Ten months and aspirations

Firstly, an update about my reunion. I want to say thank you to all those who took the time to catch up with me and who quietly acknowledged my loss without making a big deal of it. Your care meant a lot. Also, thank you to those with whom I had deeper conversations. That was also appreciated. Going back to Barts was actually easier than I had anticipated. We stayed in the square and didn’t go inside the hospital, so that made it less complicated. What I hadn’t quite anticipated was how overwhelming it would feel just meeting up with that number of people all at once. I could feel the emotions rising within me, but I also knew that if I just took myself off that that would make it worse. An observant friend, though, noticed that I was somewhat overcome and just took me aside for a few minutes until I could centre myself, so thank you J. Overall, it was a lovely weekend and it was great to meet up and renew friendships and make new connections.

Today is ten months since B died. I ask myself, does it feel any different to last month? It still feels hard. Most days, though, B isn’t, now, my first thought when I wake up, although when the announcer on the radio said the date this morning it all just hit me in the face again! Some days I can now wake up and feel grateful that I am alive, even if on other days it is harder. Sometimes at least, I feel that I am slowly getting my zest for life back, though it is a (very?) slow process, with lots of ups and downs.

Several years ago, I came across this poem by David Harkins, probably after my Nan died. I had forgotten I’d saved it, but found it on my phone the other day:

She Is Gone

You can shed tears that she is gone

or you can smile because she has lived.

 

You can close your eyes and pray that she’ll come back

or you can open your eyes and see all she’s left.

 

Your heart can be empty because you can’t see her

or you can be full of the love you shared.

 

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday

or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

 

You can remember her and only that she’s gone

or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.

 

You can cry and close your mind,

be empty and turn your back

or you can do what she’d want:

smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

 

So, this is what I am aspiring to. When B died I was very much at the stage of the first lines of each verse. I have moved from those first lines, but I want to say that, at least for me, there’s a place in the middle before I can reach those second lines.

I do my best to smile because B lived, but at the moment that still reminds me he isn’t here and so I shed tears.

I see and gratefully acknowledge all that B has left me and I don’t, now, wish that he was back (only because I know that is an impossibility), but thinking about all he gave me just makes me feel more bereft.

My heart is full of the love we shared but, at the moment, that just makes me miss him more.

I can think about B, cherish all that we had, let his memory live on and take that forward with me. I won’t forget, although I was very afraid at the beginning that I would, but I cry precisely because I haven’t closed my mind to the future. I know that I have to allow myself to let go of the past but to do this I have to grieve his loss. Letting go is still too difficult, though I’m sure this will start to change at some point. I think that there is something important in the remembering, as it slowly (very slowly) turns the sadness into joy, and without it life would just be empty and black. I don’t want to cry and carry on grieving, why would I? It’s horrible, but I have no choice. I know B would want me to smile and be happy and carry on, and I try my best, but doing it without him is so hard (I do understand the irony here!). I guess this is the purpose of grief, though, and I carry on being open to my grief so that one day I will be able to be happy again and reach those second lines.

So, I know, that one day I will be able to read this poem and say ‘yes!’, as I completely get the sentiment behind it, but I also want to say that, at the moment, it is just too hard. There is an important element missing in it: the grief, that allows a person to move from the first line to the second line. I can’t just flick a switch and change my mindset. For me, at least, it would be impossible to achieve this aspiration without the necessary middle place of grieving. I sometimes wonder why B didn’t tell me what grieving him would be like – after all, he had been through the grieving process after the death of his first wife and had reached those second lines. Perhaps, the memory of grief softens over time, like the pain of child birth. To be fair, though, he didn’t talk about his feelings, so that is more likely to be the reason why!

So, I know I am moving towards those second lines. On good days, I can smile at memories of things we shared, and I know the number of those days will slowly increase. It helps when I can share those memories with others, it keeps B real and that makes it easier to celebrate what we had. I also know that my memory of my grief will soften in time but, and it might sound strange, I also hope that I don’t forget what grieving is like, as it gives a depth and a richness to the life we shared and I don’t want to lose that. Even now, in the midst of it all, I can see that it has changed me, and hopefully for the better. I have learnt lessons that, hopefully, I will take with me and develop as I “go on”.