The Invisible Finish Line?

There is a piece of popular advice out there for widows/bereaved:

"Don't make any big life decisions for at least a year."

Why is everything always a freakin' year? What magical thing happens to a widow(er) a year after their spouse dies? What makes life safe to resume after the one-year mark? 

I'm still waiting to find out, because whatever it is; it didn't happen to me.

In all fairness, this warning sounds like it should be right.  Your partner died.  Your world has been turned upside down.  The answer must be to freeze and not make any sudden moves. But for how long? And wait to be, what, "done" grieving?  I'll never be done; I know that now.  Grief doesn't end, and in so many ways it doesn't even get better, it just gets different.  It's like a 300-pound gorilla on your back that you just learn to carry.  Maybe your legs and lungs get stronger in order to hold it, but the gorilla will always be there.  

But there might come a time that you want to make a change.  You will be compelled to make a change, to dip a toe back in the land of the living.  It might be something as seemingly small as going through your bathroom vanity and throwing out his shaving cream.  (Side note, that feels big.  It all feels big).  But it also might be something others perceive as a major decision like selling your home or quitting your job, and some well-meaning individual will tell you you're doing (fill in the blank) too hastily. Their answer is to sit tight and lock down. Like removing that final Jenga piece, the rest of your life could come crashing down the moment you take one step, and none of the onlookers are prepared to handle that.

Here's how I see it... 

Joe's death set off an atom bomb that blew life up into a million pieces. That bomb left the dust of our former life in its aftermath.  Something completely beyond our control happened. In an instant, life as I knew it was obliterated. It happened physically, emotionally, financially, mentally, spiritually, and it all happened without my consent.  There was no choice given in the matter.  Joe wasn't given a choice. I wasn't given a choice. No life change I initiate going forward is going to compare to that...it just won't.

Huge shifts happen in life.  Some we assume we're ready for, maybe even planned, like having a baby.  Some happen in a moment and leave you wondering what the hell happened to your life: your future, your mind, your sanity... (I suppose also like having a baby😉). Either way, those shifts can leave your skin crawling with the need to make changes that you initiate, to take some small power back after feeling powerless.

There is a reason new moms chop off their hair after having a baby, or cancer survivors get a tattoo when they finish chemo, or divorcees sleep around after their divorce.  In our most pivotal moments, when there is a life altering shift, pushing back against that feeling of powerlessness can be a step towards healing from trauma.  

Because here's the kicker...freezing in place after loss, won't protect you from suffering another one. Please read that again.

Five months after Joe died, my dad was diagnosed with cancer, and I was thrown right back into the depths of being a primary caregiver. No hunkering down, no holding back, no putting off major decisions would have kept me safe from that.  Life is going to happen, whether we're rested and ready or not.  

If you aren't throwing yourself into financial ruin, or risking your personal safety, I don't think you need to hold off on change, when you are ready.  Buy the car. Quit your job. Go on a date. Sell your home. Move cross country. Being bold can be a strategic move to take back a small piece of the power you've lost, to catapult yourself into something completely new, to remind yourself that you are still alive. Because, if you're like me, most days you'll feel lost somewhere between Earth and the Afterlife, stuck in some middle ground between life and death.  Remembering that you're alive won't always be obvious. 

I have said it before...you don't have to be an expert in grief to be an expert in your grief.  Don't let anyone try to put a timeline on your process, or judge it, or comment on it at all.  You have the right to grieve in your own way and in your own time. And mark my words, if you wait "too long" to make a move, people will also start commenting on that. It's a lose-lose situation.

I must have missed the memo from the elusive "Department of Socially Acceptable Grieving;" the one that dictates the proper timeline for all this stuff:

I imagine those memos would go something like this...

First Notice:  "Your husband just died.  Sorry, that must suck.  Don't move, don't breathe, don't make any big decisions.  Just stay home and don't come out until you're done being sad."

Second Notice - "One year has passed since your husband's death. Congratulations! You have grieved sufficiently.  You're done! Feel free to commence living. You can stop being so sad now. Maybe go on a date."  

Third Notice One Week Later: "You should have received a Second Notice in the mail alerting you to the end of your grieving period.  You are now past the appropriate      deadline.  Everything happens for a reason. Buck up!"

 

Yeah....

You can't win.  So, to hell with it.

There is no invisible finish line, over which your grief magically dissipates.  There is no one moment that will make you want to live again.  You just wake up, put one foot in front of the other, breathe in and out, and do your best.  Some days your best will be getting out of bed; other days you will be able to experience real joy and laughter without the  immediate guilt that your person isn't there to experience it with you, and that will be a good day. 

Here's to more good days. Go out and grab them!

 

Three years is three years too long

I suppose this is my version of “How it started. How it’s going.”

Today it’s been three years since you took your last breath.  Three years and I am still left with the desire to retreat to the life we shared together.  But like returning to a town reduced to rubble in the aftermath of war, that world doesn’t exist anymore; there’s nothing to go back to.  I reach out for you, hoping to meet you somewhere only I would know to go, to find you dancing in the stars…but I can’t get to you. Love should be able to take me to you, but it doesn’t.  

It was real wasn’t it?  You were here.  We were us. I was still the me that existed in your eyes…adored and loved beyond measure.   She is gone and someone new is emerging.The pendulum swings back and forth, pushing me to move forward, then pulling me back. 

So where does this leave us now my love? I hold onto faith that we continue to exist between here and there, where time can’t hold us hostage.  One blink, and we’ll be us again forever.  But I promise to live until then, to laugh with our son, to experience new people and places, to have new adventures.  I know you expect that of me, so I promise to do my very best not to disappoint you.

I continue to love you without end JoJo. I always will.

Dahlias

My favorite flower is the dahlia, by far. They come in every color, and when they open, they have this multi-layered, sun-like shape that just captures my heart. The pigment can be more concentrated at the center, then bleeds out lighter to the tips of their petals. They are magic. 

They only bloom in late summer, early fall (at least where I'm from), provided they have a normal climate that year. Their season happens to fall around the lead up to my wedding anniversary on October 5th. In fact, you might be able to find dahlias the week before, and not the week of, depending on how the weather has changed. They are fickle like that.

I start anticipating our wedding anniversary halfway through September. It begins as a knot in my stomach, the hint that I sometimes don't notice, until I do. Last week, on an otherwise ordinary trip to the grocery store, however, it came in like a flood. I was in the depths of wondering (again) how to define our relationship without you here. The happy memories of a perfect day are there, but also a desperate longing for you to be here with me, followed by an intense sense of loneliness that you're not. 

I remember the beauty of the vows we shared, which never cease to bring a smile to my face, even if that smile is through tears. And then there is always the internal triumphant snicker that death did not, in fact, part us. 

I floated listlessly around the produce department with all this running through my head, when I glanced up and noticed a woman putting out fresh flowers. I wondered if she would have the flower I needed today. She saw me scanning the wall with intent and asked; "Is there something specific you're looking for?" 

"You don't happen to have any dahlias, do you? I know it's late in the season and they're hard to find sometimes." 

She smiled and reached for a nearby clipboard. "You know, we have one box that came in this morning. And you're right, sometimes they're hard to find because they just don't like being a cut flower. I'll pop in the back and grab them." 

I sat there frozen for a minute with that thought…they just don’t like being a cut flower. 

Of course they don't. They have been plucked from their familiar soil. 

They are grieving. 

I fell instantly more in love with these little creatures. Looking at the bright yellow-orange bunch I picked out of the box, I thought, "I am missing my familiar ground too." 

When we have our toughest days, there are default people we lean on, those who knew us from the beginning, or know us most intimately. When shit hits the fan, instinct tell me to reach out, but those core people are all gone.  (I can turn to a small group of trusted friends and extended family to create those connections and a safe place to share my struggles.  Though essential and cherished, however, it is no replacement for lost parents and partners.)

Like a dahlia cut from the mother plant, with no physical connection to my roots or the ground I came from, I  am blooming on the outside, but inside part of me has already died. I am a living shell of who I was. 

But the dahlia teaches us more than loss. As it turns out, once cut, if you dig a little deeper, you'll find the "tuber" (root bulb). The tuber is protected by soil that it shares with the rest of the dahlia patch. Surrounded and nourished by past generations, they can be preserved and re-planted. The dahlia can begin again in the darkness and push its way back to the light next season, bringing with it remnants of those who came before. 

There is eternal hope in that. And that is what I choose to hold onto.

A New Way Home

Today is Joe's birthday. He should be fifty-eight years old. Instead, he is forever fifty-six. 

 I dropped Jacob off at school then headed up to the trailhead of one of our favorite hikes. I set out with no intention, other than to get into nature, get quiet, and be open to the day. 

I climbed and climbed, passing familiar curves where Joe would turn around and realize he had left me in his dust, his long strides carrying him up steep grades with ease. He would smile and laugh, waiting for me to catch up. 

I made it up to the ridge, to the spot where I scattered some of his ashes last year. A few tears made their way down my cheeks, but I kept on towards the summit. It was super windy today. The foxtails looked like greenish golden waves on the hills. Beautiful orange poppies and purple thistles flanked the trail. I asked him to be with me, walk with me, talk to me. 

Then a thought dawned on me so quickly, it couldn't have been my own. "Be sure to go back a different way than you came." Joe never went home the same way he set out. What's the fun in that? Not a hike or a road trip was complete without finding a different way back. There was no adventure to be found retracing the same steps home. 

But today, there was a different meaning behind his words. "We're all just walking home JenJen. Stop following me down a path I'm not on anymore. Find a new way home." He's right. It's been two years this week since Joe died. I spend my days still trudging down the road we were on together, expecting the switchbacks to lead me to him somehow. Maybe around this curve? Maybe up this hill? The trail isn't as bright as it once was, the birds don't chirp happy tunes anymore, the grass is dull. 

It's too quiet. 

And it occurs to me, though it's a familiar trail, I somehow find myself terribly lost. Joe isn't on the trail with me anymore, he's already home. I know what he's telling me. I think it's time for me to make a sharp turn at the next fork, to find my own path, to live new adventures. Each day I wake up is a day that he doesn't. There is a big responsibility in that, to not waste time, to do new things and force myself to be new places, places he and I never visited together, down paths we didn't know. 

Joe and I have already been to the top of the mountain and enjoyed the view...we walked hand in hand straight to the edge of life. He got to go on without me. I have been asked to stay behind. It's not my time.

Today I heard you loud and clear JoJo. I will forge a new path. I will take fresh steps towards a life that scares me, but one I have been given and must therefore be grateful for. Now I understand, I'm not leaving you behind...I'm just finding a new way home.

The Griever's Gaze

Joe came home on hospice on February 29, 2020. At first, the house was buzzing with the chaos of hospice intake staff; the assessment nurse, equipment delivery and set-up guy,  and a doorstep pharmacy delivery man. The evening activity was rounded off with a crash course on how to administer narcotics (if and when needed). But after the house cleared out that day, I quickly situated myself on the couch next to Joe's hospice bed. We had shared a bed every night for 11 years, only away from each other a handful of days at most. So, I posted up where I knew I belonged, and buckled in for what would be the hardest days of my life, of his life, of our life together. 

At first the nights were uneventful. After I put Jacob to bed, we stayed up watching mindless TV together (some new series on Netflix that, it quickly occurred to me, he would never live to see the end of). There were the occasional trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night, which required creating a new routine, getting slippers on Joe's feet, then helping him in and out of the clunky wheelchair he needed because walking had become too difficult. There might be a request for water here and there, or back scratches to ease the itching caused by the hospital bed and residual pain medications. And there were definitely a few tough late-night conversations regarding Joe's wishes, which resulted in an overwhelming calm on Joe's part and a forcibly hushed panic on mine. It was all so surreal, like walking through your house that has been turned upside down; everything looks somewhat familiar, but you're not sure how to navigate your way through it anymore. All that was once safe and predictable, was strange. And the "normal" day to day stresses - work, traffic, bank accounts, housework, old arguments about parenting styles; they didn't matter anymore. Life narrowed to that one room, as everything unnecessary dropped away. 

Then, nearly two weeks into our hospice venture, Joe asked me for a flashlight, a simple request. (I'm not sure if this is common in all those nearing death, but Joe became nocturnal, sleeping through most of the day and highly active at night.) He said he needed the flashlight to find items on his bedside table, so he wouldn't have to wake me up to get things for him - that was how it started anyway. But the very next night he started "journeying." I woke up several times during the night to find Joe waving the flashlight at the wall in front of him, looking as if he was staring down a long hallway or tunnel, trying to get someone's attention, squinting his eyes to get a better look. I asked him what was wrong, and he answered without lifting his gaze from whatever held his attention ahead. "Nothing," he replied. It was frightening at first. My initial instinct was to call him back. I didn't know what he saw, I just knew I didn't want him to go towards it. "Joe......Joe!" But he was already stepping onto a bridge, somewhere between the here and there, gazing forward with intense interest. All I could do was be present to witness it. 

The next day, he journeyed even longer. He could come back when we asked him questions, but he spent a good portion of his time looking past everyone in the room, drifting. He started talking about things that we couldn't see, fixated on the wall ahead. The more his eyes gazed past us, the more I watched him, fascinated, frozen with the realization that something not bound to the rules of the physical world was approaching. On March 12th, around 11:00am, he made his way across the bridge, through the tunnel to the other side. He didn't need his body to get there, so he left it behind. That's exactly what it felt (and looked) like. 

Since his death, I have taken Joe's place as the drifter, frequently gazing off into the distance. I am transported to another realm, somewhere between the here and there, looking for him. It's a place we can catch up, if only in my mind. I let myself drift to that place in the light of day or the quiet of night, sometimes right in the middle of a conversation or in a crowded room, staring blankly at the floor or wall ahead. When and where rarely make sense and are hardly ever convenient. It could be a familiar song or smell, and I'm gone, staring blankly at the wall, past anyone in my path. Jacob calls to me, "Mom......Mom!" And I snap out of it. 

To live a "woke" life we're supposed to attempt to remain in the present moment. I know, I've read the books. But these days, being awake hurts. Most times I'm happy to gaze into the past, back to a time when life was light and warm. I find Joe there laughing and smiling, grabbing me around the waist, kissing the top of my head, and laughing at some inside joke we had together. Sometimes I feel like I could stay gone forever. Then I blink or get summoned, and I'm ripped back to the present. Everything is so bright and defined here, no space for the gray inconsistencies of grief. There are sharp edges around every corner. Everything hurts to touch. 

I drift so I can breathe. 

Maybe there will come a day when Joe's absence won't fill up the present with the weight it does now. Maybe someday I will learn to carry the loss without needing to drift. Or maybe my life will grow around the holes left by his death, filling them in with equal parts memory and new beginning. Until then, I will cherish the drift, lost in a griever's gaze, praying that the sting of life without him will have eased some when I return.

Find Yourself a Gina

I was sitting in a quiet corner of a San Francisco hospital cafeteria.  The lighting was intrusive. (Fluorescent lighting increases anxiety, I'm sure of it.)  My head was resting heavy in my hands.  Slumped over, my feet tapping uncontrollably, I couldn't stop the tears from coming. (I hate crying in public.)

Please God, not now.  Please don't take him.  Save him, restore his body. 

Please God, not now.  Please don't take him.  Save him, restore his body.  

I wrote this mantra in my journal and repeated it obsessively to myself. 

Joe had been transported from our local hospital earlier in the day for emergency open heart surgery to remove blood and clotting from around his heart, a result of previous attempts to drain his heart sac, which had been filled with over 900 ml of malignant fluid. (Turns out your heart sac is only meant to hold about 50 ml of fluid, just enough to provide lubrication between the heart and the sac around it.)  This was a sign the cancer was progressing.  Our bubble of hope, the one we had been living in for over six months as Joe breezed through chemotherapy with no issues or side effects, burst.   

I was alone for some time just praying and journaling, clenching every part of my body, waiting for the surgeon to call to let me know that Joe was out in recovery and everything was OK. (I knew nothing about this was OK.  But our goal for that night was simple, get Joe out of surgery without dying.  And it almost didn't happen.)  

There are a handful of people in my life that just "know" when things aren't OK.  My best friend Gina is one of them, her wife Cyn is another.  They reach out on instinct and a "knowing" that has been gifted to them by God and the Universe.

I got a text from Cyn asking if Joe was all right.  I must have filled her in.  Honestly it's all so hazy now.  I remember she asked exactly where I was, then told me to hold tight.  In the meantime, I received the call I was hoping to get.  Joe was out of surgery.  But he had coded and the doctor had to perform CPR before they could start surgery.  What???  

By this time a friend from church who works in San Francisco showed up to sit with me.  I was telling him that I didn't know what to do.  Do I spend the night in the hospital?  Go home and come back the next day? (I didn't like that idea, Joe was still in an induced sleep and vitals were touchy. I mean, he had technically died.) Or should I stay close by somewhere?  

Then I swear I blinked and Gina was next to me.  I don't even remember how, but there she was.  

She hugged me, then got to work.  She called around to hotels and made reservations.  She told me she would be staying the night with me.  I didn't have strength to argue, and truthfully didn't want to be alone - she knew this.  She told me we weren't going to leave Joe in the City, we would be right down the street.  She Googled and found a Target down the block.  "We'll go and get some necessities, a toothbrush, body wash, deodorant, underwear...Lovie, have you eaten?  You need to eat."  I was like a child wandering lost and aimless, in total shock (and no I hadn't eaten since I couldn't remember when).  She told me how it was going to go down.  One less decision to make, one less task to handle. It was done, and she would be with me.  We would do this together.  Relief.

After Joe passed, things went gray.  Life went out like a light.   

I want to be alone, but don't want to be alone.  I want people to ask me about Joe, then get annoyed when the wrong people do.  I want to change the painful environment around me, but don't want anything touched.  Nothing about it makes sense.  It's like living in a nightmare and never waking up, just waiting for sleep to dream of normalcy, and only getting broken fragments of the life you once lived.

In my saddest moments, I call on Gina, knowing she'll let me keep Joe as present as I need him to be.  And when I have the tiniest breakthroughs, little whispers of hope, I share those with her too. 

Below is a text conversation I had with Gina shortly after Joe passed.  It's just a peek through the window of our friendship...

o   Me:  Have you started the book? (Glennon Doyle’s Untamed).  It’s awesome so far.  I need Glennon right now.  She wouldn’t tell me to “choose joy,” like the tshirts and mugs these self-help personas are pushing online.  I guess every season has a hero.  In this season I need more grit, truth, and reality (even if it’s ugly).  I can’t gratitude and smile my way out of this one…

o   Gina: Yes, started it and love it.  There’s a way that she talks about just accepting wherever we are and not pretending, hiding or needing to be or feel a certain way because others tell us to do so.  And no gratitude or smile is necessary right now…it’s the other stuff – anger, sadness, depression that must be felt and experienced in order to get to the gratitude.  How did I end up with such a smart and intuitive friend?

o   Me: Yep, exactly.  Those are also the feelings I rarely let happen. I internalize and it’s never led me anywhere good (mentally) when I do that.  No way through this time but to do the work.  Love you.

o    Gina:  And Lovie you had to do that because you’ve ALWAYS been the rock to your family of origin, to Joe during his illness, and to Jakey.  I see how you hold Jakey so lovingly when he’s angry or sad…and let him have that space…but it's like how do you do that for yourself as well?  Allowing the other feelings that need attention and space, because of course you have those feelings - it’s all a part of the process.  Fuck gratitude and smiling right now!  (And love you more.)   

o   Gina continues: And Love I know you will get to that place eventually…I know this…you’ve been through so much and you are the least bitter or angry person I know.  But I also think it’s important not to ignore or internalize or stuff those feelings, because it’s part of your process.  I’d be very worried if you were just grateful now.  Hell, I feel angry at the Universe that this happened, and we knew Joe a sliver compared to how much you knew and loved him.  So delve into Glennon, because she is church for being real wherever we are at.

Through grief, Gina continues to be my shelter in the storm.  Chalk that up to 20 years of friendship woven together with crazy college stories, living together for years, and adventuring through Central and South America together on multiple trips. 

Gina is not the family I was born into, but she is the family I have chosen.  If Joe is my soulmate, then Gina is my soul sister. 

Gina stood next to me at my wedding and gave a speech that brought down the house.  She loved Joe like a brother, and she and Cyn were there the day he was released from the hospital into hospice.  I know Joe made her promise to stay close, to look after me (as if he needed to ask).  He knew she was the one who would do it.  

If you don't have a friend of this caliber, one who gets you, one who comes running when you're in a pit of despair to throw out a lifeline, one you would climb a mountain with just to experience a sunrise...I highly recommend you get one.  Granted, it will take you decades to build up this kind of rapport.  It will take trust and intention and the ability to love someone who isn't your blood as if they were.  It will take vulnerability and arguments, and letting each other grow.  It's nearly impossible to find, but so worth it if you do. 

Gina accepts me for who I am, without judgement, without reservation, and with total love and understanding.  I'm a hot mess right now - she loves me anyway. Period.    

I can only hope I have been half the friend to her that she has been to me.

I am walking through fire right now.  Gina hasn't tried to save me.  She knows "through" is the only way out, so she just walks with me.  She doesn't ask why we're walking or how long it will take, or even where we're going. She just walks.  I enjoy the company.  And besides, the conversations along the way will be epic. 

The Remembering

I am trying desperately to hold on to the memory of how you felt in the physical world.  Scents are beginning to fade, traces of you are diminishing.  What holds us together now is pure faith, faith that memories will be enough to see me through when reaching out into the empty space around me fails.

The early days of grief are a sacred space, like peering into another world, with one foot in this life and one in the next.  You are so close I could almost touch you...almost.  We continue to exist in that space between here and there...for now.  But one day, this holy fog will lift.  

 

I know it’s just your physical body that's gone.  At least that's what everyone tells me.  I am supposed to take comfort that...

"He's always with you." 

"He's in your heart."

"He's watching over you."

The phrases sound so warm and palatable, don't they? Capable of serving the antidote to grief on our prettiest Sunday brunch platter.  I can't tell you how many times I have offered these very phrases to a grieving person.  I've written them in cards, commented on posts, and said them over the phone, every time with nothing but the best of intentions and a genuine desire to provide comfort to someone I know is suffering.  

Now I realize, while culturally expected and accepted, these phrases are are dismissive to the process.  I believe you are with me, I know you're in my heart, I sense that you're watching over me.  There is absolute emotional accuracy and even comfort in these sentiments.  But...grief is not just emotional, it's physical.  I wasn't prepared for this.  It's not something I experienced when my Mom died. But there is an intense physical response to losing you (my husband, my partner, and the love of my life).   The constant physical longing to be with you is exhausting.  It affects sleep, eating habits, and memory, and with it brings real aches and pains in my chest and throat. Sometimes I feel my skin get hot and hyper sensitive with restlessness, like being pricked with a thousand buzzing needles. 

Physical side effects from grief are actually quite common and can include: 

• Increased inflammation
• Extreme fatigue
• Depleted immune system
• Increased blood pressure
• Sensation of being electrified with energy  (probably what I'm experiencing with my skin)
• "Broken heart syndrome" - causing a form of heart disease similar to a heart attack 

Grief can even lead to chronic illness.

(Source: Webmd.com)

Here is my perception on why this might be...

Any one of us could close our eyes right now and know what an apple would feel like in our hand, even if we're not holding one – familiar and obvious, anyone could do it right?  Much like amputees are said to still feel their missing limbs, and often that feeling comes with pain. The brain keeps the memory active as if it hasn't been lost.  The brain and body know what they should be feeling, even when it isn't there. 

"Researchers don’t know exactly what causes phantom limb pain. One possible explanation: Nerves in parts of your spinal cord and brain “rewire” when they lose signals from the missing arm or leg. As a result, they send pain signals, a typical response when your body senses something is wrong."

(Source: Webmd.com)

Grief's equivalent to physical amputation is loss of a loved one.   And just from my own experience, I am going to say mainly with loss of a spouse or loss of a child - someone you are used to smelling, touching, and hearing for a good portion of the day, every day. But here's the thing, if you look at me, you can't see what's been amputated.  I'm not missing a limb, I don't have any visible scars, but my heart knows something is not right, something is missing.  So unfortunately, I can't trick myself into fully accepting that you are still with me, even though I 100% believe it...because my body knows otherwise.  It's hard-wired to understand the physical loss.  It's sending signals out to hold your hand, smell your hair, hear your laugh.  I should still be able to feel you, but I can't.  I miss that place where my body could exist in the shadow of yours - protected, warm...home. 

I could summon up the feeling of your hair through my fingers right now, as easily as I could call up the apple.  The soft, thick strands in my hands as you slept on my lap.  The feeling is right there within my reach.  "Rub my head," you'd say, as you'd curl up next to me.  I can close my eyes and feel you grab me in a hug, or lay your chin on the top of my head. I remember what it feels like to land in your chest, burrowing in for comfort.  Your bristly go-tee on my forehead, your cold bony feet on my legs in bed (man I hated that), your laugh that could shake the house.  In this sacred space of early grief, you are my phantom limb.  I reach out for you, but the pain signals are my only answer.   

The other day I saw the slippers you last wore. They were peaking out your closet, so I picked them up and smelled them.  A couple days ago I found one of your hairs in the bottom of the bathroom vanity drawer. I quickly got a piece of tape and taped it to the inside of my journal.  Did I mention that grief makes you do really weird things?  But I am afraid you are slipping away.

Over time, the familiarity of your touch will fade.  The memory will become harder and harder to conjure up, making way for numbness in place of what you used to feel like.  I will call it up one day, and memory will fail me.  What then?

Grief is awkward, and hard to witness, even harder to go through.  Much like in the amputee scenario, we need to recognize that it takes a long time for the bereaved to reach a "new normal."  I have to accept that I am a different person now.  It takes daily work and intention, and learning to live all over again with a part of me missing.  And guess what?  Some days I don't want to do it.  I'd rather feel sorry for myself, climb in bed, and give up on life.  I can't do physical therapy for the piece that's been amputated, so I go to a mental health professional, I started working out, I journal and write this blog, I cry when I need to and reach out to friends, and I talk about you...I talk to you.   

We all grieve differently, but what  helps me is when people acknowledge the journey involved, even when it's not pretty to watch.  It helps when they acknowledge the pain even though they can't see the "amputation," when they let the grief be grief and recognize I'm working through it, not around it.  Tell your grieving friend "He'll always be with you," but follow it up with, "but I understand that may not be comforting right now. I know you are in pain." 

You are with me, but you're not with me.  My brain knows it, my heart feels it, my memory is trying to catch up.  I hope it never does.