Unconscious denial involves forgetting, escaping, or disbelieving in reality. Everybody disremembers something for seconds, minutes, or hours. We forget about a cut finger until we pick up a fork to eat, and then exclaim, “Ouch! I forgot!” Bandages cover and protect open wounds.
Denial serves much like a bandage. If the full impact of a loved one’s death is too intense for the psyche to absorb, the newly bereaved often cry out in a fog of disbelief, “No, he can’t be dead.” Many are so numbed that all emotions escape them; thus, they ask, “Why am I not feeling anything? Why am I empty inside?” Survivors create a healthy and timely defense system, which they shed in bits and pieces. Let’s observe the following illustrations.
“Oh no! You can’t leave Dad!”
Giuseppe’s military funeral and graveside service ended with the United States flag being removed from the coffin and presented to his firstborn, Joseph. Joseph reminisced with his mother for several days and then left the small New Mexico village in which she lived and returned to his home in Texas, where he experienced the usual grief responses for his age, gender, grief history, personality, and relationship with his dad.
During a harried morning at his office several months later, he answered his constantly ringing telephone, “Go ahead.”
“Joseph, I’m moving back to Texas…,” his mother’s voice on the other end began.
Although she continued to explain, the horror of his thoughts, Oh no! You can’t leave Dad! drowned her out. For a second or two, denial severed Joseph from reality. Taken aback by momentarily forgetting that his father had died, he shuddered. “That was eerie.”
“What are you doing?”
After shopping and visiting with friends in Dublin, Terri took the long train ride home. While food cooked on her stove, she, as usual, placed two plates, cups, and forks on the kitchen table. As she poured tea into her husband’s waiting cup, in her mind she heard him say, What are you doing, my dear girl? Collapsing into her chair, Terri sobbed for the first time since his death four months earlier. That night she slept comfortably. “A burden has been lifted from my shoulders,” she told her friend, a grief therapist, the next day.
Episodes of denial can cause mourners embarrassment, but bystanders are often confused, as in Orah’s case.
“Are you feeling okay?”
Orah stood behind a long line of customers at the checkout counter. She had been widowed only three months earlier, and her weekly trip to the grocery store was ending as it had for thirty years—with her picking up cigarettes for her husband. Looking down, she saw the word CIGARETTES on the top of the carton cradled in her arms. So this is what it feels like to go crazy, she thought.
As she stood dwelling on a lifetime of memories, a voice startled her. “Hey! Honey! You okay?” the clerk, a friend of her deceased husband, was calling out. Orah looked up to find the other customers gone and him staring at the carton. “Ah…ah…you have…cigarettes,” he stammered. Her pale cheeks flushed.
Denying the Depth of the Loss
Survivors often deny, or are denied, the depth of their pain by making comparisons. Those bereaved by miscarriage are especially vulnerable. Parents bond with a child the moment they think about having a baby. Their hopes and dreams are lost with miscarriages; nevertheless, some of them ask, “How can I mourn when I didn’t give birth?” They commonly compare themselves to other bereaved parents: “Who am I to feel sorry for myself when their child was killed?” or “They are all alone now, without other children.” Likewise, sympathizers diminish the magnitude of the loss when they say, “You can have another” or “It would be worse if you had known this child” or “You have other children at home.”
The bereaved often compare their losses: “At least my brother didn’t die in a horrible accident,” “Her husband suffered a long, painful death,” “Unlike my uncle who was married for thirty-five years, I was with my wife for only three years,” “But he was closer to his dad.” Then sympathizers follow suit: “You aren’t the only one to lose a wife,” “You’re not the only widow in town,” “My mother died when I was two years old; at least you had yours all this time.” No one’s pain should ever be discounted. People grow from acknowledging and feeling the depth of their pain.
“You should be happy”
Her son lay dying in a hospice. “How is he?” asked her friend (a bereaved father). They talked for a few minutes, and then the mother began to cry. “You still have your son,” the man said. “You should be happy he’s still with you.” Their relationship ended on that note.
Another indication that grief has become dysfunctional is when death is considered reversible.