Love Amidst Loss: How Ancient Texts Relate to Modern Grief
By Grace Albright
I was actually skipping stones on Lake Michigan when my mother called me to say that my grandmother was dying and I had to come home. I have never experienced death before and I spent those five hours in the car weeping and questioning: What does it mean to say goodbye?
The realization that death is near changes everything. I drove miles home to stand 6 feet away and whisper the words “I love you.” She told me that I will be her legacy, again cementing the importance of our relationship to her. The raw pain of these moments brought more questions: How do I move forward? How do I continue to love her after she is gone?
Through the beauty of literature, and perhaps divine intervention, I have come to realize that though these questions felt foreign at the time, they are in fact universal to humanity. Greek and Roman poets have long tried to depict the process of grief and healing through their texts, allow readers to heal alongside the characters.
The week after my grandmother fell ill, I read various passages of The Iliad that resonated with my grief. I read of Andromache saying goodbye to Hector. Fully aware that he would not come back alive, she embraced him, expressed her grief but eventually accepted that she could not change the situation. In fact, Homer writes that, “Andromache placed the child to her scented breast, smiling through her tears” (Iliad 6.577–578).
This interaction is hauntingly similar to how I bid my grandmother goodbye days before, smiling through tears and clinging onto the connection that we have. I can picture Andromache holding her son close, knowing that nothing will ever be the same. It is comforting to know that these difficult conversations and emotions have been felt before; it is part of being human to say goodbye.
Further along in the text, I was also moved by the emotional outburst of Achilles when he hears of Patroclus’ death. Achilles, a warrior seemingly numb to death, suddenly felt deep emotion.
“A black cloud of grief came shrouding over Achilles. Both hands clawing at the ground for soot and filth, he poured it over his head, fouled his handsome face and black ash settled on his clean war-shirt. Overpowered in all his power, sprawled in the dust, Achilles lay there... fallen” (Iliad 18.25–29).
Achilles broke down into raw human emotion. Even writing this now I have flashbacks to Lake Michigan, sitting in the sand and weeping like Achilles did. He covered himself with dirt, burying himself in the same earth that Patroclus will soon be one with. Maybe he felt buried already by his own grief.
Yet, Achilles did not wallow in sadness forever. He took time to express his emotions but eventually he stood back up and began to live with greater intention and purpose.
“Done is done. Despite my anguish I will beat it down, the fury mounting inside me, down by force. But now I’ll go and meet the murderer head-on, that Hector who destroyed the dearest life I know” (Iliad 18.133–137).
Achilles acted as Patroclus’ legacy, just as I hope to act as my grandmother’s legacy. Upon her death, I plan to give myself time to grieve as well, but eventually will rejoin my life with greater purpose than ever before (though hopefully with less aggression than Achilles).
There is another, more ancient, text that also gives great lessons on love and loss: The Epic of Gilgamesh. At first glance, this text can see very distant from my experience of grief, as there is a rather mythical tone. Gilgamesh is encountering monsters and conversing with gods, something very different from my everyday life. Upon further analysis, however, I have I now feel that there is no text we have read that greater encompasses my experience with grief.
Gilgamesh is terrified by death, yet cannot avoid it despite all of his efforts. He works and works to achieve immortality only to realize that his obsession with death has taken away from his own life.
Utnapishtim, an immortal man, reminds Gilgamesh of this by saying:
“Gilgamesh, why prolong your grief?…. Can’t you see how fortunate you are? You have worn yourself thin through ceaseless striving, you have filled your muscles with strain and anguish. And what have you achieved but to bring yourself one day nearer to the end of your days? (Gilgamesh Book X).
When striving to prevent death, we simply lose life. These words are incredibly powerful as it relates to both my own experience and my grandmothers. My grandma lived a vibrant life with abandon. She never conformed to the typical 9–5 job. Instead, she traveled, met strangers, fell in love and followed her passions. She cried easily and was vulnerable and honest. She did not wear herself thin in “ceaseless striving” because she knew, just as Utnapishtim did, that it would be a waste of time.
That being said, as my grandmother is still alive (though very ill), I know she does not want me to live in fear of her death. Death cannot be prevented, so there is no use using my time on earth trying to avoid it. If I spend these last weeks with my grandmother in complete sorrow, I will lose a beautiful opportunity to show her love. Similarly, if I spend excessive time wallowing in grief after she is gone, I will miss a beautiful opportunity to live in her legacy.
A final passage that moved me was Gilgamesh’s reaction to Enkidu’s death. Enkidu was a man created to be Gilgamesh’s equal, and they had a deep brotherly bond. They fought Humbaaba together and traveled on a great journey to find eternal life. Ironically, Enkidu dies during his pursuit for eternal life, leaving Gilgamesh to further struggle with his own mortality.
When Gilgamesh can no longer feel Enkidu’s heart beat, he turns and screams over the earth:
“O goldsmith and jeweler! Fashion a statue of my friend whose features shall be of lapis lazuli, whose skin shall be made of gold! On a fine, grand couch, on a fine couch I will let thee recline. I will place thee upon a couch, a seat to the left. The kings of the earth shall kiss thy feet. The people of Uruk shall lament for thee, and the nations shall mourn for thee, and in mourning my hair shall become matted and into the wild I will wander in the skin of a lion” (Gilgamesh, Book VIII).
This text shows Gilgamesh’s great desire to immortalize Enkidu. He perceives Enkidu’s death as something the entire nation should morn; that a loss of his great friend is a loss for everyone. Though I am sure all of Uruk will not grieve Enkidu as Gilgamesh does, I understand the sentiment behind his actions. I too feel that a loss of grandma is a loss for the world, as a little bit of light that shines in the darkness of our world will disappear. As Gilgamesh depicts, however, there are ways to remember her after she is gone. I may not build a gold statue, but I can guarantee she will not be forgotten.
I also would like to note on the final line from this passage- “in mourning my hair shall become matted and into the wild I will wander in the skin of lion” (Gilgamesh, Book VIII). At the beginning of the epic, Enkidu emerges from the wilderness, looking more of an animal than a human. Here, upon Enkidu’s death, it seems that Gilgamesh is once again referring to Enkidu’s beginnings. In mourning, Gilgamesh desires to go back “into the wild,” wearing “the skin of a lion.”
He is so distraught over the death of his friend that he desires to become who Enkidu once was. The fact that Gilgamesh considers altering his journey in order to remember Enkidu is a testament to the impact this relationship had on him.
When reading this, I was wracking my brain for ways that I could alter my journey to alter or remember my grandmother once she is gone. I desire to become more like her; to walk in her footsteps. She lived in Paris when she was my age and spent her time befriending strangers, dancing in night clubs and eating croissants. The friends she made there she still considers family. In fact, not even hours after her stroke, she was already on FaceTime her roommate from back in Paris.
From a young age, she regularly mentioned how I should follow in her footsteps one day. She was so dedicated to this idea that she almost exclusively spoke to me in French so I would learn the language. Regardless, I continually came up with excuses of why I couldn’t move to France. I was always “too busy,” as each summer has been filled with research, internships and jobs.
Just as it did for Gilgamesh, the prospect of death changes changed my priorities. On the drive back to Minnesota to say goodbye, I found myself looking up the cost of living in Paris, France. As Gilgamesh desired to go back into Enkidu’s wilderness, I desired to go back to my grandmother’s apartment on the Seine. When the pandemic draws to a close, I plan to go. My priorities have changed when faced with mortality, just as they did for Gilgamesh.
To conclude, I have thought a lot about what it means to live out her legacy. My favorite musical, Hamilton, states that legacy is “planting seeds in a garden one cannot see.” I imagine my life as a field blooming with flowers from the seeds my grandmother planted. While reading these texts, I began to find a place for grief in this metaphor. You see, the she threw the seeds amidst the soil but only with grief did I begin to nurture them. I did not realize how important these seeds were until they were all I had left of her. In this same image, I see Andromache holding her son close as Hector rides away. I see Achilles grasping at the dirt beneath him and Gilgamesh burning offerings to the gods in mourning. We do what we can with the seeds they leave behind, yet only with time will they begin to bloom.
When I began to mourn, I had many questions. How do I say goodbye? How do I continue to love her after she is gone? Through these texts, I have received clarity. I will say goodbye like Andromache, mourn like Achilles, remember like Gilgamesh and cherish her life as suggested by Utnapishtim.
From 2100 BC to today, everyone desires to be remembered. This text is my first step in creating a withstanding legacy for my wonderful grandmother, Phyliss. Grandma, I love you so much- just wait to see the flowers I grow for you.
