Love is forever…One woman’s journey with grief

In many ways, I’m still stuck on the 3 days between July 15th-17th. All time is counted from that point now, and it seems like it’s been a blink of an eye and also an eternity. I have more calm moments now. I laugh more often. But when the awful moments come, the pain is identical to those first days, as is the bewilderment, as is the feeling of being cheated on a colossal scale, as is the longing and the missing him. Not only wasn’t I done loving him, I wasn’t done being loved by him. A great source of love, support, and friendship in my life was taken away when I need it most. He is lost to me, and he cannot be here as my friend to help me bear the greatest loss I’ve ever known. I’m twice bereft.

I was holding up relatively well all day, I thought. I’d even gone so far to skip over songs on a favorite playlist that I knew were going to push me over the edge of tears. Get me! I’m Coping! But by afternoon I had a funny feeling in my chest and my gut, a feeling like I was faking it, a feeling like I could hear the dam start to crack around my finger over my whistling in the darkness. (I can mix my metaphors; I’m a professional.) I was missing him terribly, but pretending like I was holding it together. Your mind can lie to itself, but the body refuses to play along. So I thought I’d just read an e-mail or two from A, just a little hit to get me through. I ended up reading a bunch.

And then I made the mistake of reading the e-mails I sent on July 15th and 17th. I hadn’t heard from him all day on the 15th, but I knew he’d been by my blog at 8:46 that Saturday morning. On Saturdays, he played catch-up at the shop, free from other shop-owners stopping in to chat for the most part, and clients didn’t expect him to be working, so the phone wasn’t ringing off the hook. He loved working Saturdays. It was peaceful, and he could just be a cabinetmaker instead of a businessman. He loved the cabinet part; the business part was a necessary evil. The shop was his second home. And some days, when he was in the zone, he wouldn’t stop to e-mail, and we’d talk at night and catch up then. I knew he’d been busy, so I didn’t send him my usual morning e-mail. I also was feeling a little pouty because he’d been sparse on the e-mails all week, and I figured he could start the e-mail ball rolling for a change. So I just forwarded the comics as usual to him, and waited for him to e-mail. He didn’t.

When chat time rolled around, he wasn’t there. I figured he’d fallen asleep, but I sent an e-mail that said “Are you okay?” Then I sent a second e-mail an hour later:

Dear A,

It has seemed to me for some time that you are needing your space, and now that I’m reading that Mars/Venus book, it occurs to me that perhaps you are, in fact, spelunking. I’ve been trying to understand that and let you have that space, staying out of your hair and not bothering you too much with the e-mails and such. However, I don’t think in 2 years has a day gone by without an e-mail from you, and you not on chat, either. Until today. I thought about calling you, but I figured that would be counterproductive if time to yourself is what you need. This e-mail is probably counterproductive, too, but I really needed to touch base with you.

If you tell me it’s nothing I need to worry about, and that I just need to be patient, I’ll believe you, and I can do that. But I really don’t know what to make of silence. A little reassurance would go a long way for me right now.

Tu P

I know now that he was already gone by the time I sent both of them, and that e-mail is so stupid. So fucking stupid. I should’ve called him then, and started my search, instead of analyzing like I always do and trying to be so understanding and grown-up. Not that it would’ve changed anything; there was no reassurance to be had. It was as bad as it could be. But I hate that this is the penultimate e-mail I sent. I hate that I was being a petty girl and playing e-mail games while my sweetheart was dying. I hate that it didn’t even matter, because he probably was gone that morning, long before I sent them, and didn’t read any of them, but I have to live with their pointless impotence when I could’ve said something meaningful that he also wouldn’t have read, but at least I would’ve had the miniscule comfort of knowing I did as much right as I could. Although I guess I’m grateful that that stupid e-mail wasn’t the last thing on his mind, even if it haunts me. I hate that his last e-mail to me Friday night, with his last words, was “Those are gorgeous pictures.” I hate that anything can be referred to as “his last….”

I spent all day Sunday calling and leaving messages at his shop and on his cell phone and worrying myself sick, and making E a wreck by proxy and concern. I called the apartments, which was futile, and I’m still angry about that. E took me to a movie to distract me, and it did, a bit, but the worry was full-bore as soon as we stepped out of the theatre. And when Sunday night came and went with no word, and he didn’t show up on chat, I called again and again. I knew that if I couldn’t get ahold of him in the morning, I would contact his daughter. You have to understand, that was a huge step, for they did not know about me, and I didn’t want to worry them until I knew I had no choice.

But that didn’t stop me from sending him one more e-mail Monday morning, and then calling him, calling his shop, and then calling his neighbor at the shop. And then calling the apartments again and calling the police. I really cannot tell you which is worse, fearing the worst but not knowing, or knowing the worst. They are both hell.

Reading those e-mails brought those 3 days back to me, and I spent 25 minutes in the restroom crying so hard there was almost no sound. It was like he died all over again. It’s like this—I’ll go along a few hours, and only feel the weight of missing him. And then something will make all the disparate bits of reality that I can sort of deal with one at a time hit me all at once and flatten me. It is too much. It is literally life and death. It’s a lot to take in, especially when you’re at your weakest. I’ve had trouble breathing all afternoon, and I find myself sighing a lot to make up the oxygen deficit.

I have an appointment at lunch time Wednesday with a counselor, recommended by a friend and vetted to make sure she’d be understanding of my unusual situation. I am making progress, but it is very slow. I don’t know how it could be otherwise. I’m doing the best I can, but I’ll take any help I can to make sense of something beyond sense, or find a way to give up on sense, and at least find my way to a little bit of peace. We’ll see how it goes. It is rather sooner than I probably would’ve availed myself of professional help, but my dear friend P was afraid for me yesterday, somewhat mistakenly she knows now, and I decided it couldn’t hurt much more than I’m already hurting, so I made the call. Anything that can help me feel even a little bit better is a good thing. For the record, though, in case anyone was unclear (and more than one person has been), I am not suicidal, nor am I clinically depressed, nor am I wallowing in the non-existent glory of common-law widowhood and cosmic victimhood, nor am I tanking my marriage because of my grief. Someone I loved very much died. I am sad. I am very, very sad. And this is hard. Very, very hard. And I miss him. Very, very much.

God forbid you should ever know this feeling, but if it happened to you, you would feel the same. And for those of you who do know this feeling, I am so very, very sorry.