There is a story of a village where everyone thought they would prefer to live someone else’s life because it seemed so much better than his or her own, so it was decided that on an appointed day, all the people in the village would meet in the square carrying their problems with them. All the problems would be placed in a center pile, and then everyone would be free to help themselves to new problems, choosing as many from the pile as they had put into it, and in this way, everyone would pick more manageable problems and leave happier than they’d arrived. When the day came, people dragged their problems into town, looking haggard, tired from carrying their burdens. They were worn out, and when they dropped their problems onto the pile, the villagers visibly brightened in relief.
As each tragedy and heartbreak was heaped on the pile, the people’s eyes grew wide. They had no idea the burdens their neighbors carried. This one had lost several children to disease. That one was beaten by her husband. Another was widowed and left penniless to beg on the street. Yet another harbored a terrible secret that no one would’ve guessed. The richest man in the village was dying of a painful disease. The prettiest girl in the village ached with loneliness. A sweet child suffered every day in physical pain no doctor could fix.
People’s hearts were filled with astonishment and pity, and they grew thoughtful. Finally, all the problems had been put into the pile, and the mayor announced that it was time to choose their new problems, pick them up, and take them home. Everyone stared at the pile, and for a long time, no one moved. Then one person slowly moved toward the pile and sheepishly picked up the problems he’d brought to the pile in the first place, and headed towards his house. One by one, all the villagers did the same. They realized that you never really know what others are dealing with, and you can assume nothing about how easy someone else’s life is, regardless of appearances. In the end, their own problems were at least familiar, and while they were often difficult to deal with, the people realized things could be so much worse.
I am reminded of that story because I read a thread tonight at the widow board disagreeing with the statement that some others at the board (usually those further along in their journey) and in their lives say, that “a loss is a loss is a loss.” They believe that the loss of a spouse is worse than any other, and the loss of a young spouse is worse than the loss of an elderly spouse. I can understand why they would feel their loss is the worst ever; we all feel that way—it happened to us, so of course it is worst for us. But I’m not sure how anyone can say empirically that their loss is worse than anyone else’s. If no one in the world can understand the depth of your feelings and pain in losing your true love (and I really don’t think anyone can, not 100%), then why would you presume to quantify someone else’s loss? I am not dismissing their pain; I know it intimately. My point is, I’m not for dismissing anyone else’s pain, either.
I’ve read about comments folks have received from their inlaws who have said, “You can get another husband; I only have one son,” and been stunned that anyone would say such a thing. I’ve never really understood the point of competitive grieving; is this a contest anyone wants to win? What IS the prize for hurting the most? What can you possibly get out of ranking pain? Can we not agree that devastation is devastation, and leave it at that?
I joined an online grief group a few weeks after A died. It was mixed bag of loss—some of us widowed; some of us had lost children; some of us, parents; others, siblings. It all hurt. It was agonizing as hell. And as I read stories of people who had lost their loved ones to murder, or painful and terrifying illness, I unexpectedly found myself feeling lucky (lucky?) that A had just slipped away one Saturday morning. I would’ve preferred he had done it a minimum of 20 years from now, obviously, but as far as ways to go, he went quickly, without pain, and without having lived with the spectre of death leading up to it. I think we would all prefer to go out that way. I realized that, as horrible as it was for me, it could’ve been much worse, and worse for him, too. And I took my own problems off the pile and went home with them, if not with gladness, then at least with respect and appreciation for others’ struggles.
When I started reading at the widow board, this feeling was only reinforced. There, everyone had lost the same kind of relationship as I had, but the details varied widely. The many, many stories of those whose beloveds had a sudden cardiac arrest, just like my sweetie, told me that, as much as I hated the fact, this happened all the time. My situation wasn’t the worst; it was really, really bad, but not the worst. The stories of those who had nursed their spouse through a long, merciless illness, only to lose them, made me feel fortunate to have avoided their fate. I have to think that watching helplessly as someone you love suffers is its own special kind of hell. It reminded me to be grateful not only for what I had, but also grateful for what I did not have. Others spouses were victims of crime, of recklessness, of accidents, of medical mistakes, and their grief is exacerbated by investigations and lawsuits. Others struggle to be two parents to their children while keeping a roof over their heads.
I learned that my issues with his family were nothing compared to what others went through. No one blamed me for his death. No one said awful things to me. No one pulled a truck up to my house and took half my furniture away.
What I have learned in all this is that when you look around, you realize that no one has a monopoly on pain. None of us leave this world unscarred, and many of us may even end up emotionally crippled, permanently. I learned that Death comes and steals from all of us, men and woman, straight and gay, old and young, happily partnered and struggling, rich and poor, in every country in the world, and that it hurts more than any of us ever imagined anything could hurt. None of us, regardless of our situation, get off easy. It just doesn’t work that way.
Of course different kinds of losses will affect each of us differently. Can I say that the loss of a future hurts more than the loss of a past? I don’t think so. Who can put a value on that? I think every couple loses both, regardless of how much time they’ve had together. We never stop planning and dreaming with the ones we love; we never say, “Well, I think we’ve made enough memories to last us; let’s stop now.” We don’t until we’re forced to do so. I have no doubt that for the young widow who posted the thread, this is the most horrifically devastating thing that has ever happened to her; it certainly has been for me. But in my grief, I have always remembered that A had dear friends, close as brothers, who have been his friends for longer than I’ve been alive and who miss him every day. His brother and sister, whom he took care of and whom he made feel safe after their father died young, (leaving his own mother a young widow), felt a little more orphaned when he died, another piece of their family missing. His beloved daughter, the light of his life, must miss him terribly. I even have a little sympathy for his ex, who I suspect has a lot of regrets she has to deal with that I, the woman who adored him for the rest of his life, do not. I would never say that my pain is worse than any of theirs, though they lost a brother and a father and someone who shared a huge part of their life, regardless of how things turned out. I know what kind of love A inspired in me; I have no doubt he inspired it in equal measure in all others who knew him well, and therefore their grief can only be equal as well, even if it is a different flavor than mine.
I don’t think you can compare grief, and if you do anyway, I’m not sure how it helps. I would not say that the pain of losing my A is greater than that of any other widow; nor would I say it is lesser, though I imagine some might, given my circumstances. They would be wrong. I think if you expect people to respect your loss and the colossal effect it has on you, your first step is not to dismiss theirs as less worthy of their tears, their mourning, than your own.
