Western psychology tells us we pass through five stages when we grieve. But there’s more to grief than meets the eye
I find myself asking questions about the shades in which grief visits us. Illustration by C Y Gopinath using AI
I cried for 1 hour and 37 minutes the day my father died, February 8, 1990. That was the exact time it took me that day to drive from Nariman Point, where I worked, to Lokhandwala Complex in Andheri West, where we lived. As soon as my car was out of the parking area of Express Towers, I put the windows up and let the anguish pour out. Tears flowed torrentially all the way. At intersections, I raised my head and howled.
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By the time I reached home, my eyes were dry. I was calm and composed, ready to do all the things that an eldest son must in such moments. My mother was beside herself with grief; my brother looked bewildered. But my grieving was over.
No part of me was saying This cannot be true! How could he die? I felt not anger but relief. He had suffered for a long time the pain of diabetic neuropathy. I was not depressed; I felt still and sombre, even if a little wistful and bereft. I had accepted that my father had gone and I would never see him alive again.
In a nutshell, I did not experience the five stages of grief that experts say all human beings apparently pass through when they grieve: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
I first heard about the five stages of grief in the 1990s, when the dark, monstrous shadow of AIDS had just risen over the planet. We had seen people in denial after testing positive; angry with society; and trying to make deals with their gods. Stages of grief made sense.
Making grief so neat, modular and systematic also pleased counsellors, who could ask a few questions, quickly determine which stage of grief the person was in and dispense suitable advice, empathy or medication.
But today, I find myself asking questions about the shades in which grief visits us. Do we feel grief or relief when a loved one dies after a long, painful cancer? Is the grief at the sudden loss of a child comparable to the feeling when an old friend dies suddenly in a crash? Does a dead pet evoke the same grief as a dead parent? What help does a grieving person need?
The five-stages theory was first described in 1969 by psychiatrist Elizabeth Kübler-Ross to explain how people come to terms with their own impending death. Later, she claimed, based on no evidence, that the stages also apply to the grieving process when a loved one faces death or dies.
But no study so far has corroborated that such stages even exist. In the early 1980s, a US Institute of Medicine committee disparaged using the word ‘stages’ to describe bereavement, fearing that it could lead to “hasty assessments of where individuals are or ought to be in the grieving process”.
A few years later, the five stages model was given a proper burial by research psychologists Camille Wortman and Roxane Silver. They noted, for instance, that most people don’t experience clinical depression after bereavement.
Yet the five stages refuse to die. In 2020, references to the model appeared in roughly 60 per cent of English- and Dutch-language grieving-related websites. Roughly 60 mental health professionals and 150 adult citizens were asked if they believed that grief went through predictable stages. Nearly half the clinicians and over two-thirds of the rest thought the statement was “definitely” or “probably” true.
It took my father’s death to give me a whole new perspective on grieving.
My mother was inconsolable when her husband died. But the family priest in Nashik, the late Mr Ware, told her my father’s soul was still in the room, feeling disoriented without its body, and she had better cook things for him to reassure him that she knew he was there.
After the final rites 13 days later at Nashik, Ware explained that thanks to the prayers of the past three days, the departed soul would reach Pret Lok, the spirit world.
Next year, same time, after more rituals, the soul would move to its next stop, Pitri Lok, the realm of the ancestors. In the third year, after another nudge from us mortals, the soul would reach Dev Lok, the realm of the gods.
It sounded wonderful—and nonsensical. I challenged the priest. “And who has given you this mapped route that my father will follow?”
Mr Ware laughed heartily. “Sir, all these fictions are created by religion to help your grieving mother. Think of it: in a moment, the man she spent her entire life with has turned into ash. She is traumatised. But religion steps in to say, No, he is still in the room. Now he is in Pret Lok. He will need you again next year to go to Pitri Lok, and then Dev Lok the year after.
Religion presses the rewind button on death and replays it in slow motion for the bereaved woman. My mother felt, not the five stages of grief, but instead, no grief at all. She experienced a profound reconnection with her dear departed husband, who apparently still needed her to play a role.
In his afterlife.
You can reach C Y Gopinath at [email protected]
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper
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