RITE AND REASON:AILEEN WAS the love of my life. Death is the biggest thing that happens in our lives. It comes and takes our loved ones away. It tears us apart emotionally. The feeling of loss is enormous. The pain is intense. Like all pain, grief is a deeply personal experience. Nobody else really knows how much you are suffering.
When Aileen died I went into another world. I was surrounded by family and friends. But I felt alone. I had lost part of myself. I was no longer the same person. I was struggling to start a new life.
As I began to move from the cocoon of my home into the wider world, I feared meeting other people. Social life is not only damn hard work, it can be fast and furious. People work and play hard. There is little place for time and sentiment, particularly among strangers. The workplace can be treacherous.
Everyday life is full of uncontrollable encounters. We meet neighbours, strangers, colleagues and we have to read and interpret them through what is said and not said, done and not done. We send each other a myriad of signals in each social encounter that are processed faster and more effectively than any computer. But it is often difficult to communicate our deepest feelings, particularly in public and organisational life.
I remember meeting someone early one morning when I was still weary and bleary. He was not just alive and alert, he was animated. He was pouring out venom about the way he had been mistreated.
As his words splattered over me, I wondered what I could say and do to stop him, to calm him down, to remind him that the way organisations mistreat you is nothing compared to losing a loved one.
I am sure he too had lost someone dear and close to him. I am sure he too had grieved. But he was immersed in life and may have forgotten.
I had mixed feelings. I wanted to hit him and I wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be alright.
Maybe the problem was that he was so wrapped up in his own concerns that he did not see me. Maybe I was putting on too brave a face and he could not see the huge melancholy that lurked behind my smiles. Or maybe he knew but did not want to go there. He did not want to do death and loss at that hour of the morning.
I wonder what he would have said if I had had my arm amputated. Would he have been able to ignore my loss? Grief is like having a vital organ removed. It is an invisible crucifix. Unless there is a physical sign of loss, it is easily forgotten, easily ignored. It would be nice if, when we have to enter the fast lane of everyday life, when it is light and bright outside, but we feel dark and gloomy, that we had a small sign, a pin, to remind people to watch and take care of us.
There are numerous emblems and badges that we use to alert people to who we are and what is important to us. Engagement and wedding rings are signs of love.
People who are willing and able to speak Irish wear a fáinne. People who don’t drink alcohol wear a Pioneer pin. These emblems suggest to people to see and treat you differently. They can be a central part of your identity, of who you are. A small pin that was a sign of grief could do the same.
I am not suggesting that we return to the culture of death that existed in the past, when there were strict rules and regulations about wearing black, particularly for women. There was something dark and oppressive about such regimes. We have moved, quite rightly, from a culture of death to a culture of life.
But a culture of life that ignores death is deadly. We cannot live rich, meaningful lives unless we embrace death. A grief pin may, then, not only be a sign to relate gently to those who are sad and have experienced loss. It may be an encouragement to talk to each other about our feelings and emotions, an essential ingredient in slowing down and taking time to care and love each other. It could be part of a gentle revolution.
Prof Tom Inglis is associate professor at the school of sociology in University College Dublin. The Irish Hospice Foundation is launching a bereavement pin tomorrow .
For more information, log on to www.hospice-foundation.ie