By: Rebecca Tucker, Lead Grief Counselor, M.A., LCMHCA, NCC
A new season is, yet again, upon us. The temperatures are beginning to drop, the stores are stocking all things pumpkin and apple spiced, and the glow of the Friday night lights are illuminating the local football fields. Whether you fancy yourself a football novice or have the entire Atlanta Braves roster memorized, there is a palpable energy surrounding this time of year and the fall sports surrounding us. Fresh off another exciting Olympic games, our news has rolled right into a smorgasbord of sports coverage. Baseball is approaching the end of the season, preparing for the World Series. Football teams of all levels are gearing up for a battle on the field, clad in helmets and cleats, fighting for the recognition and glory of a win. The promise is high, but what happens when we lose?
When the game is over, we have to return home to a scenario we knew was possible but did not want to believe. The idea of loss hurts... a lot. We put so much effort into getting a win and being victorious. Loss is actually something so pervasive that it often eludes us in just how frequently we encounter it. As a society, we are often very loss-averse, meaning we do not like to talk about loss and the grief that accompanies that loss. Yet when the loss is from something more "surface" like a sports team losing a game or match, we are more than comfortable engaging in discussions of loss. Sports commentators are paid a rather handsome sum to go and analyze the results. What could we have done differently? Why did the coach make that call? The conditions just were not right out on the field. Sometimes we call this being a "Monday morning quarterback." We relive all the scenarios that could have changed the outcome of the game. We have entire networks dedicated to parsing out the details of the game and what, if anything, could have been different to make the game better - to have gotten the win.
We are so comfortable rehashing all the details of a somewhat arbitrary game, often at nauseum, yet we rarely talk about the internal dialogue of a similar pattern when our loved one dies. The agony of having to relive every situation, every choice, every dose of medication, can feel like it goes on forever. Did we get her to the doctor soon enough? Did I make the right call on treatment? If only I had advocated for him a little more, would he still be here? We ruminate in this space because we are trying to find answers to a question that, no matter how we answer it, still won't change the outcome.
We are caught in the space of knowing our reality but wanting to think so differently that maybe, just maybe, we will find a hole in the story so we can go back and rewrite it, leaving us with a life where our loved one is still here. So, then, what are we left to do?
It is here where we try and lean into a place of acceptance - not that we are happy with the situation, but we simply let it be what it is. We try to stay in the present moment, acknowledging the pain of the loss, while also allowing the loss to move and change us. Our loss means something because our loved one means something to us, even in death. Our love is what makes this loss so tough. The love is also what keeps us going, be it the love of the game and the persistent daily grind of daily practices, or the love of our people and the excruciating painful choices and beautiful memories we make.
Allow yourself to find space in letting the day, minute, moment be what it is and knowing that even if our outcome was a loss, we did not lose. Love tells us that it will always win.