Four Months

Yes, it was four months. Yesterday. And I would not let myself go there. But today I will.

I will not bury it. I’ve buried too much.

I’m talking about my grief.

Anyone who has read my blog consistently in the last four months since my husband died has witnessed the ups and downs — the depths of guilt and despair, the joys of new life in the twelve-week-old twin fetuses that are my grandchildren, and the normal, everyday things of life, including the writer within that is trying to pen a memoir, as well as a novel. That’s the way my life is. I’m going to write it as I feel it because I have a need to get it out. I don’t want it bottled up, stuffed down. I don’t think that’s healthy. I went to my doctor a few weeks ago and asked him what I should do to combat the harmful hormones that grief causes and how I can stop the damage they are doing to my body. “Exercise,” he said. So early mornings I walk and I walk hard and with purpose and with command and I lecture the evils that are trying to fill and consume me. “Go away, I will fight you, you cannot have me, you will not bring me down.”

A Grief Letter to my friends:

I never thought I would be at this point in my life in my fifties.

I remember I never knew what to say to other women who had lost a spouse. Should I just be quiet and back away and give her time to heal and then I will come around and be her friend again when she’s okay? Now I see it in a few of you. You don’t know what to say either. And that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you have to stop being my friend, though. Unless seeing me is a too-painful reminder of what could happen to you.

You will be here one day, too. And then you will know how it feels when a ‘friend’ is too busy with her full and happy life to take a moment to say “Hi!” to you, after you have just lost your full and happy life. You will know what it is like to come home to a dark and quiet house and to an oven with no warm smells coming from it and to a dog who doesn’t yip and yap with glee any more. You will learn what it is like to eat dinner alone every night. You will know what it is like to be afraid to open each piece of mail because it might be yet another company closing this account or sending you to the estate settlement department and you know you will have to call and cuss them out and get upset all over again. You will know what it is like to live with pounding heart in dread and fear of the next bad thing that is going to happen and by God, you know it is going to happen. You will know what it is like to be ambushed by a memory, a song, a place.

And you know, because you have been to GriefShare, that all this is normal.

And you know that you will let some friends go, because they are no longer comfortable with you.

And there are some you will gravitate to.

I thank the stars above that I am surrounded by many strong and powerful people. Many of you have been through much worse than I and pass on your might and determination and encouragement to me, and others. What would the world be without folks like you? I am blessed to know you. You are real and deep and made of substance I want for my own. You are open, you share, you talk, you ask, you live fully. I want to be like you, I want to see my struggle through to the top, I want desperately to be whole again.

And so I fight. Right now, for me.


3 Comments on “Four Months”

  1. DeeJay says:

    Thank you for having the strength and compassion to write this. It certainly helps those of us that have not been there and I hope it has helped you in your own grieving. Gos bless you and take good care

  2. Rain says:

    I hope that it will soon be better but it takes time and you will never quit missing what you lost. Very sad and a tragic thing to have to experience. It’s life but that doesn’t help

  3. suzanne says:

    I tried to remember how long it has been for you and I remembered counting each day, waiting for the one when I would be happy about something, anything. I waited for the day I could finish reading something. I had my two little ones to take care of and at 35, I knew I didn’t have the luxury to think dark thoughts because I had a mission; but I had them anyway. I had nightmares. I got up at 3 a.m. a lot. I started drinking coffee and from that I got an ulcer. I just couldn’t think things through all the time. I remember the first day I had a happy thought. It didn’t happen again for weeks, so I kept track and soon it would happen once a week and then every other day. I remember thinking how weird is that, tracking my happy days…then I had two in a row. Then, on down the road, my youngest went off to college and I spent a year coming home from work, patting both dogs on the head, patting both cats on the head, feeding all of them and then walking straight back to my bedroom where I commenced to grieve all over again, on my own time. No journy is the same, but i’m still vertical if that helps at all….suzanne p.s. there is no worst story of loss…yours is your worst, so be good to yourself.

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