COMPARISONS

My husband's grave is next to my favourite park - and his - Vigelandsparken

In my last blog post I set out to write about the way we tend to measure things, or compare, always wishing to be the one with the best outcome. It is the competitiveness laid down in us perhaps. I was going to write about how we even compare grief. That blog post turned out to become something completely different, but why not? Sometimes your mind and your keyboard just seem to live lives of their own.

When I was in France before Christmas there was a terrorist attack - or several - on Paris on November 13. In the concert arena Le Bataclan, where 89 people were killed, several restaurants and bars, the Stade de France. There were altogether six attacks. 130 people were killed, 368 injured, many seriously. Seven terrorists lay dead afterwards, killed by their own suicide vests. An eighth one was stalked out and killed by police five days later. The weather was glorious all over France this particular week, with temperatures exceeding normal November chilliness and people gathering outside on "les terrasses." And that was why many of the victims were an easy match, enjoying the unusually fine evening "en terrasse."

France has become my "second" country. My husband and I bought a house in Languedoc-Roussillon in 2002, and one of many reasons why this was our choice is that I speak French. But I have learnt to love France in so many ways during these 14 years! Believing that TV is a good way to improve my French I have sat in front of 4-hour long incredibly profound debates, with participants from the grassroots, where there is no interruption - everyone gets to have their say. Never-ending political discussions - people in power being shown no mercy by brilliant journalists. Merciless documentaries too, where no stones are left unturned. Absolutely NO respect for authority - this characterizes the French and must have started with the Revolution 227 years ago. I stand corrected - French kids respect a couple of authorities - parents and teachers. Les professeurs, les parents, at least other children's parents. I have experienced all the cheeky teenagers in my street standing at attention the moment I've appeared in the doorway: "Bonsoir, Madame! Oui, Madame! Bien sûr, Madame!"

The French - with their traditional finger to political authority - can be provocative - but I admire them and their unflinching belief in freedom of speech.

So - measuring grief. This is what I was reflecting on after the Paris attacks.

When some people started covering their social media profile pictures with the French flag, others got very irritated and referred to other terrorist attacks that had recently hit in other parts of the world. One of the reasons for the frustration was of course that for instance Facebook quickly offered you a way to drape your face in the Tricolore, whereas they don't do the same with other countries' flags in similar circumstances. I see the point.

But to me there's another important point: Personal proximity to the terrorist attack, or the natural disaster, or the plane crash - has a lot to do with which grief you manage to take in. The world is full of tragedy - unbearable, unbelievable, inhumane tragedy - and I think every person has a barrier, a shield, to protect themselves from the horrors of the world and the atrocities of the human race. If you took it upon yourself to grieve every single life lost, then - yes, then you would go mad.

So grieving for the victims of the Paris terrorist attacks cannot be a wrong thing to do, even if you do not grieve that much for the Beirut victims or the lost lives in Nigeria. It does not mean you are heartless. When I was young I lived a year in Kuwait. Fifteen years later Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, and I was sick with worry for my friends there, for the people I'd come to to know and love. I'm sure I worried more than most other western Europeans, to whom Kuwait was just another Middle Eastern country. On July 22, 2011 we experienced our own crazy atrocious right wing terrorist in Norway, who killed 77 innocent people in two attacks that this peaceful little country had never foreseen. I was on holiday in Bulgaria at the time and was shocked that the world did not stop there and then. I remember coming out into the bright sunshine after having watched news reports on TV for hours and hearing the usual holiday noises of laughter, splashing water and children's happy squeals, and thinking - Don't they CARE?

Daughter Julie reading messages in Oslo centre

Daughter Johanne laying down roses on the mainland opposite Utøya (the island)

Of course they cared, but not the way we did. How could they? Most of the holiday makers in the summer resort in Bulgaria had no relationship or connection with Norway, some didn't even know where this country was.

Norwegian journalist Åsne Seierstad has written about the terrorist attacks in this book - One of Us, available in English. It's heartbreakingly painful to read, you have to steel yourself against unbearable descriptions. (The terrorist was so close to home for me - he lived round the corner and parked his bomb van on the street we lived. Went to the same school).

Reflections on grief have of course taken up space in my own mind these past years, because my husband became ill and died. Measuring grief, or comparing - you can take it all down to a personal level. Which will hit you most - the loss of a friend, a grandparent, a parent, a partner or a child or grandchild? Oh yes, I have spent some time thinking about this. Because I've been so totally struck down by grief after I lost my husband - more than I ever imagined possible - I have thought: Is my grief worth less than the grief of someone who has lost their child? Or worth more than the loss of an old parent? I lost my 88-year old mother only 9 months before my husband died - can I compare the two losses?

Digging into literature and articles about grief experiences - not least to find out if my own reactions were normal - I've found that there is a pattern - and not. I've discovered that GRIEF is NORMAL. I've noticed that a lot of mourners have similar reactions - "am I going crazy now?" - and I have seen that grief emotions vary from person to person. Some grieve incessantly after the death of an old parent with whom they've been very close. Some seem to manage to go on remarkably quickly after the death of a child. Whatever we do it's not in our power to judge one or the other.

For myself I know that the worst ever would be to lose a child. Nothing could compare with that. Reading Åsne Seierstad's book on the 22nd July terrorism brought it home to me - the majority of those killed that day were teenagers and young adults. You should not die before your parents. But we know it happens - I know several people who have lost children - and it breaks my heart again and again even to think about it. They are all incredibly strong to have been able to go on at all. I don't know if I could have.

But I am able to go on without my husband, although I've often thought not. In that sense it might not be possible to measure grief. I've been so permeated with sadness that I've sometimes not managed to get out of bed in the morning. This still happens.

But I think I might be entering a new phase of grief now. My emotions are more stable, I would even say flat, my state of mind not so "roller-coasterish." I am almost numb these days. Is numbness good or bad? I don't know. We'll see.

I am back in France at the moment, meeting spring. I love coming here in February because every sign of spring is that much earlier here than in the cold north. Mimosas everywhere, almond trees blossoming in white and pink. The photos above are from this exact time three years ago. I manage to look at them with joy, trying not to think about the tragedy that was to strike us eight months later, when my husband was diagnosed with brain cancer. I remember some very happy days, walking in the Pyrenees, along the Mediterranean shore, strolling to the village to eat in our favourite restaurant Can Marty, where the patron Jean-Francois always had chilled Grand Marnier Rouge ready with coffee after dinner for the only customer who wanted it. (He asked me last time I was there - "What shall I do with it now?")

And I remember having just started my blog and being eager about it, and my husband being excited and happy for me, saying - "I'll cook. You get on with your blog, sweetheart. Shall I bring you a glass of wine?"

So I walked the same path yesterday, intensely drinking in the same view, the same trees, the same hills, the same colours - that he loved - and I still love.

So how can I wrap up my reflections on grief comparisons? Is there a conclusion? Well, I don't know if there is. Grief will come to all of us sooner or later, and we will deal with it in our own way. But we WILL know that we share it with all other human beings. Whether it's global or personal. 

But I do believe that the closer the tragedy is to home - and to our own heart - the heavier it is.