Love is forever…One woman’s journey with grief

I sat outside in my back yard Saturday afternoon.  It was a beautiful day out, 76 degrees with a breeze and a few fluffy clouds.  The birds were a symphony, and Herb was flitting between his favorite perches.  I was taking a break from sawing shell, just relaxing.  And the thought that came to mind was “This would be a perfect day, if…”

I caught myself, then, because the rest of the thought was “if only my Sweetie weren’t dead.”  And I pondered that one for awhile.  Was the day any less perfect because he’s not here?  Or am I just unwilling to let it be because he isn’t?  I think it’s more the latter.

It was the kind of day I would’ve told him about.  It was the kind of day where, if I didn’t know my own life story, I would say, “This is the life.  This is really a wonderful moment.”  Eight months ago, I would’ve been able to thoroughly enjoy the peace and beauty and perfection of a half-hour in my own backyard on a sunny Saturday.  To tell the truth, I prided myself on appreciating such moments.

I don’t have too many of them anymore.  That is to say, I think the moments are there, but I am unwilling to enjoy them entirely.  Even if I enjoy them 99%, there’s still 1% of my mind says “Yeah, but…”  I cannot be 100% happy anymore, I seem to be telling myself, however subconsciously.  Some days I just can’t; but other days…other days I think I trip myself up, sabotage myself if I approach too near sheer delight.

He’s still gone; my dog is still dying; I still am having dizziness problems; and who knows what the next week, day, hour, minute will bring.  But right then I was content, and I had to go and ruin it for myself.  And I don’t know why; but it’s become habit after all these months.  It’s hardly necessary.  Perfect beautiful moments don’t last, life intrudes, and difficulty is always within shouting distance.  I now understand, through the hardest lesson of them all, the impermanence of everything.  You’d think I could accept and fully appreciate moments of respite as the gifts they are instead of always thinking, “Well, it’s nice, but…”  Honestly, if anything, I should be thinking, “Dang, it’s sure a nice change of pace to feel good for awhile.”  Or if I want to get really sassy with the universe after it’s done me wrong, I could say “Who deserves this perfect moment more right now???”  But I don’t.  I have to observe the lovely moment, and while its loveliness is not lost on me, I have to make some mental comment to reduce some of the joy in it, like some nasty mother-in-law.

Is it guilt?  Is it that I want to make myself out to be some kind of victim or martyr?  What do I possibly have to gain from being a victim of, and only known to, myself?  No one else is paying any attention to me most of the time.  They have no idea the debate that goes on between my 1% and my 99% in those moments.  So why?

I don’t know.  Maybe it’s enough to ask myself why I’m doing it; shining a light on things tends to make demons in darkness into robes on the back of a chair.  It’s a strange result of grief, though.  You struggle so long to learn to accept the worst, and as you finally start to, you realize that it’s now more difficult than ever to accept the good.  I would’ve never believed that I could accept that my beloved passed, but couldn’t fully accept a sunny day.  It certainly gives me pause.