Grief is a rupture

2024 May - a morning in Nuwara Eliya

Today was quite a heavy day. It was the open day for parents in the school where I mainly conduct sessions. Early in the morning, before the place got crowded, I stood outside observing the children getting ready for their drill display. I was never the sports type of girl, but during my school days, I used to love sports practice days, mostly because we didn’t have to do any academic work. My joy came from chatting with friends who were equally uninterested in sports. Fun times.

I remember taking part in a few drill displays myself. That’s where the kids who weren’t particularly talented in sports often ended up. One year, we had to use clear iti kola (polythene) umbrellas. Mine was blue. It was my house colour. I remember using that umbrella for a long time even after the sports meet.

Lost in those thoughts, I noticed a mother walking toward my room, carrying her child. Her face was familiar. The little boy had recently been diagnosed with ASD and was still having difficulties communicating verbally. The mother had been incredibly supportive and proactive. She had accepted the diagnosis without denial and sought every bit of support available. Parents like her often stop by to speak to the counsellor whenever they are in school, sometimes without a particular reason. Just last week, my colleague met with both her and her husband to discuss their child’s future plan. I was there on the side, attending to some documentation but observing them.

As she approached, I greeted her and asked if she’d prefer to wait for my colleague since her most recent discussion had been with her. She agreed. I tried to make small talk. That’s something that doesn’t come naturally to me. But I wanted her to feel at ease. I offered her a seat, but she declined, saying her child would start running around. She looked exhausted; her hair frizzy, her expression drained. I assumed she had spent the morning chasing after her energetic child.

Trying to acknowledge that, I said gently, “You must be tired carrying him around. Don’t worry, Ms. S will be done soon.”
She looked at me blankly and said, “Yes, Miss, I’m tired.” Then, in Sinhala, she added quietly, “Mage husband nathi unane.”

It means her husband had passed away, though the phrase can also mean “he’s gone.” My mind understood, but my body froze in shock and denial. I wasn’t sure what to say. I think I muttered something incoherent like I didn’t understand what she meant by gone. She continued, “Ow Miss, funeral thibbe Senasurada” (“Yes, Miss, the funeral was on Saturday”). That brought me back to my senses.

I tried to continue the conversation, though I know it had no real direction. Inside, I was still trying to process what I had just heard. I was grateful it wasn’t my session that day. I wouldn’t have been of much help. I knew from their student records that both parents were around my age, and that thought wouldn’t leave my mind.

I assured her that our department would continue to support her and her child whenever she needed. It wasn’t pity.It was part of what we are meant to do.

I managed to keep my thoughts at bay for the rest of the day, focusing on work. But on my way home, the news returned to me, heavier now. Just last week, he had been alive and present – a father who wanted to do everything possible for his child. I imagined how he must have worried about the challenges ahead, how he would support his wife, manage finances, and make time for his little boy. Perhaps he had even planned to spend that evening with his son after visiting the school. And now, all of that had dissolved into nothingness.

As counsellors, we often say that grief counselling is straightforward. Follow the steps and allow them to express their pain. But for the person living through it, grief is never simple. It’s not a process. It’s a rupture.