Loss of Joy

Gardening is part of my being, part of my soul. It was placed there by my parents. The memories of my childhood summers consistently involve my parent’s garden. In my early years, I recall a massive garden that needed a rototiller and hours of attention and care. In the late summer, the canning and preservation of the harvest would begin. Our farmhouse had a huge pantry that would fill with jars of green beans, pickled beets, peaches, pears, tomato sauce and so much more. The jars would dwindle throughout the year, only to be restocked the following harvest. In my teens, the garden was smaller in the backyard of our small, city home, but the smaller space was not wasted. My parents were able to grow more than I thought possible in limited space. I know gardening was part of the necessity of survival in my childhood home, but it also brought great joy to my parents.

The first summer after my Mom died, my Dad didn’t want a garden. I remember talking with him about it, and the could see the heaviness held as he talked about it. He ended up planting some beans and tomatoes, but it wasn’t the same. One afternoon as I sat with him and two tall glasses of iced tea, he expressed he no longer enjoyed the garden, it didn’t bring him pleasure or joy anymore. This was an additional grief for him. Part of his being didn’t seem to be there anymore. Understanding who he was after the death of his wife of 53 years was complex, and things that once brought enjoyment, no longer did. Dad was experiencing anhedonia.

Anhedonia is the inability to experience pleasure from something that would normally bring joy and satisfaction. This is not uncommon after the death of a loved one. My Dad no longer experienced pleasure in gardening, something that had brought him joy throughout the entirety of his life. He found this concerning, and sad, because he loved to grow things.

What do we do with anhedonia? I think it is important to acknowledge it. To name it. To say this doesn’t bring joy anymore. And then to be OK with not doing whatever it was. Forcing our friends and loved ones to do something they’ve always done, but no longer brings them joy, makes their grief experience about us, about our discomfort with them not being the same. That does nothing but bring shame and guilt upon the person who is already struggling to know who they are. It also tells the griever you are not a safe person to disclose their struggle to.

Instead, gentle support, empathetic listening, and being present in the pain is what we can do. Being a space for the griever to speak through the confusion of who they are becoming post-loss can be lifeboat, a place of safety in darkness of life after loss.

Before he died, my Dad began gardening again and began to find joy in it. He canned beans again and tasty jams. Satisfaction in these things began to return, and he led the way. He was the expert in his own grief with people walking alongside.

Sometimes the joys of life before loss return, and sometimes they don’t. Both are OK. Open heartedness to a reshaped life through the integration of grief is a gift to your grieving friend, and to your grieving self.