Today is the day when we are supposed to be thankful. We're supposed to spend the day with our families laughing and eating.
I have so much to be thankful for; much more than most. I'm thankful for my parents, sister, and all my nieces and nephews. I'm thankful for the love of friends. I'm thankful that I live comfortably. But on Thanksgiving, it is hard to not focus on the loss.
Today is my second Thanksgiving without Brian. Two years ago we spent Thanksgiving at home, with a house full of people we love - happy and, we thought, healthy. Who knew that Briand's stomach ache after dinner was the cancer and not the turkey?
Last year on Thanksgiving I was recovering from back surgery. My parents were here with me, but it was a non-holiday. It was easy to ignore Thanksgiving.
This year I was supposed to fly to New York to spend the holiday with my sister's family and my parents, but the weather had different ideas. Ridiculously long flight delays made me cancel the trip. Honestly, I wasn't disappointed. I would have loved to see my nephew, but I was dreading spending Thanksgiving with my family. How can it be a holiday with family if Brian isn't there? It can't.
Grief has become private. I know longer wear it publically on my face or on my sleeve. It's still very much with me on a daily basis, but I don't have the energy to let it loose, and others have list their patience with it. Its been 19 months, the new normal is supposed to be comfortable. It isn't. Especially on Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving is a cruel reminder of the one thing we were most thankful for and that was taken away. I'm very grateful for the time together that we shared. Until the cancer it was all good. But he was given a death sentence when he had just turned 48.
I'll be spending this afternoon with friends. We'll laugh, we'll eat and it will be fine. It will be better than fine, it will be fun. But family Thanksgivings will never again feel right. I'll continue to celebrate Thanksgiving, and I hope that one of these years, my grief finds a place within me where it no longer casts a shadow on my gratitude.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Grief and Time
Today I spoke with a friend of mine who experienced the loss of his wife around the same time that I lost Brian. We have spoken often of our losses and our grief. A year ago at this time, neither of us understood how we could possible survive, but we have. Life goes on, we remember how to laugh, we remember how to enjoy things, we accept new good things into our lives. But that doesn't mean that one ever moves on from their loss. You don't. Time smooths the ragged edges, new experiences bring satisfaction, new friendship and relationships bring joy; but the loss is always there and it always will be. It changes from a public thing to a private thing.
In early grief the pain is always there and impossible to hide. It is on our faces and in our voices. Strangers may not understand it, but they see it. As time goes on, it isn't there every moment of every day. Smiles and laughter return. Eventually, others no longer see the grief, and they lose tolerance for it. At that point, the grieving and loss become a very private matter. It doesn't cast a shadow over every moment like it once did, but it can rear its ugly head without warning, and even with the passing of time it can be intense and cruel.
I know that life has a lot to offer me, and I am open to receiving it. I want love, laughter, companionship and all the wonderful things that come along with them. I love that I am able to experience happiness again! But there are still moments when the pain of Brian's death is unbearable. There are still moments when, even if I am surrounded by friends, I am overwhelmed with loneliness.
I don't know who, if anyone, reads these posts. It doesn't matter, because I write them for myself. If you are reading, try to remember that time does not end the pain of loss. That pain never goes away. It is always there, sometimes buried deep and sometimes right under the surface. Try to be patient with others when they seem inexplicably saddened.
I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with others who, like me, are also fighting to understand their relationship with loss. I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with those who are, so far, unfamiliar with the sort of loss that I have experienced. I need to remember that what might feel like insensitivity isn't; it's just the impossibility of understanding how profound loss can be. I wish that I was still incapable of understanding that.
In early grief the pain is always there and impossible to hide. It is on our faces and in our voices. Strangers may not understand it, but they see it. As time goes on, it isn't there every moment of every day. Smiles and laughter return. Eventually, others no longer see the grief, and they lose tolerance for it. At that point, the grieving and loss become a very private matter. It doesn't cast a shadow over every moment like it once did, but it can rear its ugly head without warning, and even with the passing of time it can be intense and cruel.
I know that life has a lot to offer me, and I am open to receiving it. I want love, laughter, companionship and all the wonderful things that come along with them. I love that I am able to experience happiness again! But there are still moments when the pain of Brian's death is unbearable. There are still moments when, even if I am surrounded by friends, I am overwhelmed with loneliness.
I don't know who, if anyone, reads these posts. It doesn't matter, because I write them for myself. If you are reading, try to remember that time does not end the pain of loss. That pain never goes away. It is always there, sometimes buried deep and sometimes right under the surface. Try to be patient with others when they seem inexplicably saddened.
I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with others who, like me, are also fighting to understand their relationship with loss. I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with those who are, so far, unfamiliar with the sort of loss that I have experienced. I need to remember that what might feel like insensitivity isn't; it's just the impossibility of understanding how profound loss can be. I wish that I was still incapable of understanding that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)