Griefthat starts early

What it is

Grief does not wait for a death. It starts when a future you had assumed stops being certain. It starts again each time something is lost along the way: the walks you used to take, the conversations they can no longer follow, the way they looked before the treatment, the plans for next summer. Each of those is a real loss, and each is allowed to be mourned while the person is still here.

It is not giving up on them

People often feel that grieving early is a kind of betrayal, as if the grief itself might hasten the thing. It does not. You can hope with all you have and grieve at the same time. Most caregivers do both every day. The grief is a measure of how much there is to lose, nothing else.

What it does to you

It is tiring in a way that is hard to explain to people who have not done it. It comes in waves, often at unhelpful moments: in the supermarket, in a meeting, when a song comes on. It can look like irritability, or numbness, or a strange flatness where you expected to feel more. All of that is grief wearing its working clothes.

What helps

Saying it out loud to someone who will not flinch. "I am already grieving and they are still here." A friend, a counsellor, someone in a group who has done this. The relief of being understood is real.

Letting the waves come when they come, where you can. Pull the car over. Go to the bathroom. Give it five minutes and let it pass through, rather than holding it all day and having it break at bedtime.

Making the time you have count in small ways. Not grand gestures; the ordinary things. Sitting together. Looking at old photographs if they want to. Asking the questions you have always meant to ask, while there is still someone to answer them.

When it is more than grief

If you cannot get out of bed, cannot eat, cannot care for them or yourself, or you find yourself wishing you were not here, that is beyond what anyone should carry alone. Tell a doctor, this week.