So Lonesome I Could Cry

Thomas Lewis, Farid Amini and Richard Lannon have produced a remarkable book entitled A General Theory of Love (2000).  While one might assume that this is a book of poetry or philosophy or even theology, the content focuses on neuroscience and what the authors call “the anatomy of love.”  Attachment to others is natural for us as humans and has biochemical components that connect directly to the quality of our relationships.  “Take a puppy away from his mother,” they write, “place him alone in a wicker pen, and you will witness the universal mammalian reaction to the rupture of the attachment bond—a reflection of the limbic architecture mammals share.”  Puppies begin to cry and so do people.

When we attach to one another we create neurological pathways and chemical bonds that are ruptured when we lose someone.  That rupture is painful emotionally, spiritually and physically.  “Short separations provoke an acute response known as protest,” Thomas Lewis and company write, “While prolonged separations yield the physiologic state of despair.”  I emphasized the word “physiologic” in that quote because sometimes people wonder why they feel so bad physically when they grieve.  I wondered that at some points as well.

“Despair” comes from two Latin words, de spes, and literally means no hope, un-hope, hope itself amputated.  When Anne died, I became “de-hoped.”  I knew that people in the raw pangs of fresh grief often think about joining their loved one in death.  I was surprised at how quickly those thoughts came to me as well.  As the funeral directors prepared her body to be removed from our home, I saw myself for a moment in that black bag with her, and that thought gave me momentary comfort.  I might be dead, but at least I would not be separated from her.

Of course, that is not the case.  My rational brain could work that out fairly quickly, and I did not volunteer to be a passenger in the meat wagon that early November morning.  However, I had other thoughts of joining Anne in death in the days and weeks after she died.  I did not want to end my life to end the pain, although that seemed like it would be a fringe benefit.  I have known the despair of depression in the past, decades ago when I looked at a loaded gun and speculated on how much of a mess it would make to blow my own head off.

No, this was different.  These thoughts were not about escape from this life.  Instead, I was just so desperate to be somehow reunited with Anne, even if it were simply to have our ashes mixed together in the walnut box that holds her cremains now.  I did not form any specific plans, although I knew it would be simple enough to get in our truck, turn on the ignition and go to sleep.  I never took a step toward that option, but the dark and dangerous thoughts lurked there.  And in the moments when hope seemed like an impossible dream, those thoughts could return.  It is only in the formation of new hopes that I have found the resources to resist oblivion.  I will reflect more on that later.

I grew up with country music—not really as my “heart music”—but certainly as the sound track of my younger years.  I remember often hearing Hank Williams moaning out the words of “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.”  Many times I thought that this was just so much alcohol-induced exaggeration.  Buck up, Hank!  You made piles of money and have artistic immortality.  Really, what do you have to cry about?  Now I have experienced a variety of the despair that Hank knew.  I have been so lonesome I could cry.  I have been so desperate I could die.  That is, I am told, how it goes with grief.

Here is the description of how despair expresses itself in physiological terms.

“The physiologic signature of the despair phase is that of widespread disruption of bodily rhythms.  Heart rate will be low, and on the electrocardiogram we will find abnormal, serrated beats intruding into the regular procession of slender spikes that demarcate a healthy heart’s metronomic cadence.  Sleep will change considerably: lighter, with less dreaming or REM sleep, and more spontaneous nocturnal awakenings.  Circadian rhythms, which coordinate the rise and fall of physiologic parameters with the light-dark cycle of the day will also shift.  The level of growth hormone in the blood will plummet.  Even immune regulation undergoes major alterations in response to prolonged separation” (pages 78-79).

If you have experienced a major loss, then you know all these symptoms.  I found myself having to remember to breathe deeply.  Otherwise I could get lightheaded from oxygen deprivation.  I have been an early riser for years, but I started to awaken at 4 a.m. rather than 5:30 a.m. and had trouble  returning to sleep.  As soon as the funeral was over, I suffered from a major, week-long cold.  In addition my eyes dried out from crying so much, my throat often filled with mucus from weeping, and I had difficulty concentrating on multiple tasks.  Acute loss changes our body chemistry, and not for the better.

Isolation makes all of this so much worse, but very few doctors prescribe “surrounding yourself with people” as an insurance-subsidized medical treatment.  Thomas Lewis and friends put it this way.  “The prevailing medical paradigm has no capacity to incorporate the concept that a relationship is a physiologic process, as real and as potent as any pill or surgical procedure” (page 80).  However we who grieve know how important this treatment is.  If we are to move into a new life at any point, we will have to “self-medicate” to treat this limbic deficit.

It is important to note that not having such connections is not as pathological as having the connections and then losing them.  It is certainly the case the single people tend to live shorter lives than married people, at least according to the actuarial tables.  Humorists have sometimes noted that perhaps it only seems longer for married people, but that is a topic for another book.  If single people suffer the demographic deficit of their relationship status, those of us who are widowed suffer even more.  It is an established fact that the chances for death go up significantly in the six months after one loses a spouse, for example.  Parts of one’s brain and body are deprived of processes and substances that were a part of the daily diet.  And the consequences can be physically devastating.

Neuroscience shows us that in relationships we provide one another with neurochemical regulation, resonance and remodeling.

“Being well-regulated in relatedness is the deeply gratifying state that people seek ceaselessly in romance, religions, and cults; in husbands and wives, pets, softball teams, bowling leagues, and a thousand other features of human life driven by the thirst for sustaining affiliations.” (A General Theory of Love, page 157).