When Waves of Grief Sneak Up On You
Crying Tears of Sadness, Love, and Hope
A few days ago, I had my first appointment with a Naturopath.
I wanted to address some health issues that had been cropping up in conjunction with my menstrual cycle, and I needed to speak to a doctor who could “speak my language” and take a more holistic and sustainable approach to a wellness plan for me.
When she asked about my sleep patterns, I explained that I get decent sleep but not always the best, due to my life circumstances. Also, I did go through a period last Fall where my sleep cycle got absolutely wrecked. Not only was I being regularly interrupted by others, but I was also randomly waking up on my own at the same time each night.
My naturopath asked what time I had been waking up, and I said between 3-4am.
She explained what she was noticing:
“In Chinese Medicine, each time of the day correlates to a specific part of the body, and 3-4am correlates to Lungs. The lungs are associated with grief. Does any of this resonate with you?”
Oh! Grief…Ummm…
“I mean I guess? I can’t say it doesn’t. There were definitely some sad things going on in my life at the time that I was waking up every night. A lot of struggle at home with family. A lot of stress. And I have been staying in my brother’s old room. He died by suicide a few years ago…..but I made his space much brighter than when he was here…I’ve made it into my own. So I don’t really feel sad about it much. I mean, that was then. I’m better now. The waking up at 3am hasn’t been happening…and I’ve been traveling a lot too, so I have time away from that environment.”
I paused to think for a moment, and then continued.
“I mean…the cat I’ve been taking care of for the past month here (in Brooklyn) does wake me up, a lot though. Sometimes, multiple times in a row. I lost sleep last night because of it. Today, I woke up and saw that one of my eyes was slightly bloodshot.”
It was true. I didn’t make the connection at the time—but Jones had spent many a night waking me up at the same time, about 3-4am. He would sit his big, fluffy bum-bum on the pillow right next to mine, rub his long wiry whiskers against my cheek, and meow loudly into my ear, blasting through my ear plugs.
Once I groggily opened my eyes, he would nestle into the crook of my arms to hug me for a couple of minutes. Then he would hop out of bed, leaving me to figure out how to get back to sleep.
The only time he ever did this was at 3am, when I was sleeping.
At first, I thought he was being a jerk. I even vented about it online.
His food bowl was full. I gave him paper bags and cardboard boxes to play with at night. I played with him before I went to bed.
What do you want from me, Jones?!
I am always here to snuggle with you
But why O why, do you have to meow into my ear when I am sleeping?
…
At the time, I silently set aside the connection to grief, because nothing was blatantly standing out to me. I did not consider myself to be grieving. I had been enjoying life for the most part, and feeling great. In fact, the past couple of months had me feeling the best I had felt in years.
Anyway, I explained to my Naturopath that I would be leaving Brooklyn very soon. She put together a treatment plan for me with some herbs and supplements. She suggested that my body is responding to heightened stress due to my prolonged living circumstance, and that I will also need to work on improving my sleep so that I can lower my cortisol levels. She felt very confident that my issues will be resolved soon.
I was actually happy about the sleep plan, because it gave me the boost of motivation I have been needing to set boundaries around my technology usage at night—something I’ve struggled with for years.
A couple of days later, I left Brooklyn and stopped in New Haven for the night. I had planned to spend the following day researching at Yale, and take the last train home.
Although my the process of leaving Brooklyn was taxing, my evening in New Haven was wonderful. I got dressed up to enjoy the beautiful weather, and I had an amazing dinner with my former therapist (now life coach), who I was meeting in-person for the first time after 4 years. I came back to my Airbnb feeling happy and fulfilled.
When I got in, I kicked off my heels, sat on the edge of the bed, and leaned forward.
An image flashed into my mind of my brother’s eyes.
It was this squinty twitch he used to do—it would be anyone’s natural reaction if a bright flashlight flashed onto their face—only in his case, there was no flashlight. It was just him and his mind. It started when he was a teenager, around the time his mental health began to decline.
Something about visualizing one of the softest, most delicate parts of his flesh—his little eyelids and lashes fluttering in utter bewilderment—the sheer fragility of his mind—and the darkly concentrated moments of agony he endured just to end his long, enduring heartache—made me burst into tears.
I didn’t understand where it came from, because I rarely cry about my brother.
But there it was.