The grief group

I just finished up an 8-week session of grief group therapy. I'm still unclear as to whether or not it helped me during my grief process. It didn't hurt me; I'm just not sure if it helped. It was originally supposed to be ten people, but ended up being a core group of five, as the sixth (another guy) acquired a new job and was not able to attend the last few sessions, which was somewhat upsetting to me as we were the only two men involved. I had no problem interacting with the women in the group, it was just nice having that other male presence, albeit a straight man to my being a gay man. I wasn't entirely comfortable being the only male perspective in the group, but I do feel that I gained a perspective from the female side that has been lacking. And the group was very diverse with respect to why each person was there and for whom they were grieving. I was grieving the loss of Dennis, Jan had lost her husband, Jennifer her brother, Judy her mother, and Diana had lost her partner Pamela—three straight people and two gay people. While I am unclear about the group's help to me, I do have the feeling that my presence was a help to the others and that's because the facilitator had asked for the link to this blog. He told me and the group that when he sat down to read it, he started reading and could not stop. He thought the blog was wonderfully written and suggested that I give the link to everyone else in the group. I did so and they all told me basically the same thing that he did. Judy stated, "Rick, I read your blog. Oops, let me rephrase that. I cried my way through your blog. You really know how to show emotion in your writing." Maybe the reason I was in the group was to help others—and that's okay by me. We all agreed that we might try getting together on our own, like maybe once a month, and see if we can take this a bit farther without a facilitator. (Edited to add: don't get me wrong, I'm still questioning whether or not the group dynamic helped me or not. I enjoyed—if that's the correct word—going to the group each week and interacting with the great group of women. I came to realize today that just the poem below is reason enough to have been in the group, mainly because I truly feel like it's Dennis talking to me.)

Our "assignment" for the final two sessions was to bring in photos and a memento of some sort in order for the others to gain a better sense of who each of us had lost. I made a two-photo collage—a photo of us on our honeymoon at the beginning of our relationship, and one of us on our 30th anniversary, near the end of our relationship. I took the Santa Claus candle that Dennis and I had bought our first Christmas together as my memento and told the story of how each year, when we dig out the decorations, whoever finds him first would hold Santa up, look at the other, and we'd simultaneously say, "Ho, ho, ho" and break out in smiles. Keeping our tradition was especially difficult this past year, as Dennis was fading away and I wasn't even sure he'd make it to Christmas (he died Christmas Eve). I had tears in my eyes while saying "ho, ho, ho" and the tears resurfaced as I told the story to the group. Everyone's photos and stories were heartfelt and most were told through tears. One of the items Diana brought was a poem that Pamela had chosen to be included in her memorial service. I generally don't really care about poetry, but this poem really struck me and I'm including it here:

Death is nothing at all...

I have only slipped into the next room...

I am I, and you are you...

Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by my old familiar name,

speak to me in the easy way you always used.

Put no difference into your tone;

wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed

at the little jokes we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.

Let my name be ever the household word

that it always was.

Let it be spoken without effect,

without the ghost of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.

It is the same as it ever was;

there is absolutely unbroken continuity.

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

I am waiting for you, for an interval,

somewhere very near just around the corner...

All is well.

Written by: Henry Scott Holland, Oxford Professor of Divinity

Upon reading it, I felt that Dennis was speaking to me.