- Prasanna K. Datta

“How does a husband bid the final farewell to his loving wife? How does a wife say good-bye to her dying husband?” I asked a monk from the Zen Center of Michigan, U.S.A., when he came to bless my wife at her funeral.

“You are sad, very sad because your wife just died,” he said softly. “Don’t be so sad. Look at death this way: You too will die. Your wife died just a few years earlier. You know that everything in life changes.”

“No matter how long she lives, she will finally die. We all will. Allah, the Merciful, wills it this way,” a   Muslim friend said.

“Take comfort in the thought that she no longer suffers pain. She is with God now,” a Christian minister said.

“Death is certain for the born. Rebirth is certain for the dead. You should not grieve for what is unavoidable,” Lord Krishna said in the Bhagavad-Gita.

Consoling words but will they really comfort me?  Grieving is very personal and the intensity with which we experience it varies from person to person.

The dark fog of sorrow that accompanies my wife’s death is all around me. It thickens when I’m alone. Nothing gives me the peace I seek. I miss my wife. I miss her voice, her touch, her warmth, her humanity. Oh God, do I really have to experience such loneliness, such sadness? You know, I have always tried to be good.

My days are purposeless. The evenings are quiet. I no longer announce “I’m home, Rita,” at the door as I used to when I returned from work or shopping and she was there to greet me. The nights are cold and sleepless. When I finally fall asleep late at night, I try to dream of her. I fail. I get angry–angry at the whole world that doesn’t seem to care. What happened to my relatives, my friends, my associates? Why don’t they call me and share my grief?  Why doesn’t the world come to a complete stop, bow to her death and pay tribute to goodness?

Three months passed.  I endured alone this merciless attack of loneliness. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assured   my daughters. I wanted to be strong and show them that their father is a reliable pillar of strength. After all, I’m the son of a tough police chief, a grandson of strong village elders. Discipline and self-control flow in my veins.

My suppressed emotions, feelings and sensitivity suddenly surface but I disregard them. I’m determined to maintain a stiff upper lip at all cost—even when I suffer alone.  I want others to know that I’m strong and I’ll overcome.

But soon I came to accept that death, with sorrow, comes to all. It plays no favorites. It doesn’t discriminate.

 “You haven’t attended any of the weekly support group meetings,” the visiting hospice nurse said. “Nor have you answered any of my letters or phone calls. Please understand that you can’t counsel yourself to deal with your own sorrow. To heal your sorrow, you must share your emotions and feel them in full. Keep in mind that your moods will fluctuate. You will feel elated sometimes and emotionally drained at other times.”

What do these people know? I thought. Besides, how can they help to lessen my grief?

“What really happens in these support-group meetings?” I asked finally.

“Men and women, who recently lost their spouses, gather in a quiet room. They talk freely and listen to one another. A few take notes or keep journals. They describe, relive and share their unexpressed or suppressed sorrow. This sharing lessens their sorrow.

“They also understand your emotions better than other people simply because they too have experienced similar grief.

“Talking, listening, caring, crying and wiping tears of one another create trust that develops into bonds. Such bonds are therapeutic. Talking heals when others listen with compression. Remember, sorrow doesn’t go away just because you suppress it. Eventually, it will have to come out. It needs to.”

“Why don’t my friends and relatives talk about my wife?”

“They don’t talk because they don’t know how to talk about death. They think that they will remind you of your wife and make you sad. So they avoid talking.”

“Rita is in my thoughts at all times. Mentioning her name will at least show that they remember.”

“But your friends and relatives can’t risk that. They don’t want to hurt you.

“Why don’t you come and see for yourself,” she continued. “We meet once a week for about 90 minutes at a convenient place. I’m the facilitator. My job is to encourage people to talk openly about their feelings. Everything they say or express is held in confidence. And you can always stop coming if participation doesn’t help you. So, just come and listen.”

Information about free support groups is available in hospitals, funeral homes, hospice centers and churches. They are just a phone-call away. I decided to attend.

Now, after more than ten meetings, I can say confidently that participation in support groups reduces sorrow and stress resulting from loss of loved ones.

What about you? Are you a compassionate and focused listener? If you are, you can encourage bereaved people to participate. They may need a bit of urging at first, as I did, but you can play a very important role in lessening their sorrow.

May peace be with you!