What’s left unsaid
I’m doing okay. Some days I’m doing better than okay. I really am. And I’m glad of it. And everyone who knows me and of my grief is glad of it. What I don’t say, because they don’t really want to know, nor will they necessarily understand the duality of my reality, is that there isn’t a single minute all day, every day, that I don’t wish he were still here on this earth with me. That I miss him as much as ever, and actually miss him more the longer I’m without him because it’s been so long since we talked. The pain and anger seem to be mostly gone, but the waves of sadness continue to lap against the shore of my consciousness. I’ve gotten used to their rhythm, but I haven’t tuned them out. That I would give anything to hold him, to hear his voice, to touch him, to talk to him, to get an e-mail from him, to listen to him snore and watch him sleep. That I can have a good day, and still have cried three times for him, for myself missing him, for some secondary loss that has just announced itself, for some reminder that’s popped up unexpectedly. That the tears are barely below the surface and need little provocation to start flowing, and that’s going to happen, and it doesn’t mean I’ve collapsed before your eyes or that you said something you shouldn’t have or that I’m faking “better”—this is what “better” looks like for me these days, and it’s unquestionably a moving target. That his picture is close at hand at home, at work, and I stop a lot to stare at it until I sigh, shake my head once again at the fact that this is what I have left—memories—and go back to what I was doing.
I have made room in my life for the loss of him; I hardly had any choice. Bend or break. When I wish that things were otherwise, it’s with the resignation and knowledge that it cannot be. But I figure I’m allowed my wishing as compensation for knowing that the wish will not come true.
They also do not understand that even in death, he is still very much a part of my life, my thoughts, my feelings, and not just regarding his death, either. I don’t talk so much about my grief now, but I still talk about him as much as I ever did, when something he’d told me is germane to the conversation, or if I have a pertinent anecdote involving him. He was knowledgeable on many, many topics, and funny about everything. It’s going to come up. I still talk to him, too, out loud sometimes, when I’m alone, and every day in my journal, and I hope that somehow he gets the message. I have no intention of trying to make this not the case. Our present tense includes the reality of his physical absence from this life, but not my life, and it is still our present as far as I’m concerned.
Someone doesn’t become that intimate a part of your daily life and deepest soul without staying there. They don’t just evaporate. You are touched forever, and it changes you, for the better. To me, his constant presence in my heart and mind is comforting, but the result of that presence in my conversations…I don’t know…I wonder if people find it creepy. They shouldn’t, and honestly, the fact that I can drop him into conversation matter-of-factly as I always did shows, to my mind anyway, a huge amount of progress. That I can talk about him without dissolving in tears every time, or being in a funk for the rest of the day, is good news. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, and it doesn’t actually bother them at all. I’m not going to ask, and I’m going to continue to be myself. I’m not going to monitor everything I say; my willingness to be uncomfortable for the comfort of others is minimal. The things that would really scare them I keep here, and in my journal. I’m sparing them whether they realize it or not.
Like the other day when I thought I might well be having a heart attack. I worried for E, but not really for myself. I don’t fear death now; there’s a reunion I’m hoping will happen once I go, and I’m looking forward to it. Not in any active way; not that I’m interested in hurrying that day. But if it comes sooner than I imagined, so be it. I really don’t like being without him. I can enjoy and appreciate the life and love I have right now, and the unknown future AND hold this quiet anticipation at the same time. But I think if anyone heard me say that, they’d think I was not, in fact, better, and might be dangerously depressed with a death wish. I’m not. I’m just accepting of the deal, now that I’ve had a taste of the darker side of it. It’s a good day to die; it’s a good day to live. I’ll do whatever comes my way. It’s not like I have any control over it anyway. Accepting that fact brings me peace, not depression.
Yes, I’m better. But I’m not sure if it’s the “better” I think others imagine—getting back to the same old me. The old me died the day he did. The new me is a lot like the old me, but not identical, and anyone expecting that is going to be disappointed. Maybe I lack faith in their understanding and care; I don’t know. I guess I just need to remember that what other people think of me is none of my business.