I’ve been cold water swimming this week, put myself to bed early and booked a Barre class. I know that time ring-fenced for wellness serves me (and those who must put up with me), well.
Perhaps more unusually, I’ve also begun boxing time out to feel sad. Sounds a bit odd, I know, but hear me (cry me?) out.
It was Shiv, of Succession fame who first alerted me to the idea. Our dad’s died around the same, only hers was fictional, and mine, very real. When she sobbed, I sobbed. When her partner Tom accused her of “scheduling her grief’, I along with meme writers the internet over, snorted incredulously.
Fresh grief tends to be raw and unbridled. It certainly was for me. The idea of scheduling tears when they were spouting from every orifice seemed laughable.
I was ‘fortunate’ in that I could lean into the aftermath of death and all its madness, by virtue of working for a company with a generous compassionate leave policy.
But of course, real life must resume at some point, irrespective of what point on the sad scale grief may be levelling. Kids need their bums wiping, projects need managing, bills beg to be paid. Compassionate leave will always come to a natural end, whereas heartache gushes onwards. And we must find a way for two realities – ongoing grief and the hamster wheel of life – to coexist without breaking down on the proverbial (or actual) Teams call.
This quest for balance began traditionally enough – I stuffed grim feelings down, clawed through the day then angrily shouted obscenities when something didn’t go my way. There was the time I lost it about cat hair on the sofa. And also the time I told the guy at Octopus Energy he was a c*nt. All justified, given the enormity of losing a parent, but not an entirely sustainable way to exist.
I’d like to say this is when Tom’s slant at Shiv came back to me, but the truth is I started time-boxing periods to cry through virtue of necessity. By recognising that me flipping out at an overstuffed recycling bin was more likely sadness begging for attention. And I really ought to be a responsible adult and do something about it.
So, I cancelled out dinner plans and swapped them in for time spent time dedicated to remembering the thing I was feeling wobbly about – losing my dad.
In the same way accessing joy or gratitude requires practice, so too does accessing sadness. And unsurprisingly it didn’t come easily at first. I felt stupid, ushering my husband away to stare at the moon begging awful feelings to rise on command.
But as time moved on, I learned how to create the optimum environment to reconnect with the grim stuff. I’m talking low lighting, no interruption, comfortable clothes, then using physical prompts to purposefully prod the bruise. Think old photographs; music dad used to play on long car journeys; letters handwritten from him to me; sniffing the only jumper with his scent still woven in its seams.
With practice I found I was able to reopen the wound for an hour or so of emotional gouging, before resealing and getting on with my week. And by practicing this (two to three times a week at first), a ‘sadness shortcut’ soon emerged.
Step forward the writing of Nick Laird.
Three times a week, maybe more, I return to the scene of the sadness crime by Googling, “Nick Laird Up Late”.
Up Late is an elegy to Laird’s father, who (I gather from his piece) deteriorated then died in hospital during covid. Laird was not physically with his father when he died.
I won’t dissect his writing for you, this is not York Notes. But suffice to say his words offer (me) a way to bear the bigness of death in a way daily life has little time for. Up Late binds the blinding side swipe of grief in a way I can only dream to muster. And in this way his poem takes me directly to the source of my pain.
Do I still feel entirely silly circling time in my diary to cry? Yes. But on the times I’ve prioritised elsewhere, my rage levels erupt and soon I’m creeping back to Nick like some pervert at a party, wanting another sniff of his expertly craftly lines.
No one has the privilege or energy to be sad 24/7. But it doesn’t serve us to hide from the heavier stuff either. Scheduling time for grief might sound corporate solution. But unlike wellness, sadness need not be commodified. No yoga subscription or fancy crystals required here, simply closing the door, grabbing some tissues, bravely looking through old photos or leaning on Mr Laird is enough. A short hour of wailing two times a week seems to have stopped the sadness solidifying in my cells.
Why not try scheduling time each day to give yourself over to the stuff that feels like toothache in your brain. Finding a pain point to return to, may safely ground your sadness too. Worked for Shiv, after all 😉.