Love is forever…One woman’s journey with grief

I have been in a weird place lately, and not one that lends itself to description, which is why I’ve had little to say here for a week.  It wasn’t a bad week, and I haven’t done much crying, which is good.  The hummingbirds are back in town, and I have been blessed with some very special visits by them, which is better.  But side-by-side with that has been a feeling of melancholy that is not so much pervasive as easily tripped into, like I’m walking a tight-rope of okayness, but one false move could send me falling.  I feel wary, and the rope is greased.

Saturday I sat in the afternoon as the rain poured down buckets, listening to music and working on embroidery.  The dogs were around my feet, and it was the picture of domestic contentedness.  But in this peace, I guess my mind had room to expand and remember lots of memories, mostly good ones, but a few from a year ago when everything was so very, very bad, I never thought it could be good again.  I think that I know again that things can be good; what’s questionable now is my ability at any given moment to appreciate that.

What really astonishes me is my ability to be both content and sad at the same time.  It is not so much compartmentalization as it is simultaneous emotion.  It’s a little confusing, a little strange, but seems to be how it is, so how can I argue?  I can be smiling and laughing and feel that ache where I miss him at the same time.  Has grief opened me up to a more complex emotional response to my life?  Or has it just confused me?  Who knows?

I guess it’s a hopeful sign that I can laugh and smile while feeling the sadness.  If I were only able to feel the sadness, things would be bleak indeed.

I think about the things I’ve learned in the last year, about how my beliefs and priorities of changed, about this entire experience.  And I find they have all been collateral.  Because in regards to the central questions of bereavement—How can a person just stop?  Where do they go?  What’s next after this life, if anything?  Why did he have to go when he did?  What am I supposed to do now, and how?—nothing has changed for me since the day he died.  I have learned nothing that approaches answering those questions to my satisfaction.  People and books told me there were gifts to be had from grief, and it is true.   But their value is in comparison to what?  The wrenching heart-break and vast emptiness of a soul who has lost the one she loves.  Heart-break and a few new insights vs. the heart-break alone.  Yeah, it’s better to have the former.  But you don’t get out of the heart-break in either case, and THAT is the bitch of it.

Today at work, I had to type the name of my co-worker who shares a name with my sweetheart.  The first few months after A died, that caused me a lot of pain, and in my private heart, I wished he’d just just change his name.  But in time I’ve come to appreciate the opportunity to see his name, to write it myself.  Today, though, when I typed it into an e-mail, I got caught up in the name, and I sat there, saying his name over and over again in my head about 50 times, just to feel the sound of it ringing between my ears, just to say it.  I just wanted to say his name.  And I felt better after I did.

Last night, the power was out at my house for 6 hours, from dinner time until 11:25 p.m.  I know what time it was, because the fan and the air conditioning woke me when it came back on and I checked the clock.

It is my habit to write to A in my journal every night before I go to bed, and I was determined to try last night as well, despite the lack of lights.  I had 3 candles on my desk, and then I had the brainstorm that I could use my laptop for additional light.  It had 39 minutes left on the battery.

The image on my desktop is a pair of pictures of A laughing, and what’s more, he’s laughing because I made him laugh, though I cannot remember what the joke was now.  I’m just glad I got the pictures.  I loved to make him laugh.  Those pictures are surrounded by a field of black.

Of course, a field of black wasn’t going to provide much light, so I changed the background to white.  The fact that I COULD change the background to white without breaking out in a rash was a feat in and of itself.  Practicality outweighed the miniature neuroses that come with grief and loss, which is often not the case.  Of course, one could question the neurosis-free practicality of choosing to have enough light to write letters to one’s dead lover, but I choose not to.  I know he lives somewhere, even if it’s not here.

Change, particularly regarding things having some connection to him, has been difficult for me.  More than once in the last year I thought I could change something, did it, and was so emotionally and mentally uncomfortable that I immediately changed it back, waiting for some unknown future day when I might have the strength to do it without it bothering me.

I recently moved some books that he gave me from one bookshelf to another.  It was so unremarkable an action that it wasn’t until I was done, I thought, “Hey, look what I did!”  There was no remorse after that move.  Amazing!

To someone who has never been through this, the importance of such activities would be too ridiculous to mention, but those who have know that progress is often measured in microns.  More often than not, it isn’t the action itself that is the sign of progress, but the level of comfort you feel doing it.  Actions free of fear, of foreboding, of dread, of sadness, of a feeling of futility or betrayal—those are the ones that make us think that we may actually come out of this alive, in time.

This morning, then, when the power was back on, I opened up my computer like I do every day.  The white background behind his pictures couldn’t stay; it was too glaring and I just didn’t like it.  I could’ve put it back to black, but that didn’t really seem right, either.  I settled on a dark blue.  And it felt okay.  It felt…appropriate.

Progress.

I went out to a concert last night, Dave Mason (of Traffic fame) and Stephen Stills, two granddaddies of rock ‘n’ roll who would be worth seeing for that reason alone.  But I also like their music.  I didn’t know Dave Mason from Adam, but A shared his music with me.  I thought it was all right (no pun intended), but have listened with more sympathetic ears since A passed, and have come to appreciate it.  As for Stephen Stills, one would have to be deaf to not appreciate Crosby, Stills, and Nash (with or without Young).  A and I shared a love of music; it was the basis for our friendship.  We shared a lot of music, and gave reports on all the shows we saw.  Last night’s show was a show he would’ve been envious I was attending, and I would’ve gloated in a manner totally unbecoming, and totally expected.  It’s what we did.  

I was so tired yesterday, and as the time to leave the house came, I started to feel a little bad about leaving Local Indigenous Personnel home without me for the evening.  But as I drove to the venue, I reflected on the fact that I have not been fit company for anyone for the last couple days, and it is probably no great loss to anyone.  I even was even peevish to the nicest co-worker I have, so much so that I felt the need to apologize.  It’s like I can’t even help it—I seem to be spoilin’ for a fight at any and all turns, quick to take offense, and impatient with everything, including myself.  It was probably better I spent the night alone, not talking to anyone, bathed in music.

Of course, the music hall was filled with baby boomers, all of a similar age of A and his friends, who would’ve been at that concert, too, if they could’ve been.  The place was filled with eyeglass-wearing, gray goateed men, many in caps.  I could see his face reflected everywhere I turned.  That’s always a tough thing, though such men no longer bring me to tears upon sight.  They used to, no matter how vague the resemblance.  Now, every once in a blue moon, one who looks especially like him, or carries himself similarly, will trip me up, but the resemblance has to be closer.  In February, I saw a man that looked like A, only 15-20 years younger.  The resemblance was uncanny in every way, right down to the way he sat, despite the fact that I didn’t know A 15-20 years ago.  I stared at him for a long, long time.

As I sat in my seat in the dark, I considered the fact that I wouldn’t even be at that concert if it wasn’t for A.  And I had a moment of insight, in that I felt the truth of the idea that our loved ones do live on through us.  The ripples of his rock in my pond are endless and infinite.  Every time I put my fingers to my guitar strings, that’s his doing.  Every time I go buy wood and make sawdust, it’s him.  The funny phrase I stuck into a work e-mail was something he said.  Here I was, doing something “new,” (not going to concerts, but going out to enjoy something again), and yet it was infused with him, with a hundred conversations we had.  The echoes of him in my actions, thoughts, and life are uncountable.  And I can’t help but think that’s a good thing.

The comfort that insight gave me was short-lived, I admit.  Short-lived on an emotional level, anyway, but I do believe its philosophical and spiritual staying power will be greater.  When you’re in this place, you will take whatever comfort you can find, and receive it with gratitude.

I went looking for some support online today, and found this rather perfect description of where I’ve been lately:

"It is not unusual for people to experience behavioral changes for several weeks before and after an anniversary. Withdrawal, angry outbursts, emotional tirades, crying spells, overwhelming sadness, lack of attention to detail, loss of interest in school or work activities and poor treatment of friends, co-workers and family members are fairly common around anniversary times. Grief does not get processed according to some pre-set schedule. For some, the intensity of their grief reactions gradually lessens over time. Some people have found that the second or third anniversary is much more difficult for them than the first. Never tell a grieving person that they should be over it by now. Never tell them that they just have to let go and move on. Those words of "advice" will cause more pain. Understanding, patience, and gentle support are most helpful during these stressful times around the anniversary."

It’s right–it feels like you go right back to that:  the staring into space, the lack of real interest in anything, the lack of motivation.  I’ve been really touchy and irritable.  I spent half an hour after work sitting in a chair on the patio, staring at the trees until they blurred, until my eyes closed, and I dozed.  I didn’t move a muscle; I didn’t want to, nor could I see any reason to just then.  I got up eventually, but I guess I just need to slow down a bit as I go through this bit.

The ache of missing him is just relentless.