Unsolicited Advice or “You’ve GOT to be KIDDING me.”

The other day, while riding in our company van between building locations, I and my very sweet, sixty-something year old coworker, who is currently battling colon cancer, very generously offered me her unsolicited advice. Her opinion followed my admission that my eyes well up every night on the train on the way home and that I cry every single night at one point or another.

“You can’t cry about the memories.” she said.

I told her it’s not the memories I cry over (at least not all of the time). “It’s the memories I’ll never have with him.” I clarified. Just writing that sentence gave me a big old lump in my throat.

“You know what you should do, “ she continued, “Instead of thinking of those things and crying, you should think about what you ‘re going to eat for dinner, instead, get your mind off of it.”

First of all, I have a real problem with people telling me what I should and should not do. Almost immediately, my blood was brought to a rolling boil. I bit my tongue and told myself, “She’s 60. She’s grappling with cancer. She means well.” (YOU try saying that with your teeth clenched tightly on your tongue.) as I tried to lower the intensity of the heat which threatened to increase my blood’s activity to an emulsion of boiling rage.

I should think about what I am going to eat for dinner, instead??!! THAT’S PREPOSTEROUS! I could not wrap my brain around that thought any more than I can wrap my brain around the fact that my life’s love died right in front of my eyes as I verbally eased him into the next realm.

I immediately began formulating a name for her theory.

Last winter, I helped Carol shovel out her driveway during all of those consecutive snowstorms. She had been gracious and caring enough to invite me to stay with her every single weekend after Chris’ death because I could not be alone. The least I could do was help her clear the mounds of snow which dropped from the heavens all winter long. As we shoveled, it became apparent to me that my grief could be put on hold, as long as I continued to work. Equating my grief to mounds and mounds of snow was helping me to see that eventually I would be able to dig myself out of my grief just as I was digging myself out of white, mountainous walls.

The name I gave that theory last year was “The Murphian Theory of Grief Redemption though Hard Labor. “ Carol and I then founded “Murphy House”, a halfway house for grieving widows to go perform arduous, physically taxing feats in order to assuage their grief. It really worked as long as I shoveled. But shoveling can be exhausting and inevitably, I would end up in her guest room in tears, screaming inside and out from the gaping hole left in my very being. Still, I left there with the knowledge that as long as there was work to be done, I could find refuge from my despondence.

After the coworker comments of this past Monday, I coined another theory. This theory’s name changes with the entree du jour. For instance, Monday night the theory was called, “The Pork-choppian Theory of Grief Recession through Meal Planning” and tonight I called it “The Cheeseburgian Theory of Grief Recession through Meal Planning”. My friend, Robby, isn't’ even grieving anybody’s death, but he joined in the fun as well, founding “The Meatloafian Theory of Grief Recession through Meal Planning”.

Anyway, that’s the way this particular theory works, proving once again that unsolicited advice can lend itself not only to inducing rage within my very core, but also to some pretty silly humor.

I’m angry with her for offering her advice and oh, so thankful to her for leading me to discover my second theory on grief.