Walking this morning, I was thinking about grief, how it progresses through time and changes.
When my husband Helmut died in February 2021, I kept a kind of visual journal of grief, for even though I generally traffic in words, that activity helped me represent what I was feeling. For example, on a day in which I’d been busy with a variety of activities and then, afterwards, found myself overwhelmed with aloneness, though not crying, I expressed it as my upper body full of tears.
Eventually, however, the 98-page sketchbook was full, and by then it was November and less was “new” in the experience of grief. The first Christmas passed, and more crucially for me, New Year’s, which I approached with dread because the year in which he had still been alive would then be finished. The first anniversary of his death came and passed as well, which also signalled changes.
For an entire year I had found myself unable to move his keys from the ledge where they had always waited when not in use, but now, finally, I hung them on a hook under my jacket, as a spare set in case of need. Also — and I’m not sure why — I began after a year to sleep on “his” side of the bed. (Of course, alone in a queen bed one can push into the middle or all over as much as one wants, with no one pushing back, but I’m talking about the side of getting in and out.)
People with experience of grief told me the second year could be harder than the first. I don’t know if harder is the word for me, but certainly there are new challenges and questions. There’s a brutal finality that still confronts me, which no “magical thinking” of keys or leaving his side of the bed open could dissuade, nor moving keys or switching sides accomplish either, a finality that seems the more brutal because of how persistent is the disbelief around the truth that this is how it is. The challenges are the questions involved in shaping a new existence in the face of it: Is there anyone who truly needs me now? Who is witness to my life? Since I’m still here, what should I be doing with this time?
If I were to sum up the first year visually, it might be thick vertical lines — lines of grief, say in purple, alternating with thick lines, say in green, of going on, as in coping and adapting. This, then this, then this. To sum the place that time has taken me now, I would use horizontal lines. Layers. Simultaneous. The most obvious layer perhaps what my sister, also a widow, meant when she said “you get used to it.” Doing the things of each day. There’s a solid layer of joy as well. As in my walk today, following a trail in a ditch and comprehending the subtle but rich colours of autumn grasses — cream, yellow, white, brown. As in fears overcome, and some upcoming travel to anticipate. As in my children, grandchildren, friends. As in the youngest grandchild, who, as babies do, delights me with his visible curiosity and cheerfulness. Another layer I call quest, short for the questions mentioned above. And always a layer of memories and missing, solidly in the mix though not dominating or excluding the rest of life as much as earlier.
I can, in great measure, understand your words. It is now six years in, from the moment I was told by the Abbotsford Police of my son-in-laws taking his life, watching my daughter negotiate her way through, dealing with my own sense of meaningless loss.
So sorry about that, Richard, and thank you for your understanding.
Thank you, Dora.
I have been fearing this journey. Dora. Thanks for sharing yours. It makes the thought less ominous!
Thanks Elfrieda. Good thing we only live one day at a time. 🙂
You describe that second year in two difficult and painful words: brutal finality, which was my experience after the death of our young son in 1986. And you also describe in such a palpable and intricate way the creation of new layers woven together. The sorrow never leaves, but there is more light along the way. Thank you Dora for this piece.
You’re another person who entirely gets this and has their own particular journey, the loss of a child. What you says is true, abiding sorrow but more light along the way. Thank you.
Thank you for this poignant post, sad and hopeful…
And thank you Carol.
For me, writing my memoir seemed a helpful move to another level. It’s now three years, and I still could not have done that kind of writing last year.
Thanks for this, Sam. Although I published a book this year, only one small part of it was written after H’s death, and apart from these occasional posts, I still can’t really write. So I’m encouraged by your experience. I look forward to reading your memoir.
Oh Dora Your words resonate with me. Particularly the part about aloneness …..which is quite different than loneliness.
Yes, thank you Patti for emphasizing the difference. For there certainly is one. Sometimes I experience both.
Dora, you have vividly expressed what it is like for you in Year 2. Thank you for your openness and for allowing us to walk along with you.
Once again, Eunice, my warmest thanks.
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