Love is forever…One woman’s journey with grief

Last June, I was feeling depressed.  I wasn’t sure where it came from, but it was surely there.  Being prone to occasional funks, I am vigilant, as there was a period a few years back where I was depressed for 9 months, and I don’t want to go there again.  At the time, work, (and the travel I was doing for work), was a major trigger for that depression, but I couldn’t put my finger on anything in particular that would be bringing me down last June.  I noticed a lot of folks were dying, famous folks I’d read about in the news.  I’d just started reading a blog of a man who had just become a widower, and my heart ached for him as I read his whole story.  I never imagined I would be joining the ranks of the widowed within weeks.  I remember telling A about the blog I’d found, via a blog A himself had recommended to me, and how sad it was.

Looking back, I wondered if there wasn’t a prescience in that depression, a knowing without knowing, some kind of cosmic preparation for what was to come in July.  From my reading, it seems not uncommon that people have these inklings of something being “not right,” but not really understanding what it means until later, when, too late, it seems like a bright neon sign.  Some people have premonitions in dreams, and then beat themselves up for not acting on them.  But my feeling was far more vague, a feeling of darkness, a touch of doom, and I thought it was just one of those periodic blue periods I was prone to.  Now I’m not so sure it was “just” that.  And when I consider the possibility that it was premonitory, I wonder why it wasn’t specific enough for me to know to act, to say something.  The only answer I can come up with is that the die was cast, and perhaps being able to see the clouds gathering on the horizon of my life, the hindsight exists now to allow me know I couldn’t do anything about it, and that I was being prepared, however subtly, for that.

What good it does me, any of it, I don’t know.  Maybe none.  Maybe more than I can know.  Are we given small glimpses of the Mystery, not enough to give us the answers we crave because that’s not how it works here, but enough to feed our faith that there will be answers some day, and we’ll remember why it was we couldn’t be privy to that?  Are we given tastes of the bigger picture to give us hope?  Maybe.  But some days, it just seems like teasing.  A vague feeling of doom doesn’t allow me to take meaningful action.  A momentary awareness that there is more in this universe than what appears to the senses doesn’t satisfy my need for understanding, nor my ache for his company.

And what if I received this definitive message from the universe?  “Your sweetheart died when he did, because before you were born, the two of you decided that you would provide these experiences for each other.  You chose this, even if you don’t know it, or can’t understand why you’d do such a thing.  Trust yourself.”  If I received such a message, how would that change my life right now?

Not one iota.

I would have an answer, but I would still be here, living my life without him and not liking that fact, knowing that we would reconnect in the next life again, but missing him terribly in the meantime.

And it makes me wonder if answers are overrated, because that’s what I’m doing now with no answer, or rather, the answer I suspect and have come up with on my own.  Honestly, calling what I’ve come up with “answers” is overstating the case, and the certainty I feel about them.  There is no certainty at all, but on my better days it does allow me some peace, and I have learned that peace is far more valuable (and far more possible) to me than certainty.

Even if you always had faith there was something more after this life, where we would be reunited with those we love, or you find your way to that place, as I think I have, I think there’s a new challenge that’s equally difficult as the old one, which is to survive the loss.  And that is this:  if you believe in something better, where no one hurts, and you are together with those you love, where the love is unambiguous, unconditional, and abundant and peace permeates all, you are glad for the loved one you lost, because they truly are in a better place.  But it makes it hard to keep your head in THIS game, here on earth.  If you feel in your soul such a place exists, and that those you love most are there, it’s hard to not want to be there instead of here.  I mean, who wouldn’t prefer heaven, by whatever name, to anything else?  I have heard that people who have had near-death experiences often suffer from just this inner conflict.  They have seen and felt the other side for themselves, and find it hard to cope with this world that seems so far away from that one, though they exist simultaneously forever.  I think being a griever is also a near-death experience, as the name describes.  It certainly opens you up to all the same vast questions about life, our purpose here, and what comes next, and perhaps even offers glimpses into the unseen world.  

I feel torn.  While I know that I have my life to live here, and that is my mission to accomplish, and I have loved ones here that I want to stay with, there is both a curiosity and a yearning to be with him and see what the next life is like.  It’s a double-edged sword, hope.  On the one hand, it keeps you from total disintegration at the worst times in your life, knowing that all is not lost; on the other, when you know there’s something better than this, it’s hard not to wonder, “Well, then, why do I have to put up with being here?”  And then I feel disloyal to those who love me here, for not appreciating them enough, and I feel wrong, somehow, valuing my current life somewhat too cheaply that it seems easy to trade it away for what’s beyond the door to eternity.

That is not to say that there aren’t wonders to behold in this life, love to be had, joy to be experienced.  Of course there are.  Maybe this conflict I feel is just a sign that my journey through grief continues, though I have come far.  I wonder how far I’ve yet to go before I appreciate this life without hesitation, or comparison to a life I can only imagine. 

Today would’ve been our third anniversary, the third anniversary of our meeting, because that’s what unmarried people celebrate.  Of course, for our third year, I was without him for all but a month and a half of it.  Still, the day matters to me.  I marked it; him not so much.  I think for him, the concept of “anniversary” was inextricably entwined with “marriage,” and with his over, I’m not sure he thought it applied to us.  I’m just guessing, though; I never asked him what he thought about it.  I think I was a little afraid to know.

I gave him a sextant, a fancy brass one with all the little glass eyepieces, for our anniversary last year, so he could always find his way in this new life he was creating for himself, and a card.  He loved it.  When he didn’t do anything celebratory, I told him it was fine.  I didn’t make a fuss, because I thought it would seem needy and insecure, and I didn’t want to be that with him, even if I felt it inside sometimes.  I knew he loved me.   And looking back, I can see how tired he was, how stressed out.  I should’ve, in hindsight, been more worried about it, but at the time it just seemed like temporary thing.  I have wondered, many times, if he wasn’t dying before my eyes and I just didn’t see it.  He hadn’t been himself for months, but we both thought it was just work stress.  Maybe even if I had there was nothing I could’ve done.  I don’t know.  But he was his own man, and did what he wanted.  It was one of a million things I loved about him.

We spent the last 2 Memorial Day weekends together at his place.  It was a wonderful trip.  They were all wonderful, because he was a wonder to me in so many ways.  This Memorial Day, the holiday will be more poignant, and truly a time of memories.  That trip was the last time I laid eyes on him in person.  The last time I held him.  The last time I talked and laughed with him in the same room.  The last time we shared a meal.  The last time we touched and made love.  I was crying as I said goodbye to him and walked through security at the airport, never imagining that it was our last visit.  I’m crying now.  

God, I miss you so much, Sweetheart.

This week I’ve been so busy, with the new puppies, with dealing with my car, which is totally on the fritz, and trying to prepare for company.  My folks are visiting this weekend, for the first time in years.  We have had our difficulties, and the fact that this visit is happening at all is a victory for all of us in overcoming that.  And I hope that their being here will keep me busy and raise my spirits.  But I don’t know that this feeling will go away entirely; it may just be postponed.  Because this is not how the weekend is supposed to go, with me entertaining guests here.  I’m supposed to be in California, exploring the state at his side, holding hands except for when he has to switch gears.  

And I’m not.  And I just don’t know if I can ever be okay with that.  It’s reality, and I deal, but it’s hard.  It just makes me so sad.  I ache for him.

I’ve been doing okay, but I feel it coming.  It is a subtle undercurrent of…not-rightness, an unexplained pall over what is an otherwise fine day.  It is grief, tip-toeing up on me.  Which I suppose is an improvement; it used to sucker-punch me, hard, and leave me curled up in a ball on the ground, whimpering.  But I recognize its approach now.  I’ll feel good for awhile, and then I’ll have a period of melancholy.  The former tends to last longer, and the latter passes more quickly, with each new cycle.  I know this, so I don’t fear it.  I don’t look forward to it, but I don’t fear it.  But it’s coming.  Am I prepared? 

Am I not always prepared these days?

I used to send A mail on a regular basis, real mail.  I would send packages with cookies I’d baked, little surprises I’d picked up for him, the Sunday crossword puzzles, and we also exchanged a lot of music.  The packages were frequent enough that his mailman would announce to A on no-package days, “Sorry, Boss, no presents today.”  The packages I sent him always came accompanied by what came to be known as a “smell-good card,” and when I had nothing else to send, sometimes I’d still send just the card, because how can you pass up the chance to make someone’s day for $.39?  I’d squirt a little of my perfume in them for him, which he liked.  My perfume of choice for this task was the appropriately named “Amor, Amor.”  I love to buy cards, and always had a stash of them picked just for him:  romantic, silly, sexy…just like him.  I had a bunch waiting for their turn to be sent when he passed.  I’d picked them for him; I couldn’t send them to anyone else, and I couldn’t throw them away, so I just put them with all the other stuff I kept in memory of him.  

I stopped wearing that perfume after he died; it took many months before I started wearing perfume again at all, but that one just sat on the shelf.  Like so many things, it was tangled up with thoughts and actions all relating to him; it wasn’t just a perfume anymore.  I wore it just once in the preceding 9 1/2 months, and that was when I went to meet his family and friends for the first time.  I guess I wanted to be, on that day, who I was with him, right down to my signature scent.  Because I really wasn’t myself at that point; that trip was also the first time I’d bothered to do anything with my hair besides run a comb through it since he’d passed, and in truth, I was still pretty much a mess.  I think, in some way, I wanted to put together the package that he loved, no matter how tattered the gift inside at that point, so that perhaps they could maybe understand what he saw in me.  It seems a little strange, a little desperate, a little needy now, in hindsight, and slightly embarrassing to put down in words here, but in fact that was the thought process behind it, and at the time I was quite desperate, quite needy, and the whole world felt strange, so I suppose it’s appropriate.

I’ve been feeling better lately, really ever since I brought the puppies home, and even though they keep piddling on my carpets, I have to bless them for bringing such life into my home and heart again.  And I thought perhaps I might try that perfume again, as it had loomed large as emotionally prohibited contraband, larger than a bottle of scented water probably should.  I was pretty sure it wouldn’t kill me, and if I was overwhelmed, I’d wash up and leave it alone for awhile.  “Worst case scenario” on this one was pretty mild, although honestly, most of them are now.  Once you’ve lost your beloved, what could possibly compare?

Like so many other things during this journey through grief, where the ultimate reality of things I built up in my mind as potentially emotionally hazardous turned out to be anticlimactic, so it was with this.  (And the reverse is true, too—the smallest thing I would never suspect can result in tears.)  I wore the perfume, remembered how much I liked the scent, and made it through the day without incident.  And I wore it again today.  In a small way, it makes me think of him, and that’s good, too.  The connection is still there, between this scent and him, but the pain seems to have evaporated from it, and it was only my own mental block up until now that assumed it was still there.

There are other things, too.  I haven’t made cookies since he passed; instead, I’ve kept the Safeway bakery in business.  Whenever I made cookies, I sent half of them to him.  How could I make cookies and NOT send some to my sweetheart?  I suspect, though, that come cooler days and autumn, I’ll probably be ready to try those again, too.  I can choose to imbue everything with a painful connection to my loss, forever, if I want to.  Or I can let that pain go, and just make cookies.  There is a time for self-protection, and there’s a time to lay your sword and shield down, and I’ve found as a griever that it’s somewhat tricky to know what time it is.  Your heart is in equal danger from doing things too soon as from never doing things again.

I’m doing better.  I’m surprised by that, but I am.  But I find that I can now answer the question “How are you?” without 5 minutes contemplation as to what I can say that’s true, yet not off-putting, yet blah, blah, blah.  I can say “fine” and mean it.  I’ve even answered “good” to the question a few times lately.  I didn’t really think I would ever feel better, even though those who traveled this road before me said I would.    

And so I find I’m at a weird place.  Because if you think you’re going to be crushed and broken the rest of your life, you don’t really think about creating and enjoying a life beyond that.  At least I didn’t.  I figured the best I could do was to gird myself for the unending torment and go through the motions.  But it seems I’m going to live awhile, and I am astonished to find that I seem to have the energy to do so.  And new understandings of what’s important, what I need, what I want, and maybe more importantly, what I don’t need or want.  And so the question that I ponder now is, “What do you do with yourself when you survive the worst and weren’t really expecting to?”  It’s kind of a goofy question, but I think those who’ve done it might understand.  Things are kind of wide open, and you begin to ask the question, “Is there life after death?” not only for your loved one, but also for yourself.  I am pleased to find that I think there is, for both of us.

Riding tandem with this is the reality that I constantly feel in my heart, physically even, both his absence and his presence.  I long for him, even though I know he is with me.  I have to say, I’m not sorry for the ache, because it tells me that healing and missing are not mutually exclusive, that healing does not mean you don’t cry.  Indeed, I think a did a lot of healing THROUGH crying.  It tells me that sadness does not equal a lack of faith.  And it tells me that I will not forget.  I didn’t think I would, but I think we all fear that our loved ones will slip away from us, stolen by time, and we will lose them more than once.

I’ve had a good couple of weeks, and a good weekend.  And then last night I cried and kissed his picture and told him how much I missed him.  I have thought many times since A died, “This.  This is what it’s going to be like now.”  And I have been both right and wrong:  This is what it’s going to be like now…sometimes.  Because it changes with every bit of healing.  The landscape isn’t quite what I was sure it was the last time.  I’ve learned to not make pronouncements upon reality, if nothing else, since A passed.  Reality is quicksilver, unable to be pinned down. 

My evenings have been occupied lately not with blog-writing (as well you know) but with new puppies, who take a great deal more attention than I recall them doing. It’s been 7 years since I’ve had a new puppy, and I’ve never had 2 at once before. I think 2 puppies are actually 3 times the work, plus a third dog who needs extra attention so that he doesn’t feel displaced.

Right until I brought them home, I wondered if it was the right decision, or if it was too soon after P’s passing. But I knew that P wouldn’t care one bit if I got a new dog. She’s with A, doing whatever it is dogs do in the next life. So any guilt that I had about it was my own crazy human mind making me miserable for kicks. I could NOT get another dog on principle, and just keep feeling sad, and bad, keep feeling the empty space in the house. But that wouldn’t bring her back, and it wouldn’t do me any good either.

I know that if I really worked at it, I’m sure I could undo all progress I’ve made since A passed. But something inside told me that wasn’t an option here. And it seems to me I have a right to some happiness. I realized that although I miss P, I think I’ve reached my grief limit. Though I’ve had another loss, I just don’t think I can mourn more than I’ve already mourned. While this loss is new, I have been in mourning for 9 1/2 months, and have, in fact, been mourning P herself for a month and a half, from when I was certain I would lose her. I feel like I jumped over all the middle stuff and went right into the missing her, and I wondered why this should be the case. I didn’t figure it out until after.

I had no compelling reason not to get a puppy, so I went ahead and got 2 this past Tuesday night, and I realized within the first night that it was the right choice. Oh, did they make me smile and laugh with their antics and their soft fluffy little kisses! And I realized that I needed that so much. I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling sad, and bitter, and weary all the time. I’m tired of the disconnection I still feel from the world around me. It’s ironic that while, through A’s passing, I finally understand the oneness of everything (in concept, if not in detail), I have felt unable to tap into that. I needed that joy and something to make me look forward and be engaged in my life. I feel more like myself, and more involved in my own life, than I have since A passed; I don’t feel like I’m just going through the motions, which is a change. I actually went into work the other day thinking that life was pretty good. That surprised me; A and I said that often to each other, that “Life is good,” but I hadn’t felt that in my heart since he left.

No one can replace P, and that’s not what I was trying to do with these puppies. She was her own furry little person, and I loved her for it, and will always love her. I had a choice, though: I could be miserable, or I could do something I knew would make me happy. If I was going to miss her either way, I may as well do the thing that will give me some consolation in my sadness. It is very, very hard to be negative, crabby, and sad in the presence of puppies. And I have found that rather than make me sad for P every time I look at them, they evoke happy memories of P, since many of their behaviors are reminiscent of hers.

I feared that my vet would think badly of me for getting new puppies so soon. He didn’t. What he said was “Well, you know, there’s death and there’s life. And you’re choosing life. I admire you for that.” And I bless him for saying that.

It’s hard to explain, as so many things in the journey through grief are, but I know that I felt something shift when I brought those fluffballs home. I don’t know if it will last. That’d be nice, but I know the grief rollercoaster too well to assume any such thing. For now, I’ll enjoy it, because it’s a welcome change. And now is all I’ve got.