Remembering the Dead: Thoughts from Kierkegaard

"In relationship to one dead you have criterion whereby you can test yourself... it is one's duty to love [those] we do not see...we cannot be set aside because death separates them from us, for duty is eternal."

Søren Kierkegaard

I spent today reading Kierkegaard's "Works of Love". Specifically, a piece called 'the work of love in remembering one dead' whereby he asserts that actively remembering our dead is an act of duty that epitomizes the most unselfish, freest, and most faithful love. Perhaps, it brought me so easily to tears because it is that time of year when my heart, like brittle blown glass, is more fragile than robust. Or, perhaps, it resonated because his words offered marrow to my own philosophy and dutiful practice.

Kierkegaard asserts that the work of love in remembering one who is dead is a work of the most unselfish love. It is unrequited, for the dead can never reciprocate:

"O, if one were accustomed to truly love unselfishly, one would certainly remember the dead differently from the way one usually does after the first period, frequently rather than brief, in which one loves the dead inordinately enough with cries and clamour."

And the work of love in remembering the dead is a work of the freest love. There is no coercion nor compulsion to continue loving the dead. It is an act of authenticity and freewill, not an act of demand or obligation. To remember one dead is intentional and quite different than simply not forgetting soon after the death. It withstands the test of time:

"With respect to one dead... nothing is coercive at all. On the other hand, the loving memory of one dead has to protect itself against...new impressions to expel the memory, and it has to protect itself against time...Time has a dangerous power; in time is is so easy to make a beginning again and thereby to forget...In the meantime, the multiplicity of life's demands beckons to one, the living beckon to one and say: come to us, we will take care of you. One who is dead, however, cannot beckon."

Finally, the work of love in remembering the dead is a work of the most faithful love. It requires unwavering and enduring devotion, for neither affection, nor love, nor strength, nor kindness can be returned from one who is dead. Our dead do nothing to hold on to us; still, in remembering our dead, we love disinterestedly, freely, and faithfully. We hold a place in our lives for their psychological presence. This work of love in remembering the dead is faithful because our dead cannot compel steadfastness of our covenant to remember- the one we made at the moment of death when we vow emphatically, "I will never forget.". Rather, our dead remain passive and unchanged, unable to hold us accountable for fulfilling our promise to remember:

"Little by little, as the dead crumbles away, the memory crumbles away between the fingers and one does not know what becomes of it...if love still abides, it is most faithful."

As I finished reading this piece, tears filled my eyes. I felt vindicated in some small way, as if the world who had so long misunderstood my seemingly strange, unceasing allegiance to my dead child was woefully misguided in its assumptions. The love I hold for her in my heart and the space I allow for her in my life is an act of unselfishness, freewill, and faithfulness. This sounds much more palatable than psychopathologizing the bereaved who choose to remember their dead. And in so doing, I have been better able to learn, grow, endure, and mostly to love all those around me:

"If you love one dead, then remember him lovingly, and learn from him, precisely as one who is dead; learn the kindness of thought, the definiteness in expression, the strength in unchangeableness, the pride in life which you would not be able to learn as well from any human being, even the most highly gifted...Remember one dead and learn in just this way to love the living disinterestedly, freely, faithfully... Remember one who is dead, and in addition to the blessing which is inseparable from this work of love, you will also have the best guidance to understanding life; that it is one's duty to love the men we do not see, but also those we do see."

The First Smile

The world breaks us all, 

and afterward some are stronger in those broken places.

Ernest Hemingway

I remember the day with piquant detail. The first smile after she died, cracking my cheeks, splitting my skull in two. I felt as if I'd committed an act of desecration, voyeurs witnessing my fait accompli. My dead child in her pink satin casket lay there lifeless. And I smiled. 

I do not recall who caused this act of irreverence- or what they said or did to prompt it. I only remember standing outside of myself in shame. Smiling is an act of the living. I was not alive; I certainly felt dead.  But the dead do not smile.  

I knew in that moment I was not one of the dead. No matter how much I beckoned, I knew Death would come on its own will.  I also knew that I was not amongst the real living. I existed in some liminal place between breath and stillness, extinction and existence, nether and numinous, and life and death.  I was broken, irreparably shattered.

For months, I wandered through the valley of the shadows as I vacillated between the world of the living and the world of the dead. I struggled to accept life's mediocrity, longed for my now fugitive naïveté, and wished for ailments of trivia instead of trauma.  

What glue could hold those broken places? What stitch would ensure proper healing? What concoction would purge me of the pain? Which God could heal my suffering and despair?

It would be many months before smiles would come again. But they came. Slowly and painfully. I did not want others to assure me that it was okay to smile and that I should move on and be happy in my life. This, I knew, would one day be my truth. But I was not ready yet. I needed pause. Her life and death were worthy of this interruption in my previously assumed entitlement to an untainted, joyous sojourn. Instead, I wanted others to accept my shame without judgment, to hold a place for my broken, sometimes irrational, state of mind. Often, they could not. Like a leper, raw grief frightened them. 

Nevertheless, I would not accept their platitudes or poisons. I rejected their attempts to tug me toward the future faster than I was ready. I refused to abandon my brokenness in exchange for cheap glue or careless stitching. I indulged in time and tears and tribulation. I became a seeker of healing that would endure, not healing that was shoddily constructed with plastic words, or pills, or even a magic wand, susceptible to rebreaking under the slightest pressure.

What I've realized over the past 14 years is that it was the very grief that frightened them- that raw grief which seeped from my broken places like blood spilling from a wound- that truly healed me. I have become stronger in my broken places.  And I am smiling again.

Love and Despair

In the abyss 

I saw how love held bound

Into one volume all the lives whose flight

Is scattered through the universe around;

How substance, accident, and mode unite,

Fused, so to speak, together in such wise

That this I tell is one simple light.

-Dante, from the Divine Comedy

Love, or what Bowlby would call attachment, is a phenomenon unique to humans. Or is it? There is neuroscientific evidence to demonstrate that animals display some type of attachment behaviors, most often observed between mothers and their offspring, in the animal kingdom.

And where there is love, there is grief.

Many animals, from cows to dogs to baboons, exhibit fierce grief responses when separated from their mothers. They first enter a phase of protest, pacing back-and-forth, searching and yearning for the object of their affection.  Some mothers, in response to the separation from their babies, begin self-harming behaviors, such as chewing their own limbs or intentionally injuring themselves.  A puppy separated from his mother will "let out a piteous whine, high-pitched and grating as every aspect of his behavior broadcasts his distress" (Lewis & Amini, 2000).   This behavior is even observed in rats.  

Mammalian protests in the animal kingdom mirror human physiologic responses to loss. During protest,  hearts palpate, catecholamines and cortisol flourish, and the body is on high alert and arousal.  High levels of chronic cortisol, the stress hormone, can compromise the immune system, interrupting important processes for the body. In sum, intense disequilibrium to the homeostatic condition can occur- very dangerous, not just psychologically, but biologically too.

This is the state of despair.  The anchored weight of grief turned inward. Apathy, lack of focus, anhedonism, bleakness...hopeless and helpless...alone in the world.   

If separating animals from their offspring can cause disruption, just imagine- in the human relationship- the depth of emotional responses to such separation. The architecture of attachment is complex, particularly the attachment between a human mother and her child. Woven into the relationship are generations of evolutionary adaptations tailor-suited to accommodate the unique relationship that will require bonding like no other relationship on the planet. What happens when that bond is prematurely broken? Despair. A state of despair.

Yet, human beings also have the capacity to help one another. Studies suggest that connectedness with like others has powerful effects on the brain- mainly, the limbic system- as well as our experiences of loss. Being helped by and helping others is a powerful healer. No, it isn't magic- there is no panacea- no voodoo that can cure a mother's grieving heart. But both social support and social outreach have powerful effects on a person.  

The MISS Foundation  provides a safe place for grieving families in despair.  It's a place to first find help, then later to provide hope to another. Family and friends- communities- should also strive to provide a safety net to help. Something so unspeakable- something so tragic- should never be endured alone.

Just as despair can come to one only from other human beings, 

hope, too, can be given to one only by other human beings.

- Elie Wiesel