How grief is expressed depends on the person

Q: I am not able to cry since my husband's death Nov. 7, 2004. I can't explain it. We were married 42 years and he was a good husband. -- M.H., Las Vegas

A: Here's the most important thing I can tell you about tears: In and of themselves, they mean neither this nor that. I'm saying their presence doesn't necessarily indicate a healthy, normal grief. Neither does their absence indicate an abnormal or pathological grief.

Many factors come into play, such as temperament, type and culture. Some people just don't cry as much as other people, nor do they need to cry. Some types focus on understanding feelings, while other types prefer to feel their feelings. Some cultures teach grief through narrative and stoicism. Other cultures promote high emotion and ceremonial drama.

How did you deploy tears before your husband's death?

Rather than perseverate about the absence of tears, I would urge you to consider other, more telling indicators regarding the health or unhealth of your grief. For example:

How are you sleeping? Eating? Are there signs of depression? Destructive/compulsive behavior? Are you left only with emptiness, or do you regularly, now, four years later, feel a deep gratitude for your husband's goodness and 42 years of marriage? Are you productive? Participating in life? Or locked away in isolation?

Tears are not the only way to measure the depth of our love for the deceased. Eventually we honor the importance of our loved ones by living well and happily. The way they would want us to live.

Q: I lost my 26-year-old son. I have the usual wide range of emotions that I still go through, but my reason for writing you is to ask if it's normal to feel guilty when I have a good day. When I realize I'm having a good day or enjoying something, it hits me. -- D.F., Las Vegas

A: It's both normal and common for "good days" to provoke ambivalence or even a crisis for grieving people.

In the first several days of an acute bereavement, people often find themselves startled, dismayed, even irritated to notice the world is going on. They ride in funeral processions, and find themselves looking at the madness of Las Vegas freeway traffic and thinking: "Where are these people going in such a hurry? Don't they know my boy is dead?"

When your heart is broken, it doesn't make sense that 7-Elevens should open. Or even that the sun should come up. That the seasons should change. That Nevada Power Co. still expects money in exchange for your lights coming on.

But, of course, the earth keeps spinning, hurtling through space. And you change, too. The grief changes you. And the day comes when you forget yourself, which means you forget to grieve.

And you laugh. Laugh hard for no other reason than that you saw or heard something funny. You throw back your head and laughter pours through and out of you until you have to catch your breath. Endorphins pop like happy balloons in your brainstem. It feels good to be alive. To be you.

Then it hits you. You're supposed to be sad. You feel guilty, yes, but underneath is a panic of sorts, as in that dream where you realize you've forgotten to show up for semester finals. You've lost your grip on something very valuable. And you actually soothe yourself by trying to get it back. By wishing the sadness back.

People have mixed feelings about the healing of their grief, because grief indeed keeps us connected to something very valuable: our loved one.

But, as I said to the reader above, grief is only one way to stay connected. Thriving is another way. Honoring the life of your boy by affirming life itself. Your life.

Did he begrudge your happiness when he was alive? Would he be flattered to hear of his mother's reluctance to enjoy her life?

It's just not the way I see him. I see him sitting on a cloud with the same wish in his heart that he had on the day he gave you that scribbled, paste-crusted whatever-it-was art project he made in kindergarten for your Mother's Day present. Remember that look on his face?

Think of him looking that way the next time you accidentally have a good day.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling Wellness Center in Las Vegas and the author of "Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing" (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Tuesdays and Sundays. Questions for the Asking Human Matters column or comments can be e-mailed to skalas@reviewjournal.com.