Three years and moving forward

B and I were married for just over twenty-four years, and were ‘an item’ for several years before that. In many ways we were opposites, but we complemented each other. Above all, we were each other’s best friend. We fitted together and we were happy together. And now I am on my own, and today is the third anniversary of B’s death. So how am I? What have I learnt? Well, it’s good I didn’t know how hard it was going to be without him, but I know that the pain of his loss is the price for the happiness we found in each other. Would I do it all again? Of course, I would!

I now know that grief is about learning to bear the unbearable, but I also know that I can do the impossible, I can bear the unbearable! I didn’t have a choice, B didn’t choose to die, but I did have a choice about how I dealt with his absence. I chose to look squarely into the face of darkness, to learn to live with the abyss that appeared in my life. I could have shut it all out but I knew that, ultimately, that would have been harmful for me. 

The thing about grief is that it is all about dichotomies: bearing the unbearable; hating the pain but not wanting it to stop (“how can I let him go?”); trying to let go whilst being desperate to hang on; living with joy and sadness at the same time; learning that being vulnerable can be a strength. It is true that the only cure for grief is grief, though I want to change that word ‘cure’. Grief is not an illness, but a natural process. Neither is it time-limited. No matter how much our society wants it, there is no closure to grief. It is not a static or linear entity. So, I now want to say, the only way to heal or to learn to live with grief is to grieve. It’s about facing one’s grief rather than fearing it, and being prepared to be changed by it, much as an amputee learns to live without a leg. There’s no cure, the leg isn’t going to grow back, but the wound heals and, hopefully, the person starts to rehabilitate and adapt to a different way of living and, despite the bumps along the road (which will always be there), goes on to live a different but fulfilling life.

Grief is a lonely business, and sometimes it is too much to bear. I remember those awful times when I screwed myself into a ball on the floor, hanging onto B’s cardigan, bawling my eyes out, wishing I was dead. But slowly, very slowly, the rawness disappeared and I learnt that it’s not time that heals grief but experience. Time can pass and it’s still possible to end up like Dickens’ Miss Havisham, living in the decay of the past. Instead, it’s the ‘doing it anyway’, no matter how you feel, and developing a different, solo, experience that slowly helps to heal one’s grief. Gradually, you learn that you can cook for one; that you can go to a gallery on your own, or a concert, or out for a meal. You learn that you can enjoy yourself again, that you can laugh again. But all this comes from ‘doing it anyway’, trying things out, continuing to put one foot in front of the other, despite the pain. Each time it gets just that little bit easier and experience tells you that you can do it and, eventually, that you can enjoy life again. 

I learnt to ask others for help, though, to be truthful, the times you most want support is when it seems impossible to ask for it. I wouldn’t have survived without my friends - I learnt that they appear at different times with different types of support. I am so grateful to all those who have supported me in all sorts of different ways, and to those who are now friends in a different way and give me things to look forward to. But, let’s be frank, unless a person has lost a partner, most people don’t really understand what it’s like, so it was really helpful to find other people who were going through the same thing. That doesn’t mean that we all have the same experience, just that we ‘get-it’, we know what it’s like, we understand grief. I’ve been fortunate in that most of my friends are empathetic, because the worse things are those horrible platitudes, or being told to look on the bright side (really?), or somebody implying that you really should be over it by now. They might think that they’re trying to be helpful but actually it’s just toxic positivity! I learnt that it was alright to protect myself, to say “I’m fine (f..ked inside, not explaining!), thank you” and to walk away - they don’t understand, it’s too painful to explain, and they wouldn’t ‘get-it’ any way.

I sometimes wonder what people think about me now. Do they think I’m ‘over it’? Do they think I should be further forward than I am? It shouldn’t matter but it still sometimes does. Do I hide my grief, now? I’m not sure, but I certainly control it! I wait until I’m in a safe place to look into the face of the feelings that still sometimes swirl around. And it surprises me that I am now, mostly, able to do this. It surprised me when, earlier on in my grieving, I read of others who could contain their feelings like this. I wondered how they did it, but I can do it now! But now I wonder whether this means that I am now colluding with society’s norms by hiding my grief away, trying to avoid my grief being pathologised! Grief is a strange entity! It is a very private and personal thing and yet grievers want their grief to be witnessed and understood, but it is also easy to feel judged or wrong-footed by others and to feel the pressure to live up to societal norms. 

B, and his absence, will always be lodged in my heart, and the sorrow that comes with that waxes and wanes, but I no longer want to die, I want to live. And to live the best life I can. I am able to love my life again. At the beginning I didn’t think that would ever be possible again. I now know that I won’t ever forget B - this might sound strange, but it was a real fear at the beginning and, apparently, this is not uncommon for the bereaved. 

So, three years on, here I am, a different me, living a different life, hopefully a little wiser, and carrying both my past and my future with me each day. The Jester is still with me, but is mostly a friendly companion now and I now know that I can live my life and be open to the new opportunities and adventures that await me. This doesn’t mean I no longer miss B but most of the time I am now able to celebrate the love we had rather than it cause me pain. 

So, thank you, dear readers, for being witnesses to my grief and for the support and kind words you have offered. It has meant a lot! You won’t know just how much writing and being read has helped me on my journey. Two quotes to finish:

“We do not have to rely on memories to recapture the spirit of those we have loved and lost – they
          live within our souls in some perfect sanctuary which even death cannot destroy.” 
                                                                                                                                             Nan Witcomb

“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.”   
                                                                                                                                             Khalil Gibran