Take THAT, Grief

         

            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.