The twelve steps of grief

We’re all familiar with Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s iconic five stages of dying and grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. What you may not be familiar with is the origin of the five-stage model, which was intended to anticipate the evolution of grief for people with a terminal diagnosis who are preparing for the end of their life.

In other words, it was never intended to be applied after death to the people who are left behind grieving, and so it has since been widely and wildly misinterpreted. All I’ll say about them now is that people experience these responses differently, at different times, and in no particular order—if they experience them at all.

Some of you may also be familiar with the 12 steps of recovery. I wasn’t. I knew a little about them because of my son Rob, but I never took the time to learn what they were about. One thing that has stayed with me, however, is the Serenity Prayer, which is usually recited at the beginning of 12-step meetings. I’ve never been a believer, but I found myself saying it often after Rob died.

God, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference.

It took me a while to accept the things I couldn’t change (especially Rob killing himself), and the courage and wisdom parts will always be a work in progress. Although I’m not sure how I feel about the God part, it’s still a perfect prayer. So I thought if that invocation eased my suffering, taking a closer look at the 12 steps couldn’t hurt.

The steps are designed to help people get sober and recover, but the principles behind each, which come straight from the AA “Big Book,” are what really caught my attention. Being a writer, I started by looking at the keywords associated with each of these principles:

• Honesty
• Hope
• Faith
• Courage
• Integrity
• Willingness
• Humility
• Love
• Forgiveness
• Acceptance
• Awareness
• Service

Some pretty good ones there, right? Like the Kübler-Ross stages, some may make sense to you now, and some may make sense to you later. All I can tell you is how they made sense to me.

Love was what it was all about from the moment I saw Rob’s beautiful face when he was born to the end when he looked like he was peacefully asleep in his casket. I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved Rob, and I never will.

Forgiveness followed. I forgave Rob for what he did because he was mentally ill, and I forgave myself for being unable to get a handle on his mental illness.

Faith burst out of me from a previously unknown place in my heart. I had a strong belief that I’d somehow find the courage and willingness to face the scary grief beast until he finally said adios.

Honesty, integrity, and awareness came naturally, not because I’m a saint—hardly!—but rather because Rob’s death cracked me wide open, and I’ve remained open and present in the moment ever since.

Humility is a given. Nothing humbles a person to their core more than the death of a child.

Acceptance is sort of everything rolled up into one big sad enchilada. Accepting the unacceptable meant facing the reality of never seeing Rob again and learning to live with it.

Service came as a huge surprise to me. I was never a “service” type of a guy, but after deciding that I wanted to help other parents like us, I found it truly was and continues to be one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done.

Hope is my second favourite word after love. Hope is everything. Hope keeps you going. Hope is what you need to get your arms around. Hope is what it’s all about.

Hope was what I held on to when Rob first came to live with Maura and me in Venice, and I insisted that he go to daily AA meetings. I wasn’t sure what good they would do him, but I didn’t think it would hurt, and it gave me the illusion of control, which was the closest I would ever get to controlling Rob.

To show Rob that I meant business, I went with him to the first meeting in Santa Monica just a few hours after he had unpacked and made himself comfortable in our house. I drove to an address I had plugged into my GPS and pulled up to a church.

“I’m not sure we’re allowed in there, Dad,” Rob said dryly, sounding a whole lot like me.

“It’s true. I don’t know a lot of Jewish alcoholics,” I joked back. “We’re more a tribe of drug addicts and pill poppers.”

A few middle-aged women smoking cigarettes outside nodded at us, and we nodded back like we were old pros. The truth was that neither of us felt thrilled to be there.

Apparently, there was some kind of pre-meeting private thing going on inside the church. They told us we could go in as soon as it was finished. We didn’t have a clue about what to expect other than what we had seen in the movies and on television.

“You guys can go in now,” said one of the smokers a few minutes later, and so we did. Inside were 50 or so chairs arranged in a large semicircle, a few rows deep, with one chair in the middle. So, of course, Rob and I made a beeline to the back, where there were some scattered folding chairs. I sat down while Rob grabbed a cup of coffee. As I looked around, I noticed a few people talking to each other, but on the whole, it was like everywhere you go these days—most people were buried in their phones.

“This place is packed,” Rob said as he sat down.

“I know! And I saw a bunch of beautiful women here,” I said. “This place could be better for you than Tinder.”

Rob just nodded and sipped his coffee.

The meeting began with what I came to learn is the AA Preamble. The one line I recall is: “The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking.” Then came the Serenity Prayer.

“Here we go with the freakin’ God stuff,” Rob whispered to me.

“I like that you’re keeping an open mind,” I whispered back.

A woman in the center of the semicircle who was running the show asked if there were any newcomers at the meeting who would like to introduce themselves. A few people raised their hands. We were not among them.

“Raise your hand!” I mouthed to Rob.

“You raise your goddamn hand,” he mouthed back.

Then it was time for the “Hello, my name is…” and “I’m an alcoholic” sharing stuff. There were multiple mentions of the “Big Book,” but beyond that, I don’t remember much about what was said or anyone in particular, other than one intense dude who was covered in tattoos and reminded me of the famous tough guy Chuck Zito.

That was followed by a few announcements about a picnic and who was assigned to bring what, and something about getting court vouchers signed before leaving. Then I noticed people passing a basket. When it got to me, I threw in a five to cover the two of us.

At the end of the meeting, everyone in the room stood up and held hands while reciting the Lord’s Prayer. I held Rob’s hand tight, feeling cautiously optimistic. A number of people who shared stories that day had gone through way worse hell than Rob had, and now they were in recovery, living their lives, as the saying goes, one day at a time.

After the big “Amen,” a few folks milled around while some other guys started to stack the chairs. Rob surprised me by helping them out, and then we split. The steps for walking the straight and narrow were there, if only Rob would take them.

“So, other than the God stuff, what did you think?” I asked as we walked back to the car.

“It was all right,” Rob said, lighting a cigarette. “I liked the tattoo guy.”

“I thought it was really interesting,” I said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.

“Well, good for you,” he said.