When Grief Strikes a Grief Specialist: My Six Surprises

By Jim Miller

My father died three months ago. He was 88 and in failing health. You could say, I suppose, that his time had come. Still, his death came as a shock. We had not expected that he would fall and break his leg when he was with our family on the Fourth of July. Nor had we expected that he’d require immediate surgery, that he’d suffer a stroke that same night, that the doctor would tell us the next morning that there was little sign of any remaining brain function. My siblings and I made the decision that Dad had told us he wanted us to make in this situation, and six days later he died.

Some form of my grief began when I lay with him on the hallway floor where he fell, waiting on the EMS to arrive, knowing the break was bad. My grieving grew during that week when we siblings took up vigil by his bedside around the clock so he was never alone. My grief stabbed me when I got the Saturday morning phone call from my sister informing me that he had died. Then my grief led me to feel and act in various ways during the public visitation, as we memorialized his life privately, as we took care of his possessions and handled his final affairs, as we sold his home, as we combined our parents’ ashes and spread them over the fishing hole that had been theirs for fifty years.

It’s been three months for me, this man who has devoted untold hours for two decades researching grief, writing about it, creating audiovisuals for those who are grieving, and conducting workshops about grief all over the country. I’ve worked one-on-one with hundreds of grieving people. I am no stranger to grief.

But suddenly, at age 63, grief hits me the hardest it has ever hit. At this comparatively late age I am an orphan. I realize, belatedly, that I was closer to my father than I knew, that I miss him much more than I imagined I would. Grief has waylaid me.

So now I ask myself, “Given all that I have come to know about grief through the years, what am I learning these days that is new to me? Have there been any surprises?”

Yes, there have been. Six of them.

First, I have felt more alone than I would have thought, especially early on. My wife has been an understanding and steady presence. My daughter has been quietly available. But there have been many times when I just wanted to be by myself, feeling whatever it was I was feeling, not doing much at all other than just being. Early in the process the three I most wanted to be around were my two brothers and my sister; we understood one another, different as we are. But much of the time, wherever I was, I felt unprotected, vulnerable, isolated somehow. That’s an unusual way for Jim Miller to be. That’s not like me.

Second, I’ve become drawn to physical reminders of my father in ways I would not have thought. I didn’t do this when my mother died three years ago. But now I find it strangely meaningful to be in contact with objects that used to belong to Dad. When we divided Dad’s possessions, I received his wedding band. He had not worn it since he was a young man because, as a tool and die maker, it could be dangerous to wear a ring around all the machines he used. I slipped it on the third finger of my right hand that afternoon and, without ever making an intention, it’s never come off. I look at it often, remembering him. I twirl it sometimes and for some reason that gives me comfort. Today, for the first time, I’m wearing a shirt that I saw my father wear many times, especially when he lived with Bernie and me for three months. It feels good, even if it’s a bit small. In my books I have referred to these as “linking objects.” I now realize that’s not what they are. They’re my father in another physical form.

I created a DVD as a loving tribute to Dad during that week he lay dying—“Herman Miller: Gentle Man” it’s called. On the cover of the DVD I placed a photo I took of him a year or two ago. It shows only his face, white against a black background. He’s smiling and his eyes are very direct. A thumbnail image ended up on the desktop of my computer as a result of doing that work. I now find that I don’t want to remove it. Dad is there in a tiny frame, looking at me, each time I sit in front of the monitor. Right now that’s all I can take—his image very small, waiting there. When I double click on it to reveal the image so it fills the entire screen, it’s too big. It hurts too much to see him so life-like. But I very much need that tiny, many-times-a-day link with him.

Third, I’ve surprised myself with how much I’ve wanted to talk about my father. I’ve wanted to tell the story of his dying as well as stories about his living. Those who are close to me know I’m not one who needs to talk a lot. I can be with others and feel a part of conversation and still say very little. But somehow I’ve had a strong urge to recount what those last ten days were like. For awhile it was almost as if I wanted to tell anyone who would listen. Looking back, I think I felt driven to do this; I could not not do this. I especially wanted people I know well to hear me but sometimes I was ready to buttonhole near strangers.

Accompanying this surprise was a raw realization: few were those who could listen with real openness as I told my story. I learned quickly to know who was ready to hear me and who was not. I recall talking on the phone with two different people who gave me all the space I needed to tell my story, probably in much more detail than necessary, and how good it felt to speak about what had happened and what I was feeling. In my writings I’ve always advocated doing this but I wasn’t sure that would ever apply to me and my own style of grieving, so quiet and private. I was wrong.

Fourth, I’ve come upon a way of moving through my grief that I did not expect and did not plan for. I have found it meaningful to be around someone who doesn’t talk much, doesn’t understand what is happening to me, doesn’t know who my father was or even that I ever had a father. He doesn’t even know that I am grieving. That person is Grayson James, my namesake grandson. He was fifteen months old when Dad died. I find that being with him is one of the most healing actions I can take. My Dad was such a gentle spirit and now Grayson is too. Dad was very loving and so is Grayson. It is as if the torch was passed from one to the other and I continue to be graced with a heartfelt presence that accepts me right where I am. Who could have predicted?

Fifth, I am surprised that I don’t know exactly what will happen next on this journey that I’m on. I know that I’ll make my way through this time without any serious problems. I know I’ll feel better some day, and I’ll have a whole new experience of my relationship with my father, and I’ll be a fuller person for all I’ve been through. But when I think about getting from here to there, I find myself asking, “How in the Blue Danube do I ever get from here to there? I can see over to that other side but who knows how I’ll land there?” I would have thought that it would all be clearer to me, the one who’s tried to make it clearer for so many other people. It seems the best I can do is trust that internal truth that I keep living my way into.

Finally, I am surprised about the method that I have chosen—or, really, not chosen—to help me through my grief. I’m an avid reader. I always have been. But I don’t want to read about grief. Even though it wouldn’t be very hard for me to put my hands on a good book or two about mourning, I keep my hands away. I don’t want someone telling me. I just want to live my way through this time of my life, one experience after another, being as fully in these moments as I can. I want to see what I uncover as I go. I want to know my own tears, feel my own sorrows, be struck with my own realizations, and happen upon my own joys and gratitudes. I want to find my own way to carry Dad with me into the future, even as I am carried by him.