How I’ve Pre-Grieved Since Childhood
Help me decide if it’s a good or bad thing
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When I was younger, I was terrified of family dying. I truly thought that every year would be my gran’s last, after she had her first stroke. And then she had her second stroke. 20+ years on and she’s still here, I should get to see her this Christmas if I can make it back to my home in Sydney.
As an adult I experienced my first actual death of a family member— Our family dog Milly, the black Labrador.
Back around the time when I was finishing high school, Milly was 10 years old and overweight. I remember being told off by my school friends for what I’d say when they came over and showed Mil lots of love and affection.
Me - 'She’s got arthritis and she’s too fat. She’ll die soon.'
A friend - ‘Ohh poor Milly, you don’t want her to die, do you?’
Me - ‘Well no, of course not. I’m just saying it because it’s going to happen.’
Apart from sounding like a heartless clairvoyant, it turns out I was just wrong. Milly lived until she was about 15 years old.
It was around late 2014, and I was 3 years into my career in the police. I’d experienced that weird shift in parent-child relationships where you one day find yourself being asked for advice, not being the one asking it.
I’d built up an unhealthy level of emotional armour in my occupation. And I think that appeared to most of my family members as a new level of reliability. I mean, sure, it made me more reliable for a while. After all, when you’re bottling up the ‘TS’ in the ‘PTSD’, how reliable you appear is what really matters.
So when mum called me to tell me it was time… I was okay. And my concern was for my mum and for my two older sisters. Then mum explained that her plan was to take Milly to be put down tomorrow, and then tell my sisters after.
I could tell she was stressed. Milly had been mum’s sole companion since we’d all been gone; Us three sisters were spread across two states. And neither state was our home, where Mum was with Milly.
I told my mum to rethink her choice. Please, let my older sister, Lou, know. My guess was that Lou would drive home from her city three hours away, to say goodbye to Milly. She’d drop everything.
Mum did let her know beforehand, and Lou drove home to be with mum and Milly when Milly was euthanised. Both were grateful I called the situation to avoid what was already an awful experience becoming a horrendous one.
Lou and I had talked about death and trauma enough that I knew she might never forgive mum if mum hadn’t included her and let her be involved.
You might think that I knew this because I knew how I would feel in that situation and that my sister and I were so similar.
On the one hand, sure, we like to be aware of things before they happen. We’re future focusers, something we don’t share with my mum and my other sister. If those two were characters in a movie and their future selves knocked on their doors, both doors would be immediately slammed shut with a curt ‘I’m not interested, please take my address off your list’.
But while Lou and I are united on being focused on the future, when it comes to death we’re completely different. How?
To put it simply, Lou has a more normal way of experiencing trauma and death than I do.
Our other sister, once said to me 'maybe you should stop running away from all your problems’. I’d moved to Coober Pedy, a town in the outback in the centre of Australia. I was literally living underground. She had a point.
I’ve always been able to cut and run easily. And I think that serves me well in a lot of parts of my life. I have an incredibly strong sense of purpose that helps me focus my energy in the right places. That purpose is paired with a proven talent in easily dropping things, places, or people out of my life in order to protect myself.
As mentioned though, I’m not heartless. I don’t have a titanium pump in my chest.
In fact, my empathy is extreme.
So extreme that when anyone asks me if I like The Office, my answer is always 'no because that scene where Kevin dropped the chilli caused me intense physical pain’.
And if they ask me ‘okay, what about the British one?’, then I know they don’t get how empathy can make you want to tear your flesh off your body and throw it into a dumpster, especially when Ricky Gervais is involved.
The good thing? Well, because I experienced this extreme empathy from as far back I remember, I developed coping mechanisms.
- As a child, begging my parents to let me sleep in their beds at night so I wouldn’t have the nightmares.
- Again as a child, actual OCD with compulsions multiple times a day. E.g. mum is going to die if you don’t get out of your bedroom in the next 5 seconds.
- Joining the police.
- Always moving from place to place rather than forming long-term ties.
- Never watching The Office, Parks & Recreation, Curb Your Enthusiasm or anything else ‘cringe’.
- If someone suggests a new British Dark Comedy TV Show, I make my decision based on their answer to a simple question. ‘How did you feel when you watched the scene in The Office where Kevin drops the chili?’
- Watching horror movies.
But the point of this story is that there’s a number eight on that list. One that I didn’t realise until last week, when my dad nearly died- did die? In front of me at home. See, I just never realised that number eight, this thing I’ve been doing (pre-grieving) was a coping mechanism this whole time. Here’s how I’ve 'coped' through pre-grieving.
I used to see so much death and pain in the police. Every job felt closer and closer to home as the years went on.
Working in rural and remote country towns for seven years, I dreaded the day where I might respond to my partner crushed in a road crash, or my best friend burning alive in front of me.
Thankfully those things never happened. But so many other things did. And those things were like proxies to my greatest fears, constant threats and reminders. They were traumatic.
One of those experiences in particular has been on my mind again this week, for the first time in years. The cracking of ribs underneath my open palms. My close friend devastated by a family member’s death.
I gave CPR to a my friend’s Uncle, in one small town that my friend and I lived and policed in. I knew his Uncle, we all did. It was the nature of the town.
His ribs cracked to the rhythm of my chest compressions as I waited for the Ambulance to arrive.
They arrived, and I continued compressions while they got the Defibrillator ready. The pads were on. The monitor told us it was reading his heart rhythm. And then-
No shock advised.
As his ribs continued to crunch under my hands, I felt so ill at the thought of my poor friend and how his life was about to be rocked. I can’t remember if he was there that night, I was so focused on the crunching sensation under my palms.
And this is where that coping mechanism kicked in, from that moment. Or really, from before I walked in the door when I knew what job I was going to.
- It starts with pessimism. Assume the worst. If you plan for the worst, then you can’t be caught out, right?
- Then the bad thing happens. Ouch, that’s painful. Let your mind go through the scenario, over and over again. Reset the scene, place the players. This time it’s your family member. Next time a friend. Let it wash over you how that would really feel to experience.
- Collect all the trauma and add it to a little stockpile. That’s right, if you keep all your trauma together, you can create a fun, giant, trauma monster. Imagine what the grief boss is like at that level of the computer game. But not to worry, it feels overwhelming now but you’re just getting in practice on how to grieve. You’ll destroy that trauma monster.
Sounds super healthy, right?
So that number eight on the coping mechanisms list would look something like this:
8. Spending literal hours, days and years replaying traumatic scenarios. But, experiencing them in replays as if it had been my family and loved ones involved. And then going through grief reactions, over and over and over again.
Yeah, I don’t recommend this method of coping. But it’s what I’ve realised I’ve been doing. Thirty years of pre-grieving in preparation for losses I haven’t experienced yet.
I have no regrets in life in general, but man oh man, imagine if I’d just been normal and not had to stockpile trauma and grief.
It’s like this whole time I’ve been running myself through a torturous obstacle course — Disney Hercules Zero to Hero style — for a series of battles that may be tomorrow, or in another 20 years time.
So what are the benefits of my weird coping mechanism?
- Ability to cut and run. I don’t let toxicity in my life and I move forward quickly.
- Resilience in spades. Do I need to explain this one? I don’t think so.
- And most importantly in — I express love and affection to my family and friends, a LOT. When you’re thinking of everyone you love dying all the time, it’s easy to remember to call your mum every day or two.
What do you think?
Experience anything similar? And are you a future focused person, more about the present or the past? Or a combination! Leave a comment if you found this valuable in any way as I would love to hear from you!
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It was a pleasure to come home from the hospital when my dad had his heart attack the other day (and is okay), to read this article by Matthew B. Johnson.
I loved the story, writing and Matthew’s sense of humour SO much that I immediately wanted to be his friend. And I got what I wanted! ☺️ Anyway have a read of this touching and hilarious story on his gorgeous rescue cat Zoey.
