The pandemic has been a testing time for all of us. But for me and my family, our darkest ‘hour’ came in December. We lost two of the most important men in our lives: my almost-step-father died after a long illness in a distant nursing home, unable to see family or friends; a week after I’d given the eulogy at his funeral, my adored 78-year old father died – suddenly and unexpectedly – of a heart attack; ten days after reading his eulogy at another bleak, masked, socially distanced funeral, our puppy died after five days, entirely isolated, in a veterinary hospital.
None of these deaths were from COVID, but COVID played its part. Most poignantly perhaps, COVID intensified the grief – depriving us of the tiny things that help process emotional pain. Like human touch. Such a simple thing – to hold the hand of your loved one before they pass away, to hug friends and relatives at a wake, to hold your sick puppy.
Likewise, the after-party or wake, historically a time for sharing anecdotes and stories, for laughter, hugging and holding – and a vital part of how we order and lay down the memories so necessary to sustain us afterwards. Funerals and wakes have traditionally started the healing process, providing crucial moments of human connection that remind us, not only of the person we’ve lost, but of who we are. Because – in our deepest grieving – we lose a part of ourselves.
Many of you, like my family, will have attended COVID-compliant funerals, quite possibly from a screen, quite possibly alone. Looking out from the pulpit, at a small, socially distanced, masked audience and knowing there could be no hugging, no convivial wake, no whispered exchange of amusing memories, no catching up with distant relatives, gave an edge of ice to both funerals, compounding the bleakness. And so the grief lingered, raw and nagging.
The truth is, whether we’ve lost loved ones or not, we are all in varying stages of grief. Some of us are grieving the year we’ve lost, some are grieving for the loss of crowds, our journey to work, the life we once had, the friends, family, colleagues we’ve not seen, the business or work that has disappeared. Many of us may not be grieving for ourselves but for the losses sustained by those we love. And let’s not underestimate the weight of this particular grief: sometimes the pain of others feels harder to bear than our own. Meanwhile, the grief of those left totally alone, socially isolated after years of partnership, is almost impossible to comprehend. The 16-week waiting list for a phone session with a bereavement counsellor speaks volumes.
And here’s the thing about grief – it creeps into our blood and bones, altering us physiologically. If it lingers too long, it tips into what psychologists call ‘complicated’ grief: chronic depression and anxiety, tough to experience and tough to shift. This too affects us in strange and unexpected ways, both bodily and psychologically.
As my body oscillated between heart-racing fury and brain-numbing exhaustion, I buried myself in busy-ness – organising funerals, obituaries, post mortems, and reading endless studies of heart disease (how could my father have had a fatal heart attack a fortnight after his doctor described his organs as ‘in good shape’?). Later, I dug around looking for studies of grief. I wanted an explanation for the vast boulder that sat – crushingly – on my chest. I wanted to know why I either slept as if drugged (I wasn’t), or lay wide awake all night.
Studies show that grief raises blood pressure, increases inflammation and heightens the risk of blood clots. Our cortisol is raised, our sleep is disrupted, our heart-rate flip flops inexplicably. The flu vaccine is less effective in people who’ve recently lost someone they love. Research shows that bereaved older people (but not younger people) have fewer infection-fighting white blood cells, leaving them more vulnerable to ill health.
And what of our hearts? There’s good reason for the term ‘heart-broken’: in the days following the death of a loved one, the risk of a heart attack increases 21-fold, and six-fold in the subsequent week, with the risk of a heart attack or stroke remaining elevated for several further weeks.
The death of a partner – according to one study – is associated with a wide range of major cardiovascular events in the weeks and months following bereavement, as well as a 41% increase in mortality in the following 6 months.
Why the sudden increase in mortality? It’s not just our hearts and immunity that suffer. Experiencing bereavement can disturb our mitochondria – the engines of our cells – in ways identified in mice and among small studies of people but not yet fully understood.
And the more grief-stricken or depressed we are (the two are different but often overlap), the greater the inflammation in our bodies. And thus we risk falling into that vicious cycle of grief begetting inflammation, and inflammation begetting illness and depression – and on it goes.
But there are things we can do. Of which perhaps the most important is to express our grief, to sit with it, to share it. In a recent study of bereaved spouses, those that tried to suppress their grief (being busy is a classic example of this, as is ‘putting on a brave face’ or ‘staying strong’ for others) had higher levels of inflammation, making them more prone to illness, disease and depression.
We all express our grief in different ways and at different times. But knowing that how we grieve might be detrimental to our ability to survive means we need to pay a little attention to ourselves and to what we’re doing in the depths of our despair.
For me, writing my father’s obituaries (here, here and here if anyone wants examples of how to do it) was profoundly therapeutic, reflecting a few small studies suggesting that writing therapy can be particularly effective when grieving. It doesn’t have to be obituaries. Letters, emails, keeping a journal, are just as valid.
But after that, I decided to stop being so busy, and not to sit at a laptop with my grief, but to walk with it. Not only is walking the safest permitted activity we can do at present, but it’s also the best possible activity for the bereaved – its slow rhythmic pace is perfectly suited to reflection. Wrapped up behind a scarf, buried in a big hood, I could cry if I wanted to. When my heart raced, I could pick up speed and shake off that gripping sense of panic. When exhaustion washed over me, I could slow down. Walking gave me the time and space to make sense of what had happened, and to ponder the existential questions sparked by this sudden excess of loss.
At the same time I found solace in the simplest of things: a robin in my path, the sound of wind in trees, a cluster of snowdrops. And if I wanted to talk to someone, I had my phone. Moreover, walking is an antidote to the detrimental physiological effects of grief – improving our immunity and heart rate variability, lowering our cortisol levels, replacing shallow stricken breathing with deeper calming respiration, oxygenating our mitochondria, and helping us sleep more soundly at night.
And it was here – while walking through damp forests and green fields – that I found those I thought were lost. Those we have loved and lost are, of course, never lost. They live within us, their legacy always so much richer than the vein of memories held in photograph albums. And if they leave us with one other thing it is surely the knowledge that we must live compassionately, however imperfectly.
Their passing away, and our subsequent sadness, reminds us that we must have grief in our lives if we are to fully love. Indeed, the more we love, the greater our grief. And so it must be: the privilege of love brings the battering of pain. But would we have it any other way?
And so I and my family are still here. We have returned to work, to a COVID-normal life. We are coming through – as billions of us will come through this pandemic. Vaccinations have arrived, the bulbs are bursting through the black earth, the birds are seeking out nesting places, my father watches over us in the form of a buzzard who circles above our house (or so I like to think). And the police have busted the puppy farm selling sick puppies bred from stolen dogs. But that’s another story for another day…
Tend to yourself, in grief or otherwise. And tend to your friends, in their grief. The future beckons and, to play our part, we need to be as sound in mind and in body as we can muster. One step at a time…
Annabel
Beautiful words Annabel, as always. Thank you. x
Thank you, Emma xx
Thanks, Emma xx
So beautifully written Annabel. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, for sharing this piece. One step at a time, by placing one foot in front of the other, we can begin to see that there can be a silver lining within our grief,…wee are never alone and we must never lose hope.
Thank you so much, Julia, how kind you are! And how right – there is always, always hope and we must never lose sight of that…
Annabel so sorry for the losses of your stepfather, father and your puppy. The article you wrote describing your grief is beautifully written, and hopeful about the power of just walking through it. I’ve found the power of walking too and believe it to be transformational. Thank you for sharing your painful thoughts it really does help myself and others.
Thank you Deirdre, that’s so kind. You’re right about walking – and transformational is the perfect word! Keep walking…
I’m so sorry for your losses Annabel, how awful for you. But thank you so much for your kind and empathetic words that will help so many. I hope they help you.
Thank you, Penny. It has been a year of loss – but we go on, as we must…
Thank you Annabelle for the email this morning.
A great comfort
Thank you, that’s appreciated…
A sensitive and insightful analysis of grief. It should be noted that tears are therapeutic too. I try to substitute negative thoughts for positive memories. For example “he/she/(my beloved cat had to be put to sleep recently) may have gone but we had a wonderful time together!”
Thanks, Christine – yes, I agree, tears are so important. We spend far too much effort trying to restrain them! They should flow freely but our culture finds that rather difficult, although I think that’s changing, don’t you?
I am so sorry for your loss. Take care of yourself. One step at a time. x
Thanks, Nancy. One slow step in my case!
So sorry for you. Your thoughts resonated with me. After my husband died nearly eight years ago I walked and walked and felt he was all around me in the sky, the air which I breathe, the trees the flowers and the grass, in the water of the glorious river which flows where I am privileged to live. Whenever a buzzard flies over me, he is with me. I still feel him in this way, it is of huge comfort.
Ah, that’s wonderful to hear and so beautifully put. On the morning of my father’s funeral, a buzzard swooped down from a tree above me, right in front of my path. Such a thing had never happened to me before, and I knew – as clear as glass – that his spirit was there. As you say, hugely comforting…
Such wise words. So sorry you are having to walk through this loss but thank you for having the courage and compassion to share what you have experienced and learned. Thank you x
Thanks, Caroline, for your kind words. Appreciated…
This beautifully written feature should be in every national newspaper and magazine and on every message board.
Touch wood I am not grieving for anybody. Without wishing to sound dramatic, I feel certainly, after chatting with friends and family that we’ve all sort of been grieving the carefree world that we lived in pre pandemic.
We can all learn from this wonderfully articulated piece of writing. Thank you so much Annabel, especially after all the raw grief you’ve recently experienced, for helping us all to keep going.
Wishing you that very special future we are striving towards x
Thank you, Susie, for your very kind words. Yes, I suspect our universal grieving is happening at an almost inarticulate level. Many friends speak of a dull flatness, a sense of loss that they can’t quite put their finger on. They are grieving – for a life gone, a year gone, a way of life we took for granted and appears to have slipped carelessly through our fingers. The grieving is good – it means when we can move on, we will! High heels and hair brush at the ready…
I am so sorry for your devastating losses. Walking has helped me, too, to deal with major losses and illness. I hope your horizons are brighter.
Thanks, Teresa, appreciated! Keep walking…
Courageous, thoughtful, and emotionally true. I so identify with walking as solace. The aura of cosmic grief has renewed the sharpness of my husband’s death, 20 months ago. I was able to be with him for many hours every day in the hospice. I cannot imagine the agony of separation, and I am so sorry that you, and too many others, are going through this.
I agree also about writing: for me, it was haiku, or just very short ‘poems’, setting down images and feelings in a few words when I couldn’t sustain anything longer.
I send you love and best wishes.
Thank you, Hilary. I’m so sorry to hear about your husband. And you are right: with every new tragedy, the old ones are brought back to life, albeit more manageably as time goes by. Haiku – a brilliant suggestion! Than you for sharing and for your kind words in general. Keep writing…
Dear Annabel
Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings about your overwhelming loss. I lost my Mum to Alzheimer’s almost two years ago. What I’ve learned is that there are no stages of grief. Just waves. You find yourself like a surfer, riding “the big one” at the most inopportune times. But ride those waves we must because to resist them will simply knock us over. We honour the feelings and then cope as best we can.
I wish you peace in your journey.
Thank you so much, Estelle, and I am so sorry to hear of your Mum. You are so utterly right – and reading about the 7 stages of grief (or is it 5?) flummoxed me rather as I couldn’t work out why I wasn’t progressing smoothly through them! Mine is more of a cocktail of grief, full of crashing waves. But yes, ride them we must…
So beautifully written. I have suffered so little loss in the Covid, yet your piece brought me to the brink of tears.
Thank you for sharing
Thank you, Kirsten – appreciated…
You have touched me this morning with your words on grieving in these times. I lost my best friend on November 30, not to Covid, but a six month breast cancer bout. It’s been difficult processing everything but I also feel that being in nature, walking, having outdoor chores, is my best antidote. I wish you healing and good thoughts, thank you
I’m so sorry to hear that, Mary. I agree with you – oddly birds have been my salvation and I have 100 of those coconut bird feeders (you know the ones?) festooning every tree. Who thought birds could provide so much sustenance!?
Sorry for your loss, Annabel.
I lost a dear one recently.
I’m so sorry to hear that – I hope you’re looking after yourself with great tenderness…
Thank you so much for your thoughts and musings.
I had no idea that grief can become “complicated “.
Thanks, yes, grief is complicated and perilous… who knew?!
My heart goes out to you and your family, Annabel. What you write and how you write is powerful and I found it comforting too.
I lost my husband of 41 years, almost a year ago, in hospital, though not to Covid 19 although the rules applied.
The hardest part then was not being there for him when he needed me. it is still haunting me and my own health has suffered.
But I will try now, in light of what you have written, to pull myself up and hopefully out on the other side.
I hope you will be able to continue your inspiring web site.
Best wishes
Thank you, Eileen. It’s a tragic time to pass away – for everyone involved. No wonder your health has suffered and i am so very sorry for your terrible loss. It’s very hard to get any ‘closure’ (terrible word and all wrong but you know what I mean) in the circumstances prescribed by COVID. But, as you say, all the more reason to treat ourselves with great care! Thanks for sharing your story…
So very sorry for your three huge losses.
Thank you for writing this.
Thanks, Amanda – glad you appreciated it…
Thank you for sharing this Annabel, it resonates so much with me. I last had a conversation with my Dad early in November, he was then admitted to Hospital and after a while, transferred to a Care Home. His health deteriorated quite rapidly, I suspect in part due to not being able to see his loved ones, and he passed away at the end of December. His funeral followed at the end of this January and of course, was subject to social distancing and a freezing cold, brief chat outside afterwards. I’m letting the tears flow when they may as I know the harm caused by ‘soldiering on’ or ‘putting a brave face on it’ and I am lucky to have wonderful support; I can only imagine how terrible it must be not to have such support and my heart goes out to those who suffer alone. There are some great charities that help in dealing with grief and one of which I have heard great things (although have no personal knowledge) is the Good Grief Trust. I hope you don’t mind me mentioning them as it just might help someone.
Keep walking and please keep posting your amazing blogs, from which I have learned so much over the last few years. My best wishes to you and yours.
Thank you so much, Nicola. I send my condolences to you, in sad return. Like you, I have wonderful family, but I know of many who’s families are miles away, often on the other side of the world, and a screen can never be a long hug. I don’t know of the Good Grief Trust, but thanks so much for sharing … and thanks for your kind words!
A beautiful, poignant piece of writing, Annabel.
Very best wishes, Beverley
Thank you, Beverley… appreciated!
What an accurate description of the assault of grief. The whole beautifully written and heartfelt article resonated utterly with me. This is how it is and to try and deny it not a good path. I think your description of effects on the body is completely right. The bereaved need to be helped understand the physical and mental turmoil assaulting them and to express their pain.
I particularly appreciated you mentioning writing about loss as so helps to displace it for a little while and helps to gain a tiny measure of control albeit temporarily. After some time this writing was for me an amazing perspective on that time.
Grief is the thing with Feathers -Max Porter is amazing too. You could try it.
I wish you strength on your grief journey and know that you will come to terms with it all. Time is the healer
Thank you Rowena, that’s so kind… you are right: we are told so little about the physical impact of grief. And I too love Max Porter’s luminous Grief is the Thing with Feathers. Thanks for suggesting it… The other book I love is Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking.
A beautiful reminder of what’s important in life, and how to get through grief. Thank you!
Thank you, appreciated…
And while you are walking, you must miss the companionship of your puppy. Still so young, an extra layer of sadness.
Indeed, I was quite taken aback at the sheer weight of anguish over a tiny puppy we had spent so little time with. It showed me that no one’s grief should ever be ‘measured’ or compared. Grief is grief…
I am so sorry about your recent losses, Annabel, as you make your way on this journey of grief. Your article was so meaningful and helpful…a keeper as I have experienced the loss of both parents and a pet in the last few years. I am aware of complicated grief and understand we must let things play out – there is no timeline. I now recognize our loved ones are always with us, just as you beautifully described. Take good care.
Thanks, Janet. I’m sorry for your losses in return, but I’m glad you found this helpful.
Oh my goodness Annabel, thank you so very much for sharing and reflecting so deeply on your experiences so that your readers can also reflect and share. What happened to wearing black as the outward sign of inner mourning? It tells the world to take care, to respect, to treat with kindness that person as they are carrying loss in their heart and so possibly, probably, grief. But we’ve lost those traditions and must make new ones… keeping up with homemade soup and connecting and supportive behaviour must be the new black. I lost my husband of 30 yrs in 2014 and my dearest Mum last June. I bought a ring recently of two leaves in twined in rose and yellow gold… it gives me great comfort just to wear it… I feel they are closer somehow. I was left with two boys so I had NO choice but to keep going for them… I was determined that they wouldn’t lose two parents having lost their father. I did all the ‘wrong’ things… sold up and moved within 6 months, went back to work within a few weeks, bought another car on my own from an online salesman… all of which were, in the end, great decisions! I kept my grief private and took great great solace in swimming (not a great walker:)) and reading. I so needed to be in the company of others who mourned and it did really help me survive I think. Here’s who helped: Joan didion (the year of magical thinking), anne Kaiser stern (coming back) Megan Devine (;it’s ok that you’re not ok) victor frankel ( mans search for meaning) and Isabelle Allende….(Paula). I read many others over the last six years but Tharp always are standouts. I reread Joan didion after Mum died… it still helped… before she died I read Necessary Losses By Judith Viorst. What I am so grateful for… I was there for both their passing… both passed inside rooms that radiated with love and joy and music and flowers… I have indeed been blessed with those memories… I wrote my own eulogy for both their funerals..that also helped me ….I so agree Re the healing of writing.
thank you so so much Annabel for being so brave and sharing your grief… it will always be of help to others being in it themselves… I’m crying now,…. it never leaves you but you grow with it. “Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.” Joan Didion. Blessings and Namaste. Victoria
Thank you for this lovely heartfelt reply, Victoria. I am so sorry for your losses, how lucky you were to be there – such an honour and a privilege to be with them at their last breath. And thank you so much for this wonderful reading list. Joan Didion is the absolute top of my grief reading list and Victor Frankel is a close second. I don’t know the others although I’ve come across Devine’s book. Another one I started (but couldn’t continue – not yet) is ‘I wasn’t Ready to Say Goodbye’ which focuses on those sudden unexpected deaths. I’ll get to it.. Blessings and Namaste in return.
This is a beautiful piece of authentic, honest, and uplifting writing Annabel. I am so sorry for your loss. We had a close shave with my 97 year old father 10 days ago and thought he was going to pass away, on his own, bewildered and lonely in a hospital so overstretched that they could barely help him unpack his bag or keep him clean and comfortable. Thankfully it was a small heart attack and with new meds he is now recovering at my sisters. I am always in the resilient category, carrying on regardless, but this shook me far more than I could have imagined. Long dog walks in the woods with a podcast to make me laugh and all the signs of spring around me are proving to be a powerful restorative force. I totally understand how some peace and quiet with nature can make such a difference to your mood and energy.
Thanks so much, Jenny – yes, it’s a difficult time to die, to mourn, so I am delighted your father has hung on to life and is in a home he knows and with people he loves. And thank goodness for nature – and for spring! And for podcasts too – you are right!
Hi Annabel,
Thank you for taking the time to write and share. So so sorry for your losses.
Lost my Dad 3 months ago (non covid illness) and still profoundly burdened with pain and sadness as I was unable to travel home (yes, covid hindrances again!) to the Caribbean for that one last goodbye and now dealing with the loss of our uncle (his older brother – USA), who passed away last week end.
I do take a lot of comfort from this your piece.
So insightful.
Thank you and while we have to support those of our loved ones going through the same thing, do take care. Will do the same.
Warm hugs
Esther
Thank you, Esther, for your kind thoughts. I am so sorry for your losses, it must be awful to feel (and be) so far away at a time when we naturally crave intimacy and family. The sadness keeps on coming, but over time it sweetens and softens – and that too is comforting, a sign they are held tightly in our hearts. Look after yourself…
Thanks a million Annabel.
And a million thanks also to all your readers and contributors for sharing their stories.
Trust we all have the opportunity to heal somewhere along our journey and able to share that experience.
Look after yourself…..too💖
I am so sorry for the loss of three such significant beings in your life Annabel. What a beautifully written piece that has moved me greatly. Thank you.
Thank you, Anne, much appreciated…
My heart went out to you reading your words Annabel! I lost my closest friend 3 weeks ago (not from the virus) and “attended” her “celebration” on line. I saw her in February 2020 and then spoke weekly during lockdowns but missed her presence. Then we met up in October and a week later she received a terminal diagnosis! I was “fortunate” I visited her at home weekly until she passed in January, we had the time and said our special goodbyes and I am so aware many others have not.
Thank you, Angela, and thanks for sharing your own story. I’m so sorry for your loss but also glad you had that time together. Those visits must have been hugely comforting to your friend. How lucky for you both to have had such a wonderful friendship!
Dear Annabel,
Thank you for your poignant report and may we offer our sincere condolences for your losses. Friends close to us have lost loved ones over this last year and there has certainly needed to be a huge level of compassion, love and kindness shown in supporting those who are grieving because the normal ways we have shared grief has been taken from us due to Covid restrictions.
Love and blessings to you and your family and friends.
Dawn & Nick xx
Thank you, Dawn. So appreciated. Yes, few of us have escaped the touch of COVID in some way, shape or form. Let’s hope a greater compassion for others is one of the pandemic’s silver linings… Fingers crossed!