The Search for Closure
In the aftermath of Sherri Little’s funeral last Thursday, I continue thinking of the Littles, the Tiedemans (Sherri’s twin sister is Kerri Tiedeman), the Dickeys (Sherri’s younger sister is Tracee Dickey) and the rest of their family.
I’m reminded of what it was like after my sister died. A week or so after the funeral, somebody came up to me all bright and cheery and asked, “Hey, how are you?” Not in the sense of how was I doing through all the tragedy, but in the “hi, how are you” way people great each other. This person obviously hadn’t been to the funeral and had forgotten all about my sister’s death.
That hurt.
After a month or so, others who had been to the funeral began doing the same thing. “Hey man, how’s it going?” they’d say, all rosy and chipper.
They’d moved on, you see. They weren’t as close to Karyn as I was. She wasn’t an everyday part of their life.
As time went on, only a handful of us, those who known Karyn for years and were still hurting, remained. I learned this while talking to LeAnn one day, perhaps three or four months after the funeral.
“Is there ever a time when she’s not right there, right there on your mind?” I asked.
“Honestly Jim,” she said. “I don’t think about her that much anymore.”
LeAnn hadn’t grown up with Karyn. She’d never lived with her or gone on vacation with her. She only saw Karyn a couple of times a year, during the holidays.
This is the way it is with death. The initial shock may impact thousands. The aftershocks may affect a hundred or so. But for a dozen, maybe only a handful, an entire way of life has crumbled and has to be slowly rebuilt.
Sometimes, during a funeral or on TV after some tragedy has occurred, someone will speak of “finding closure,” “healing,” or “moving on.” I’m always bothered when this occurs in the immediate aftermath of tragedy, when families are still in shock over the events.
We all want to heal, of course. But for those closest to the person who has died, the thought of “closure” or “moving on” can seem offensive, nonsensical, or ridiculous. We might even feel guilty about it. We wonder what it would say about our loved one if we were “over it” in a week.
And guilt has another side too. Some might actually pretend to be over it, because they think they should be or that’s what those close to them expect. Meanwhile, they’re still hurting deeply inside.
Closure, or more appropriately acceptance, will take differing amounts of time for different people. For some it may take more than a year before anything close to acceptance comes our way.
For those of you who know someone affected by a sudden tragic death, here are two things you can ask. First, what can I do for this person today? And, second, what can I do for them in a few weeks, after the rest of the world has inevitably moved on?
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Comments
I remember the day of my dad’s funeral almost 14 years ago. I was one of the last ones to walk into mom’s house and I was confronted by the laughter of family and friends who had gathered to ‘console’ us.
It made me angry. My comment to my wife was, “Their grief is evidently over now that the funeral has occured. Mine is just beginning.”
I learned through Dad’s death that the grieving process is just that, a process. I grieved differently than my brothers, and even my mom.
Thanks, Jim, for giving of yourself through this column.
Jim, I have been reading your posts since I found out about them. This one is especially hits close to home. A year ago Christmas, our daughter told us she thought she had an ulcer. A few days later, a liver biopsy showed cancer. Then after having part of her colon removed, she was diagnosed as having type four colon cancer. She was given about two years if chemo worked and three or four months if it didn’t. She lived in Woodward and nearly every Sunday we drove from Bartlesville to Woodward so that we could have her in Enid for treatment each Monday. On October 25, with all the family present, she departed from this life after having fought a good fight.
When something unusual happens, we still find ourselves thinking that we need to call her and tell her what took place. The pain is now dulled, but I don’t think it will ever go away. It has been just over eight years ago that our oldest son died of a brain tumor.
Your parents and I have met several times at the mall and have they had told me of your ongoing battle with cancer.
You are in our prayers.
Joe