Living with grief: A personal journey

Grief is a valley through which we all must walk. Some lose loved ones suddenly; some like me lose them slowly.

There may be differences, but all who lose the ones they love will know the power of grief.

I was married to Helen in 1975. In 2001, at the age of 49, Helen collapsed with bowel cancer.

The obstruction and surgery made Helen gravely ill and it was six weeks before chemotherapy began. This treatment was deeply unpleasant for Helen, but we were encouraged by the possibility that it would reduce the risk of secondaries.

This hope proved ill-founded and two large secondaries were discovered in January 2002, three days after our daughter’s wedding.

Secondary bowel cancer is almost always fatal so, following more surgery, Helen refused further chemotherapy. From February until August she felt good and we had a rich time together but, from August, the cancer gradually destroyed her body. Her abdomen filled with fluid and was drained every five days. By November she was unable to eat and could hardly drink and her body wasted away.

Throughout the final period she stayed at home. With the help of others I nursed her and gave her the additional injections she needed to stave off nausea and pain.

Finally, after a terrible night in which I learnt for the first time the real meaning of “death rattle”, she drowned in my arms on December 11 from an overwhelming infection of the lungs.

I have been explicit in my detail because many have no experience of such things, and do not understand the terrible nature of terminal illness, or the lonely journey of grief that follows.

In sharing my story my hope is that it may help others prepare for this difficult process that one day we may all face.

Even terrible journeys have something to teach us.

When death comes gradually, the grief and separation begin before the end. The anticipation of parting and the process of decline bring their own pain but, as the illness progresses, there may come a moment when conversation becomes more restricted.

As Helen got sicker, many things were no longer relevant to her and her lack of strength meant she could not sustain an interest in them. In the end not much could be said except, “I love you.”

For those who have not known grief, it is like living with a profound absence, a shadow that lurks at every corner. At times it feels like physical pain.

For 28 years we had been friends, generating a way of life, sharing wonderful experiences, enduring hard times and rearing a family. Then half of you is gone and, in my case, a lot of family memory went as well.

Grief is a personal and lonely process. It differs from person to person. For me, there is grief and there is longing: grief over Helen’s death and longing for that which she gave.

They are not the same thing and different stimuli evoke different responses; some bring both.

Music can bring tears to my eyes as do photographs, but memories can burst into my mind at unpredictable times and places.

Weekends are the worst. Even though I have a close family and good friends, I try to fill the empty spaces by walking many kilometres, sitting in coffee shops and going to the theatre.

And, as I do, I observe couples walking by and my heart bleeds.

The theatre is good, but all the best plays or movies touch the deep recesses of the human heart, so the absence lurks there too.

Perhaps surprising to some, church can be difficult as I try to redefine my presence and my ministry alone and sing the music we once sung together.

At home, I try to carry out domestic chores with the kind of diligence Helen would once have shown. Ironically, I have come to find the ironing relaxing.

As a family we are getting on with life and doing what we have to do. But sadly I do not think churches prepare us for suffering as they should. Profound biblical teaching is superficial if it fails to intersect with the real life of those who sit in pews or acknowledge the hard questions that press upon those in pain.

Preaching must touch the heart as well as the head. It must be true to scripture and honest about the world in which we live.

Some churches unashamedly teach that faith leads to health and wealth. Such a distortion condemns many who face suffering to loneliness, anger, guilt or deep despair.

Yet even more balanced churches can downplay the truth. A subtle illustration can be seen in our public prayers. Many public prayers ask God to change the world to suit us, but few dare to ask God to change us to live with faith and courage in the real world.

I am not excluding our need to express our desires to God, or precluding his power to intervene in human affairs. God can and sometimes does heal. But it is clear to me that death is part of our fallen lot and that all of us must one day face this last enemy.

This being so, our prayers should seek from God that which we need to live in this mixed world in a way honouring to him.

In life we know beauty and ugliness, life and death, light and darkness. We need from God a spirit of thankfulness, courage, faith, and love. And we need the honesty to name death and suffering for what they are.

We cannot face them with the gift of true faith, if we camouflage their real power. Death can be a horrible thing to witness. I cannot honour God if I talk about the resurrection in Christ but do not make clear the power of the enemy he came to conquer.

Wonderful friendship

In all this I have learned the importance of being open with others. People cannot love a facade. Besides, they look to the dying or grieving person for clues on what to say and do. They need permission from those suffering to enter their world, a permission that cannot be granted if I remain silent or put on a false front.

Helen and I were open about her impending death and the support and friendship we experienced were wonderful.

I have learned that God is gracious and provides redemptive moments in difficult times. While the pain remains deep, many good things have flowed from the last two years and we experienced great friendship and support. I will never forget sharing the Lord’s Supper with our home group sitting around Helen’s bed, or listening with great pleasure as a quartet sang to her.

Since her death I have been given the opportunity to share with many others the hope Helen and I found in Christ. This has enabled me to witness to God’s love in the midst of pain, a testimony in itself, but also a means by which God grants healing to me.

Life hangs by a thread and we ultimately control very little. It is only our beliefs, our commitments, our interpretations of life and our willingness to love that we finally control. Helen believed to the end, and loved to the end. When all else had to be relinquished these things remained.

While there are many things I cannot change, I am reminded that I must make the decision to live each day positively, act wisely and grow in faith. The alternative is to wither like a branch severed from the vine.

My responsibility is to live by faith, to love others as Christ has loved me, and get on with the life to which God has called me.

I have experienced the loss of an extraordinary woman. Like many others I do many things alone and it is my dog that first greets me in the morning.

And yet I have seen the grace of God at work. I have witnessed in Helen an example of how to live and how to die.

And if, through my testimony, I can help others find the way through the valley of the shadow of death, and see the light of God that moves graciously amongst the shadows, then Helen’s faith and love will not only have been a blessing to me, but a lingering presence beyond the grave that can touch the lives of others. And for that I can only be grateful to Helen and to God.

Hugh Begbie is a Uniting Church minister and principal of Cromwell College, a residential college at the University of Queensland. Reprinted with permission from Journey, the newspaper of the Queensland Synod.