By Mary Wellman
Atlanta Chapter, TCF

There is a story in a book called Swallowed by a Snake:
The Gift of the Masculine Side of Healing by Thomas R.
Golden that tells of a village being terrorized by a huge
snake that would eat people, especially children.

No matter how careful the villagers were, the snake would
occasionally catch someone unawares and eat them.
Finally a villager decided this was enough and he needed to
do something once and for all. So he packed a few things
and went out into the jungle, sat down and began to play
his flute.

The snake heard him but the villager continued to play his
flute. The snake swallowed him and, inside the snake’s
belly, the well-prepared villager made himself comfortable
with the provisions that he had with him. It was a tight
spot but every time he got hungry he would slice off a
portion of the snake’s belly – both feeding himself and
making more room for himself. Eventually he reached the
heart of the snake, which he also ate, and – in doing so –
killed the snake. The villager then cut his way out of the
snake and went home.

The author makes a parallel between this story and grief
over the death of a loved one. It is too big to go out and
kill the whole thing at once.

In the beginning, it feels like being “swallowed by a snake”
in that we are completely overtaken by our grief and can
find ourselves in a pretty dark miserable place. Slowly we
bite off and digest bits of our grief. We make ourselves as
comfortable as possible. Yet, it can be very hard to see any
progress as we are in a pretty dark uncomfortable place.
Over time, it gets roomier and more comfortable.

Eventually we do reach the heart of grief and are able to
come out of the “belly” of it.

I love the author’s analogy in cutting off bite-sized pieces
of grief and how you are making progress even though it
still looks dark and damp and miserable all around you.
Eventually you are able to come out of the “belly of it.”
But I read the story early on in my grief journey and
perhaps took it too literally. I thought I was going to find
the “heart” of all this grief at some point. I knew that once
my son died, I was already “in the belly.” Now, I needed to
cut and chew for awhile. Someday I was sure to find the
“heart” and then I would get on with my life.

My biggest progress these days seems to be accepting that
there is no fix, no “heart of it,” no getting on with my life
as I formally knew it. I am beginning to accept that this
pain will always be here – maybe not as raw and maybe not
as intense – but always here. So I am beginning to look at
how you move forward despite the pain.

A friend whose son died 2 ½ years ago wrote me: “We are
surrounded by beauty, abundance, teeming creation and
dazzling mystery – pain has led me to them more
powerfully than any of the highs life dealt me prior...for
me, 2 ½ years later, the burgeoning of spring is an inner
reality. And the pain is no less vivid.” She has also written
me: “For me these days, the big difference is that I don’t
visit the pain very much, and when I do, I can say hello and
then leave before it snowballs on me. I don’t know if that’s
right, but I haven’t found a way to build up joy without
spending longer periods out of that room.”

So now, I have given up trying to work my way to the
“heart” of it. Instead, I am trying to spend “longer periods
out of that room” where all the pain resides. This is a
heartbreaking choice in some ways. Those who would
distract you from the pain, protect you from it even, don’t
realize that at least early on in your grief, you feel closer to
your child in your grief and pain. There are times when I
relish the memories and the sadness they bring. I wrap the
memories with their accompanying grief and sadness
around me like a Grandma’s handmade quilt and hold it all
close because it is impossible to separate the memories
from the sadness and grief.

Other times, I set it aside and do what needs doing. I feel
less pain and grief then, but also less close to my child. I
hold out hope that someday will bring memories and
closeness without so much pain and grief. But I am less
sure.

Mary Wellman
Mother of Charlie (1/20/88 – 4/27/05)