I’m reading a book about octopus at the minute; they are fascinating, incredibly intelligent creatures. They have so many neurons in their arms that if you cut one off it will continue functioning for several hours as though it was still part of the octopus. Out there, foraging for food, without a brain to direct it or a mouth to put the food in.
I couldn’t help but think of The Grieving Brain by Mary-Frances O’Connor when I read that. Because isn’t that a fantastic metaphor for the grieving process, when you find yourself still thinking or acting as though your loved one was here, now, close?
Our loved ones become truly part of the fibre of our being. When they die it can feel like losing part of our own body. How can you expect to encompass that knowledge and truly understand it in 1,3,6,12 months?
If you find yourself laying out two plates for dinner, you’re not losing your mind.
If you find yourself sleeping carefully on your side of the bed, you’re not losing your mind.
If you find yourself dialling their number to tell them the funny thing your kid just said, you’re not losing your mind.
If you find yourself driving to pick them up from work, you’re not losing your mind.
You lost part of you. Your mind is still intact, but it needs to catch up. It will do this better if you can treat any anomalies with compassion and patience (and a touch of humour, if you can muster it up).
It cannot be said often enough that we are fundamentally creatures of adaption. That’s why we even exist. We are not that far off from the octopus. Marvel at its intelligence. Marvel at your own. Allow your mind to adjust in its own time.
Like the elephant, you will not forget.
Like the octopus, you will learn to carry on, even if you feel like you’ve lost your right arm.
Grief & Octopus
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