The Six Inches in Front of Your Face

Because sometimes one day at a time is way too much

No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.

At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me. – C.S. Lewis, “A Grief Observed”

When encountering someone who is grieving or navigating adversity or facing a large set of tasks, well-intentioned others often suggest that the person should “take it one day at a time.” Yet the tidal wave of thoughts and emotions accompanying acute grief can easily render this advice useless, even laughable. One day in such situations can seem like an eternity, with an infinitely heavy load of unwanted mental freight making each cognition or physical movement slow and labored.

At such times, one hour at a time, or even one minute at a time is a far more reasonable frame of reference. It privileges the present and the immediate over the full array of that which must or should be done. Being present and focusing on the little things is perhaps a big part of what matters in life regardless of the circumstances, but those who are grieving might benefit from an extra reminder.  

It reminds me of a locker room scene from the 1999 sports movie “Any Given Sunday” in which the coach, played by Al Pacino, addresses a sweaty team of beaten-up, defeated-looking football players. He says:

You know, when you get old in life, things get taken from you. I mean that's, that’s—that’s part of life. But you only learn that when you start losing stuff. You find out life’s this game of inches. So is football.

Because in either game, life or football, the margin for error is so small—I mean, one-half a step too late, or too early, and you don’t quite make it. One-half second too slow, too fast, you don’t quite catch it. The inches we need are everywhere around us. They’re in every break of the game, every minute, every second … I’ll tell you this: In any fight, it’s the guy who’s willing to die who’s gonna win that inch.

And I know if I’m gonna have any life anymore, it’s because I’m still willing to fight and die for that inch. Because that’s what living is: the six inches in front of your face.

Since my son’s tragic death, some people have remarked upon or asked my wife and me how we handled life in the immediate moments, days, and weeks afterward. How did we function? How did we get through arranging a funeral? Picking out a little casket? Buying a burial plot? Physically standing upright during the actual funeral Mass? Delivering a eulogy? And so on.

Numerous factors likely contributed to my thoughts, decisions, and actions during those times (and to this day). My prior life experiences, personality, faith, and values played a role. So did the influences of and support from numerous friends and family members (and total strangers) who rushed toward us with prayers, kind words, acts of solidarity, and help with basic needs. The truth is that myriad factors contributed to our behavior and ability to get through each day. Human behavior is both complicated and complex. And in life’s most trying moments, you sometimes get things done simply because you have to get them done. We all are, I’m sure, capable of much more than we imagine.

Yet that nuanced reality isn’t particularly helpful for people experiencing the extraordinary stress, confusion, and emotions that can surface in response to adversity and death, either in the immediate throes of it or in sensemaking long after the fact. In those moments, simplicity matters.

By focusing on the next few moments, the next few things that need to get done, the “six inches in front of your face,” one can begin to move toward something resembling normal human functioning. Eventually, one can indeed consider a full day at a time. With more time, one can dare to look forward with hope to the years ahead, toward a future that includes peace, laughter, and even joy.