The Sounds of Grief
Since my mom died, I’ve been cataloguing the sounds of grief. So far, I’ve documented five.
Sound I.
My immediate, acute grief had a specific sound. You might recognize it. If you’ve ever balled up a soft object, buried your face in it, and screamed with all your might, this particular grief sound will carry a note of familiarity.
I didn’t make it in time to say goodbye to my mom in the hospital room. So I said it later, while she lay on a slab in the morgue. When I got home, I walked into her bedroom, shut the door, climbed onto the bed. I didn’t lie down. I crouched on all fours, grabbed her pillow, pressed my face against it, opened my mouth, and discovered Sound I.
Sound II.
There are multiple renditions of this particular vibration. It’s a staple of the sappy Hallmark movies I sometimes half-watch to numb my brain. It often elbows into the illusion of “ordinary” life. It’s the little sniffle that slips out when a tender (or painful) memory brushes past, stirring just enough emotion to wet your lashes and set your nose tingling.
It harmonizes with the brush of a sleeve or tissue against a cheek and the huff of a deep, steadying breath. It’s often performed in public, where the other Grief Sounds rarely find a welcome audience. Sound II might even be familiar to non-grievers, though it takes on a different tenor when shaped by loss.
Sound III.
This one is tricky. Outside the moment, it can sound melodramatic, but in the moment, few things feel more real or authentic. It rises from somewhere primal, echoing through bone and muscle until it finds release. Its tone most closely resembles that of a wounded animal.
When I reach this pitch of grief, I often hear the echo of “wailing and gnashing of teeth” reverberating from the back of my mind, a distant but familiar scrawl from my Episcopal/Catholic upbringing. While writing this, I Googled the phrase and discovered it’s actually “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” I never was much good at chapter and verse. No matter: Sound III.
Sound IV.
A wry nod to Simon & Garfunkel, this one is among the hardest to bear. To the uninitiated, it can feel confusing, even guilt-inducing. I’m grieving; shouldn’t there be sound? But our brains are smarter than we give them credit for. The sudden silence after emotional thunder isn’t emptiness; it’s protection. A temporary shutdown. A quieting of the system until our inner reserves can recharge enough for the noise of grief to return.
Sound IV is the absence of sound. Not because there’s nothing left to say, but because, for now, you can’t.
Sound V.
And finally, we come to the most surprising note of all. To make sense of it, you have to start with this: grief isn’t the same as sadness. It’s not interchangeable with pain. As I often say, grief isn’t a feeling—it’s all the feelings. Which, mercifully, means that within the melody of loss, there are chords that hold tenderness, gratitude, even joy.
When I picture my mom struggling to turn on her first iPhone, only to be told it wasn’t working because she was holding it upside down, I can’t help but laugh. So yes, the fifth, and most unexpected, sound in the suite is laughter. Not in spite of the grief, but because of it.
What does your grief sound like?
Learn more about Lindsey at her website.
