Grief.
This is probably a weird analogy, but for me, it's like a beautiful tattoo I
didn't agree to. I can appreciate the beauty of it and yet, I wish it
were not there. A horrible necessity. It's the price that most will have
to pay for loving deeply and it's a fair and excruciating trade. When
Dan died 6 years ago, I was introduced, really for the first time, to grief. It’s
a heavy, intrusive companion who was never invited on my journey but shows up
with no real predictability except the assurance that it WILL show up
again…maybe when I’m expecting it (like at anniversaries, memorial services and
birthdays) but often unannounced (like when I’m walking down the candy aisle at
the grocery store or cleaning out the garage or listening to Rocket
Man...REALLY? why?…stupid, random grief).
At some point, after becoming acquainted with it, I resigned myself to the fact
that it does not go away. Not that I always wanted it to go away.
At first, I couldn’t get enough of it. In fact, I looked forward to
spending time grieving because it was the only feeling I felt. The only one
that made sense to me. All encompassing, crippling, crushing grief.
I understood the weight of it, the darkness of it. I felt at home
wallowing in the despair. I cried and cried and grief just let me. It
required nothing of me and I let it consume me without a fight. Go ahead,
grief…you win…I quit. My broken heart ached for Dan and I could not
imagine how I could possibly finish my journey without him. I didn’t
really want to. I was so devastated for myself, but also for my kids.
Life wasn’t fair and it would be impossible and I was not equipped and grief
understood all of that and agreed with me. No empty encouragement or
false hope – grief is not in the business of sugarcoating. And I liked it
that way. I had just spent 16 months living the harsh reality of cancer
and dying and death and I was not about to rush right back into the effort it
takes to hope. It was my darkness and I embraced it and dared anyone to
convince me that the light was better.
But familiarity bred contempt. I began to hate grief and the very dark
place where grief had taken me became too dark. Too heavy. Too
hopeless. I began to need light. I began to want to hope. I
started wanting grief to go away. I resented the unannounced visits from
my old frienemy, grief. I was ready to be stronger. I was ready to
move ahead – not to forget Dan, but to live. I was still here, among the
living. I was supposed to live. I was ready to be someone who could
use my experience to reach into that dark place and help pull others out.
I thought I was ready for that. I thought that I could leave grief in
that utter darkness and just remember it when I chose to while forging ahead
into Life: The Sequel. That was hard. It still is sometimes.
Grief refuses to stay where you put it and sometimes, I just despise grief.
Hate it. At the same time, I appreciate that grief has a job to do and I
let it work sometimes. Begrudgingly. Mostly because I have no
choice.
Now here I am, six years later. Here WE are. Me and the kids. And,
yes, grief. I am different. Stronger, yes, but way more
tenderhearted. My lows are not as frequent or long, but just as low and
sometimes I am surprised at how quickly I can fall back into the pit. I
have a theory that your heart soaks up sadness and gets saturated and although
you can live just fine with all that sadness in there, and even be very happy
at the same time, the minute more sadness flows in, the excess pours out
because it’s always just under the surface. On the other hand, joy is
more joyful and so easy to embrace because I don’t expect it like I used to and
I appreciate how rare it is and grab hold of it with both hands like a parched
person reaching for water in the desert. Water seems mundane and can be
taken for granted until you’re in the desert and then it is all you want.
When joy is absent for awhile or hard to come by, it is so very nice to see it
show up. I savor joy.
The kids are different. Completely different, really. Three of them
are legally adults now, one a junior in college and two graduating from high
school in a few months. My baby is a teenager, starting high school next
year. I can't make myself not hate that they missed out on Dan being here
for them all these years and I am convinced I've flubbed some stuff up, but in
spite of all that, the kids are all so good. I’m really proud of them.
Not one of them is perfect which is good because neither am I, but they are
finding their own paths and it’s terrifying and wonderful. Grief is a big
fan of milestones and it never fails to show up right in the middle of them to
taunt me and remind me that Dan is not here to experience the big moments.
But grief is wrong. Dan is here. He’s right here with us in all of
the growth and the achievements and the changes. He’s on their faces and
in their walks and weaved into their interests and their character and their
sense of humor. He’s in our memories and our hearts and he’s not ever
going away, so take THAT, grief. If I'm giving grief the benefit of the
doubt, maybe it reminds me of Dan not so much to make me sad, but to prove he
never has to really leave. Not completely.
I know you’ve got many more appearances to make, grief, but it’s okay.
You are a part of me now and I see you in others. Grief introduces and connects people who might never have crossed paths meaningfully and who
are not necessarily even grieving over the same circumstances. The mark
it leaves is easily identifiable and so endearing to someone who carries the
same mark. It’s a terrible gift. A beautiful burden. I needed
it and I hated it. I am still learning how to live with it, six years
later. And how to live without Dan. We will see him again and
that’s when grief will go away forever. I won’t miss it. And I
won’t even mention it to Dan. I’ve got lots of other stuff to tell him.
