Episode 5 -- May 12, 2020

Welcome to the Club: Grief and Recovery During a Pandemic

This is a time of change for all of us. Maybe you are experiencing the need to change from in-person support meetings to entirely virtual connections, the unfortunate loss of a job, or heaven forbid, the death of a loved one. We all are experiencing change. Some changes are bigger than others, but all major changes require us to grieve what was lost. In this excerpt from her book The Grief Club: The Secret to Getting Through All Kinds of Change, renowned author Melody Beattie explores the comfort that comes from knowing that others can have compassion for what we're experiencing. Maybe today, more than ever, we can take some comfort in knowing that we're all going through these changes together.

Here is a version of a story about a woman who went to a Buddha for help. (I don't know who first told the story. I've read different versions in many books but can't find a source to attribute it to.) This woman went to Buddha wanting help stopping her pain.

"My son died," the woman said to the Buddha. "Please bring him back to life."

The Buddha said yes, he would do that. At the thought of having her son back, the woman's pain began to lift. "But there's something you have to do first," the Buddha said. "Bring me three rocks. Each must come from a person or family who hasn't experienced loss."
The woman went in search of three people who qualified to give her the stones. A long time passed before she returned to the Buddha. When she did, she held out empty hands. "I couldn't find people who could give me the rocks," she said.

"What did you learn?" the Buddha asked.

"I learned we all suffer and lose someone or something we love."

After a loss happens, this journey of learning begins. We learn we're part of--one with--this universal club. We're unique but not as different from others as we think. Coincidentally (or maybe not) it's the path to enlightenment too.

One secret to going through change and grief is this: It's all done with mirrors. If we're alone, we can't see who we are. When we join the club, other people become the mirror. We see ourselves when we look at them. Slowly we accept who we are. By being honest about who we are and how we feel, we'll be a mirror for them too. Seeing us will help them love and accept themselves.

The day will come when we'll welcome others to the club and we'll know we're making peace. I was at the drop zone one day (the place where skydivers jump out of planes). I saw a woman who had just lost her thirty-five-year-old son. He was a skilled skydiver and a Hollywood stuntman. He'd fallen off a ladder and fatally injured his head. I put my hand on her arm. "It's going to take a long time. It's going to be hard. But you'll get through this," I said. "I know. My son died when he was twelve."

One of the darkest places is that place where we don't get or understand ourselves, and we think nobody else gets us either. We feel lost and alone. We lose touch with the connection we have to ourselves and each other. It's this connection that keeps us in Grace. When someone gets us, when they understand us, we understand ourselves. Then somehow the unacceptable becomes okay. We might not be happy about it--whatever it is--but we'll find peace. It's not a clinical description of the process, but what we're talking about here isn't a clinical thing.

It's part of the mystery we'll explore in this book.

I was talking with a new friend I made when I began writing The Grief Club. I felt comfortable with him the minute we met. I told him about the struggle I'd been going through ever since the phone rang and the doctor told me I had hepatitis C. "I've spent so much of my life feeling unlovable and untouchable," I said. "Now I'm riddled with this disease? I've worked hard the past two years to learn how to take care of my liver and health. But I've been waiting for this time to be done so I can start living my life. I've been frantically trying to control this, make it go away. I've been obsessed. I horrify myself with visions of dying a torturous death.

"But lately I've been remembering what I learned in the past," I said. "I asked myself, what is my problem? What's the matter? I'm healthy. My liver is in good shape. The hepatitis virus is almost gone. I'm the same person I've always been. This thing about trying to make the problem go away so I can begin living my real life is crazy. There hasn't been one single thing that's happened to me that isn't an important part of my path. I'm not dying from hepatitis; I'm living with it. I don't have to wait for anything to happen to be whole. I'm already complete."

"Tell me about it," my friend said. "I went through that whole thing twelve years ago when they told me I had HIV."

That's why I feel so comfortable with him, I thought. We belong to similar clubs.

Later that day I was talking to another friend. He asked how I was.

"Great," I said and meant it. "Now that I've finally surrendered to having hepatitis C."

My friend smiled and said (you guessed it), "Welcome to the club."

About the Author:
Melody Beattie is renown author of numerous books about personal growth and relationships, drawing on the wisdom of Twelve Step healing, Christianity, and Eastern religions. With the publication of Codependent No More in 1986, Melody became a major voice in self-help literature and endeared herself to millions of readers striving for healthier relationships. She lives in Malibu, California.

©2006 by Melody Beattie