Mothering Grief

Yesterday I posted this to a widow’s group in Facebook:

“Five years ago today, Brian and I spent in the ER. We thought they would admit him and schedule surgery to remove his pancreas. CAT scan showed a healthy pancreas.

Five years ago today, Brian and I learned the word ascites.  The doctors didn’t tell us they suspected cancer, but that’s when we both started to think it was likely. He wasn’t diagnosed with cancer until Jan 8, but I suspect all his doctors knew it was cancer. We were ready for the cancer diagnosis, but not for “terminal”, “stage 4”, and “no treatment”.

It would be so easy to allow myself to fall into despair, but that would disappoint him. He has been gone for almost five years, and I have to stop nurturing my grief. Nobody around me understands that this deep pain will never go away, and I will forever miss him and our life together, but I know that I can continue to live. Life isn’t as rich, and it isn’t as fun, but it is a gift that I have and that he was denied.

I recently shared the attached poem that has been so meaningful to me. At one, two and maybe even three years out, this poem would have pissed me off. Now, approaching five years, the poem speaks to me. I can hear his voice in it.  I carry my grief with me, but I must stop nurturing it. I must stop allowing it to dominate my life. I most focus on life, and let my grief fend for itself. It isn’t easy, but time is making me feel like it is possible.

Five years ago today we were scared and clinging to a hope that failed us. Today, I have survived the worst of what life could deal me. Today I no longer fear loss because I have lost what was most important. Today I think maybe I can stop carrying me grief, and let it follow me on its own.

Wishing us all strength for 2018.”

Here is the poem:


http://lodestarquarterly.com/work/397/

It is hard to separate the grief of life from the grief of death, but this is where I am.  I can no longer blame my grief on Brian’s death. It is time to own it. I hope I can do so in 2018.