Why do we tell people to 'get over' something as precious as a human life?

I spoke to Lotte Bowser about her beautiful memoir, which shares her story of losing her fiancé Ben, at just 36-years-old...

Photo by Harli Marten on Unsplash

I woke up this morning with a dream coating my skin. I tried to grasp at its specifics, but its presence, hovering, felt like a shimmering fog. Nothing was clear. My ancient cat, Toffee, who had lived with us throughout my childhood (resting himself peacefully, always, in my mum’s lap) was there. My grandma was looking after him, and she was happy.

Then, I sat in my window seat, and ran through the notes I’d made for my interview with Lotte Bowser, whose memoir, Bittersweet I’d read the week before. The margins of my tattered proof copy were scattered with notes, words highlighted and rough questions on her experience were elsewhere, in an old jotter in my bedroom.

Looking at it all, my thoughts felt less chaotic, in ways I will attempt to summarise. I may not manage. But first, to understand, you need to hear Lotte’s story…

Lotte’s fiancé Ben, at the height of the pandemic, took his last breath, at 36-years-old. Eighteen months before that he was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, and the couple went from a wild, wonderful existence that saw them travel all over the world together, to one of what-ifs, held within hospital wards.

The pair were a soul-bound love story, both feeling deeply they had met one another before, in another world, another space in time. During Ben’s illness, Lotte, in many ways, believed she could change the outcome of Ben’s diagnosis. Alongside seeking out a range of traditional, and alternative therapies, she also built shrines, stuck affirmations in neon post-its across their home and clung to gratitude lists, and positive mantras. “I entered into delusions of magical thinking,” she writes.

In the book she charts all of this: their meeting, their first date, their adventures… But also his diagnosis and all the hope they threw at it, before that all came clattering down, and he died, in Mexico, after flying out there to receive treatment not available here. Then, in the final half of the book, she recounts her grief – and her reckoning with the reality that “life unfolds as it unfolds” and we have so little control over any of it.

I’ve written before about how messy my thoughts are when it comes to manifestation and grief. How, I believe, it slides between the divine and the dangerous. I, often, believe that when it comes to spirituality, we are being sold a snake-oil, one that offers us much more control than we actually have… but if we question that then it’s because we have not “believed” hard enough. We’re shamed for our inability to do the impossible, to craft the world into our very own utopia. It makes me angry.

And yet… I believe in the after-life, I believe in the energy of others, and being able to feel that energy. I believe the more we connect to the earth, the more we will feel, sense and know. I believe in signs. I believe people visit me in my dreams, to let me know they’re OK, I believe that’s what happened last night. I believe Ben and Lotte’s souls will meet again. But, most of all, I believe we need to allow others their individual beliefs.

Lotte’s story affirmed this for me. That we can live in a world where two-things exist all at once. One where our spirituality and beliefs can greatly help us, but they can also let us down. Where what worked for us once, in a moment, may not work for us in the future.

I often worry that I’m not being responsible enough in my writing about grief by backing things up with research papers, and experts. That, I have to give readers of this newsletter more than just the silver fog of my dreams, and the thoughts I try to untangle. It’s why sometimes I don’t write for a while, I get caught up in my own insecurities and they paralyse my fingers.

But when it comes to grief, I’m not sure I believe in ‘experts’. Grief is individual and oh-so-complicated, how can an expert decipher all of that? We all need to, within our grief, worm our way into our own grooves. I won’t try and tell you to ‘tune in’ to your dreams if that’s entirely unhelpful to you: the aim of this newsletter has never been to serve you a step-by-step of grief, but simply to open up conversations as the realities of it… and discuss if we were to change our narrative about it more, what would that world look like? How could that help us as Lotte writes not “see grief as an inconvenience, but as part and parcel of our humanity.”

I hope I’ve managed to do that, in the below conversation, with someone I find to be inspiring and full of wisdom…

But, before you read, please make sure you pre-order Lotte’s beautiful book, it’s out in October and I think it will help a lot of people, particularly those who have lost people young. (and pre-orders really help authors!) Also, if you haven’t already, please do subscribe to my newsletter, consider becoming a paid subscriber or simply share this piece with a friend. It took about two working days to pull this altogether, and I’d love to reach a stage where I don’t have to squash all of that in with paid work. I will always keep the grief writing of this newsletter free, but have other perks for paid subscribers planned. Thank you.

How are you feeling? This is a strange period, just waiting for the book to come out…

I’m in this bizarre liminal space at the moment. Nothing is guaranteed. It might not do well. And it’s a vulnerable feeling knowing people are going to read your words…

It’s very vulnerable. My first book was fiction, but it contained a lot of grief in there, and my own experiences, so it’s a lot putting your moments of your life out there for people to consume…

It's probably a good thing to have some time in-between to let the dust settle and recalibrate. As you know, writing about this stuff is exhausting. It's been a really cathartic, intense experience for me. But I’ve done what I set out to do. In the early days of Ben's death, I was determined that I would share his story somehow, that I would spread his magic…

You’ve definitely achieved that, his magic is very clear.

I think there's so many different parts of the book that will help people, both those in grief, but also those who want to help their loved ones grieving. But, for me, what I connected to most was the spiritual journey you went on, and I think that will be really useful in our current times. I'm a very positive, spiritual person, but I worry that the way manifestation is often spoken about as control, and the realities of that with grief. If I had come across that when my mum was ill, I think it would have been very damaging for me because I would have felt that I had to block out negative thoughts.

But then at the same time, I was really disconnected from my grief back then, I was really chasing it away. And being more connected to her energy helps me today. I wondered where you are with spirituality now and how you find that balance between hope and the fact, we can’t manipulate life to how we want it to be.

It's certainly been a journey, to say the least. I didn't lose hope in Ben's ability to heal until the very last moment. Perhaps ‘ability’ is the wrong word to use, because it sounds as though he’s responsible for it. I’ve taken issue with the narrative that those that die from diseases like cancer, “lose a battle.” There are no winners or losers here. It's just the way of things - we all have to come to our end at some point…

It was only when I received that last phone call from the doctor that everything flipped on its head. It's been so difficult to reconcile that he did die after we threw so much at it. All of the different pathways that we explored by way of treatment - alternative and conventional - as well as all of the spiritual stuff.

It's taken a lot of inner work to restore my faith in the universe, in life, in the notion that good things can happen. I think a lot of the physical manifestations of my trauma resulted from witnessing the worst case scenario unfold day in day out, which ultimately led to his death. I struggle to trust that things are going to go right. I am extremely hyper vigilant.

But I would say that my spiritual beliefs - the knowing even that death is not the end, that Ben still exists in some way, that I will see him again - has enabled me to reach a point early on in my grief where I can honestly say I’m doing well. Three and a bit years later, life is good. I’m moving forwards. I feel positive about the future. 

I loved the bit in the book where someone recommended the Seven Stages of Grief and you're like: “no, fuck this. This isn't something to get over. This isn't something to fix.” I find it so interesting that spirituality and the afterlife can be sneered at, but, often when I go searching for something more solid, I come across advice that I know has upset people, or made them feel like they aren’t grieving in the ‘right’ way.

We seem to have ended up in these two parallels where what is actually helping people is seen as woo-woo but what is hurting people is seen as the right way…

I can only assume that those who perpetuate these sorts of narratives - that grief is a problem to be fixed - haven't actually experienced profound loss themselves, because it couldn't be further from the truth.

Grief is a clusterfuck of different states and emotions. Sometimes we experience them all at once, sometimes they overlap, blend together. There is no end point to grief either - and actually, I wouldn't want it to end, because grief is the other side of the coin of love. I don't believe it is love like some people say it is. I reject that notion because love doesn't hurt that much. But I do believe it's a reflection of the love that we feel for the people that have died.

I don’t think something that is as precious as a human life can be ‘gotten over.’ So it's really about redefining your relationship with your loved one, in a way that feels most supportive. If it feels good to carry them with you in some way, whether that be through a physical token, a piece of heirloom jewellery or something that's infused with their ashes, or striving to live by their values, like donating to a cause or a charity they felt passionate about… if that brings you comfort, then do it.

It feels very counterintuitive to me to let go of Ben. Saying goodbye is another thing that’s encouraged in order to be considered well adjusted to the loss. That just doesn't sit right with me.

Like you, I went to see a medium, but unlike your experience, there were certain things about this man that didn’t feel right. But the one thing that did help was when he told me that mum sits with me each morning, that she’s here. That flooded me with this energy, that brought me comfort, as it meant, in some ways, I haven’t said goodbye to her. She’s still around in a different way… I wondered if you could talk me through what you learned from your psychic experience.

I was holding out a lot of hope, because the idea that Ben had just ceased to exist, that this gorgeous man had just disintegrated into nothingness was agonising. But I needed details and facts. 

I like to think of myself as somebody who has one foot in both worlds. I’m extremely open minded, but it wouldn't have been enough to convince me if the medium had just said something vague like: “there's a loved one around you and they want you to know that they're okay.” 

Within the first couple of minutes of our call, she gave me Ben's name. She described his mannerisms, his physical attributes. He had his unruly, curly hair back - apparently they don't take any of their sickness, pain, trauma, or suffering with them when they cross over. It’s as if they're waking up from a bad dream. 

She told me about his family, his upbringing, his work, his hobbies, and his illness. She spoke for two and a half hours straight, and I could barely get a word in edgeways. It was as if he was having a conversation with me through her. She relayed details that only Ben and I knew, things she couldn't possibly have known. To me, that gave me irrefutable proof that the other side exists, and that death is just a point on a continuum. It was incredibly comforting. It gave me a lot of closure. I’d been desperately searching for answers to these questions: where is he? Is he suffering? Does he feel the separation between us in the way that I do? He doesn't! He's good. And when I get to the end of my life, it’ll be like crossing a finish line. And I´ll be reunited with all of my loved ones that died before me. It's almost quelled the fear of my own death. I certainly don't want it to happen anytime soon, but I’ve gained more clarity and peace. I know it's difficult for people to grasp something that they can't see, but there are people that can, that can act as conduits between this realm and the next. I’d much rather entertain the belief in something, than nothing. 

I interviewed a hospice nurse and she has spent so much time sitting with people just before they go and she told me about a phenomenon that happens again and again: that someone they loved [that’s passed] comes to get them. It’s never someone they don't like, it's always someone they love, and they always feel at peace.

Doctors dismiss it, but nurses will always recognise this and have stories. Then, I was listening to a podcast recently, and it was a doctor discussing this and research into an afterlife and he said similar, that doctors dismiss him, but nurses who are there, can attest to this. I find it so comforting, both in terms of thinking about the people that we've lost and thinking that they are in a place that we'll see them again, but having less fear about our death. I wondered how you think believing this way has impacted your life and way of being?

It's definitely helped me to metabolise a lot of my pain and my grief. I feel as though it has galvanised me to really reach for joy, make the most of my time here. Perhaps you feel like this too, that death has been the most profound initiation for me. Losing a loved one is an unparalleled experience, isn't it? It’s terrible, of course, but there are so many lessons and - dare I say it - gifts. Now the pain has softened, I do recognise the gifts. I was always a half glass full sort of person. I've always been quite positive, but I've gained so much more meaning, more gratitude and more purpose since.

I'm exactly like you I'm very glass half full. I talk a lot about what I’ve learned from my grief, and this loss, and it’s this strange thing to say as it’s impossible, but I don’t know if I would rewind and change what happened, even if I could. But then you mentioned how someone said “he wouldn’t want you to be sad” and this struck me, as it’s said a lot in the aftermath of grief, as a society we try to hide really dark emotions. I've always found that such a grapple in terms of being a positive person but trying to be careful that doesn't sink into toxic positivity where I'm trying to push positivity over my darkness. I wondered if you felt that way too?

I think I have struggled with that too sometimes. I think I've gaslit myself at times. I've noticed that I've internalised a lot of these narratives around grief, particularly around timelines. When I hit the two year and three year anniversaries, I was frustrated with myself for still having bad days. But of course I do! I feel a lot of anger and guilt and sadness - at Ben dying not only the way he did, but at the age he did. 

It's been a struggle to discern what emotions and stories belong to me. I think we just have to trust in our ability to figure out what is what is true and right for us. Grief - even though there are commonalities that connect us, and that unite us all – is so unique. I have friends on similar timelines to me who are only just beginning to grieve after being in shock for the first couple of years. Right now, it's the hardest it's ever felt for them. Whereas for me, it's the easiest. I just, I take things as they come. And I try not to push any of it away. Grief comes in waves. It’s constantly ebbing and flowing and changing. There's this quote from Rainer Maria Rilke, this Austrian poet, that I’ve held onto ever since I came across it: Let everything happen to you. Beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.

 I think that's a really good way to be because sometimes it's so easy to overanalyse how we feel and go deep. And actually, sometimes, it just has to be: “this is how I feel there's I don't need to figure out the root of why I feel this way. I'm going to feel it and that's enough.”

I'm definitely somebody that tends to intellectualise my experience. I'm really good at talking about it. And I have often wondered whether or not I've really allowed myself to get out of my head and into my body. I definitely felt it in those early days - the physicality of grief. It was all-consuming. I also think the nature of Ben's death - people further removed might see it as this fixed moment in time. But there was so much suffering for months and months prior - 16 months from his first diagnosis to his death - that I was fast tracked towards reaching a point where I was like “okay, enough is enough. The pain will always be there, but I don't want to wallow in the suffering.” The thing about death is that nothing can be done to make it better. So the sooner you arrive at that place of: “this is shit, and I can’t do anything about it but move forwards,” the better.

You spoke about that limbo period of waiting for a diagnosis, and I’ve certainly been there, and one of the only things I’ve ever found to work is to try and live my life, and control what I can, day-to-day. Whether that’s just talking to strangers, or just, trying to see the tiny joys and focusing in on that, I’ve found it to be helpful. Very, very hard but helpful.

That's it. That's not to say that it's easy. It's obviously not easy. But recognising that we do have some degree of choice is actually quite empowering. That limbo stage is so hard. Ben described it, he said “it’s as if I’m walking around with a gun to my head.” It's so true.

I really loved your article, “everything I know about grief” and how, even after experiencing profound loss, what do we actually know about it? I'm often stumped by these questions, as it’s an unparalleled human experience that’s really hard to put into words.

That's why I really struggle with the newsletter, I feel like this imposter where should offer advice but actually I just want to have conversations (like this one) where it's like: “this is what happened to me, it was shite.”

I know you touched upon how, in the early days of your grief, people were saying things along the lines of “it doesn’t get better, it always stays with you,” and it’s both true but also a really hard thing to hear, as that deep physical suffering isn’t your whole future life, but it can feel like it will be…  you're deep in that physical pain because you feel like perhaps this suffering is going to be your life, and it’s not. But then saying “this will pass” or treating it as something to be fixed doesn’t help either, so it’s about finding that balance.

It's a really tricky one. It must be very hard to try to bring any kind of comfort or hope to someone that's grieving, without causing offence.  You will say the wrong thing at some point. I think if I'd have been told “one day, I will wake up in the morning and it won't be the first thing I think about, that it does get easier over time,” I would have felt as though they were undermining the immensity of my loss. 

It's why I think all we can do, and what you do online and with your book, is talk as much as we can about it. There’s a part in your book where you ask Ben for a sign, and you ask for it to be an owl, and an owl appears and it’s this really beautiful part of the book and it happened in the suburb that I live in! Which might sound silly but I saw that as a sign that we should talk, and I enjoyed tuning back into the power of signs...

It's definitely something that I have had to work on. I mean, the signs and my experiences with mediumship are indisputable to me, you can't try and convince me otherwise. But as far as my day to day relationship with spirituality, I don't sit and meditate. I don't feel like I have a connection to the divine, as it fucking let me down. One of my friends said that the more evidence that accumulates of things actually going right, of the worst case scenario not playing out, the stronger that connection will become.

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

I very much lived in a state of ‘something bad is going to happen’ for a very, very long time. I wrote in a poem “I do not trust the ground beneath my feet,” but the poem was a progression over time and it turns to “I do trust the ground beneath my feet.”

Parts of that fear are still there, but in some ways, I quite like it. I do live my life because I'm aware of how quickly it could change. I appreciate the joy so I wouldn't want to necessarily to have that something bad's going to happen taken away from me. But it's definitely dimmed because it was constant, I couldn't receive phone calls, I couldn't trust my phone, I would look at things and see danger everywhere. Today I’m not like that, and it was from recognising how many times the thought had been there, and everything was fine.

It's a trauma response. It’s one of the really difficult consequences of going through something like this, isn't it? But the flip side of that, as you've touched on, is that it helps to ignite this deeper joy and appreciation for life and everything that it encompasses.

I just want to thank you so much for being so open and honest, chatting to me today, and in the book. Ben was obviously an incredible person and know your souls will meet again.