Word Play

As a little girl, I remember learning the word “fuck.” I repeated it over and over again with emphatic volume in the laundry room. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” My brother overheard me and told me to stop. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was free. On fire. He pinned me to cold cement floor and told me he was going to tell my parents. “Fuck, fucker, fucking, fucked!” What was once unknown and forbidden was now mine. I feared no punishment. I felt powerful and alive.

It’s been almost 40 years since I learned that glorious word, but it still feels just as good to say. It’s not just the long, drawn out “f” or the hard “ck” closer that makes me smile (though I do love them both), it’s saying something taboo, uttering a word that no one is supposed to say.

There is another other taboo word that I’ve come to know in the past year. It’s a word that carries an immediate feeling—a word that instantly connects me to whoever says it. Instead of power and control, this word brings a sense of sadness, calm, and even a small hint of joy. But it’s a word most people don’t want to hear. Not from a friend, not from a co-worker and most certainly not from a child. It’s uncomfortable and intimate. And, get ready, I’m gonna say it…

Grief.

There is something so raw and open and untidy in that word. It hangs on the lips like a sore—blistered and open. Only there is no drug you can take to ease its discomfort. No salve to numb the pain. Believe me, I’ve tried finding a remedy. There isn’t one.

Felt in solitude, grief is empty and forever. You don’t get your loved one back. You don’t get another shot at saying goodbye. You don’t get to make even one more memory together. Like all emotions grief is felt alone, but it doesn’t have to be lonely. There is something so beautiful in the raw openness of grief—shared grief—that it feels almost soothing.

Before I truly understood grief—before my mom died—I worked at a counseling center devoted to grief and loss. I remember vividly something a client once told me. He said he wanted to go back to the week of his brother’s funeral. That being around people who were wiling to share their grief together felt wonderful. Sure, he was still mourning a huge loss, but somehow he felt seen, understood, and connected during that week. Powerful stuff.

Anyone who has tasted grief knows it’s distinctive flavor. There are no gradients, no “better” or “worse” feeling of it. By savoring the bittersweet flavor together, though, it’s bearable.

There is strength in numbers. Fuckin' right there is.