Ball in a Box

By Elizabeth Eade

I once believed in the fairytale of the five stages of grieving: the linear, sequential, resolutive process of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. That was, of course, until I came face-to-face with the asphyxiating behemoth myself.

Nothing prepares you for the loss of your childhood pet. At least nothing prepared me. Suddenly the furry family member who has grown up with you, who has been by your side from primary to high school, and who wordlessly understands you in a way that no one else does is gone and will never, ever, be back.

Grief cannot be encapsulated into five one-size-fits-all emotions. The best descriptor that I have heard is called the ‘Ball in a Box’ analogy. Though simplistic and imperfect, the analogy captures what it means to have grieved and yet still be grieving; to have moved on but still find yourself collapsing under the weight of loss from time to time. The analogy uses a box to represent your life. In it is a ‘pain button’ and a ball that represents grief, bouncing constantly. Immediately after a grief-eliciting event, the ball is large within the box; inevitably, it is going to trigger the pain button. Over and over and over and over again.

In my case, it was seeing his collar, now rendered obsolete. Sensing his soothing, sleepy, snug scent almost imperceptibly evaporating from his bed. Everything was triggering that pain button. He would never wag his tail and shake his bum so enthusiastically to greet us when we get home ever again. Never do his pre-dinner happy dance around the kitchen. Never make the family laugh with his faux growling during an intense match of his favourite game: tug-of-war.

The ball was threatening to overcome the box like water does floodgates: teetering along the brim, toying with catastrophe.

However, gradually, and with plenty of time, this ball begins to shrink. That is not to say that it doesn’t hit the pain button, because it most certainly does, however, maybe this occurs weekly and not every waking moment of every waking day.

A few weeks after he was put down I didn’t need to avoid looking at the empty space in the living room that was once occupied by his beanbag. I began to embrace finding his toys scattered around the house in unexpected places like bittersweet fragments of the past. I couldn’t bring myself to change my background. I still cannot. It would be an invisible betrayal.

The ball was less threatening now. Quite like a dull headache that only throbs when you dwell on it; simultaneously unrelenting and manageable.

As all theories do, the Ball in a Box has different interpretations. Another way of looking at it is that while the ball remains the same size, the box gets bigger. In other words, our grief doesn’t shrink; we grow around it. As we accumulate new experiences perhaps we gain perspective or simply have more ‘buttons’ for our grief to press – perhaps nostalgia, relief, or regret? As much as we feel like time stops or slows, the world does keep spinning as we grieve. Both fortunately and unfortunately, this means we have no choice but to carry on.

I still crave the ephemeral lapses in memory where I listen for his footsteps (endearingly referred to as ‘twinkle toes’ in our family) or even when I subconsciously dream about him: happy, healthy, and alive as ever. However, they do say that time heals. I suppose this is mostly true. But this paradox is too conventional, too convenient. Time helps, sure. But the ball will always be bouncing.