengers. Three different times he attempts to tell his story—what has happened with his son. Each of the three interrupts him. One closes his eyes to stop the story. One informs him that we all must die. One simply gets out of the sleigh. Still later, the cab-driver attempts to stop and speak with a house-porter, but the house-porter tells him to drive on.

The driver asks himself: “To Whom Shall I Tell My Grief?” There’s so much that the cab-driver needs to tell. Chekhov writes:

One must tell it slowly and carefully; how his son fell ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died. One must describe every detail of the funeral, and the journey to the hospital to fetch the defunct’s clothes. His daughter Anissia remained in the village—one must talk about her too. Was it nothing he had to tell? Surely the listener would gasp and sigh, and sympathize with him?

The details must be told. And then—that gasp—that sigh—from the listener.

At the end of the day the cab-driver returns to the stables. He begins to speak to his horse:

Now let’s say you had a foal, you were that foal’s mother, and suddenly, let’s say, that foal went and left you to live after him. It would be sad, wouldn’t it?

The horse munches his hay and breathes his warm breath—and does not interrupt him. And that is how the story ends—with the cab-driver telling his story, finally, to his horse.

Perhaps what grief requires, as much as anything, is that the process not be interrupted. We need to tell and share our grief, even if only through writing.

I’ve been reviewing stories I wrote about my grandmothers before their passing. Feelings so raw and bittersweet well up, all part of the grieving process.

I recently came across this interview with Joyce Carol Oates on Why We Write About Grief.

What about you? Do you write in or about grief? How has it helped or hindered your mourning process?