grief-hope-blessing

Unconventional grief

In Chapter four of A Resurrection Shaped Life, “Mending Loss and Sorrow,” Jake Owensby introduced me to the term “unconventional grief.”

            “Unconventional grief occurs when the person we’ve lost is still right in front of us. A loved one may drift into dementia or sink into addiction. A person we once knew can be spirited away from us by brain injury of mental illness. The one we love is gone. And still sits at the Thanksgiving table. This kind of sorrow is not the same as anticipating someone’s death…unconventional grief involves continuing to live with a person who has become a stranger or to whom you are now a stranger” (Page 56).

I was familiar with the concept.

In 2002, my friend Jim did something completely out of character. “Who are you and what have you done with Jim?” I asked and then added, “You must have a brain tumor.” He blamed his action on being tired, but I was not convinced.

Jim was a man of routine. He was predictable, dependable.

So when he acted oddly on that day in 2002, I knew something was wrong.

And from then on, he began to act out of character more frequently—until he eventually became a new person whose life looked significantly different from his old life. His old routines were replaced by things that had once held no interest for him.

One day, I compiled a list with two columns—Old Jim and New Jim—to show him how he had changed. He looked at the sheet of paper and agreed he did not do things he had once done but could not seem to understand why it was an issue. It was as if his brain could not process the information.

And he refused to see a doctor.

By 2006, Old Jim was pretty much gone, and I was left with New Jim. And although the loss was real, I did not know how to grieve it.

Five years later, Jim was diagnosed with glioblastoma—brain cancer.

I described Old Jim and New Jim to the neurosurgeon and asked if this tumor could have caused the change. He explained that the glioblastoma had only been growing for three to four weeks. “But,” he added, “There is something in his right front lobe that is not glioblastoma and that could be a slow-growing tumor that has been there a long time.” He asked if there was a history of benign brain tumors in Jim’s family. In fact, Jim had an uncle who died from complications from benign brain tumor surgery.

I believe that every curse has a blessing. Glioblastoma was definitely a curse, but throughout Jim’s illness, we experienced many blessings. The greatest blessing, though, was that the treatments that were entirely ineffective on the glioblastoma somehow returned Jim’s brain to its pre-2002 condition. Old Jim came back!

I grieved Jim’s death, but have only recently begun to get in touch with those lost years, that time of unconventional grief.

grief-hope-blessing
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6 thoughts on “Unconventional grief

  1. Madeline Bialecki Post author

    The Reflection Question (at the end of the chapter) about experiencing “the power of the resurrection in our compassion for those in mourning” made me think of those who are unconventionally grieving. It is difficult to truly understand that kind of loss, precisely because the person is still there. Several friends are living with aging parents who are not how they once were, and it is sad. When Jim had brain cancer, I grieved for all that would never be, and also experienced what I called “anticipatory” grief for when he would be gone. In the midst of it all is God’s grace, offering hope. Your book is very helpful, Jake. Thank you.

    Reply
  2. Karen

    Thanks for sharing, Madeline. I went through this with my father; it was a difficult time for me. Sitting with my Dad in the home I was raised in for 50+ years and then he turned to me and said that he was waiting to go home! He was home…so sad 😦

    Reply
  3. Jane Banik

    Madeline, You’ve just described our son Mark, who died this past October 7th of a heart attack resulting from kidney failure and alcoholism. The change began years ago ; but the son I knew never came back to be the caring, giving son I knew and loved. I hardly recognized this person; and I could not help him.

    Sent from my iPad

    >

    Reply

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