38 Months

[HAP]

Dear friends,

People tell lots of stories about what grief looks like and how it works. They write books. They write articles. They talk about the stages of grief and about what recovery looks like.

But it is a very different story from the inside. The things we are told about how it all works seem largely myths at best to me. Thirty-eight months after my wife Jane’s death I have seen nothing that even resembles what the scholars and experts describe.

They talk about the first year of grief as “The Year of Firsts” and imply that when that year is over everything is better and you can get on with your life. Maybe that is true for some people. It was not the case for me. My second Christmas without Jane was, if anything, worse than the first. Maybe it was that my expectations were too high. Maybe I was still so much in shock at the first one—Jane had died just 15 days before—that I should have counted the second as the first. It was late in January before I felt anything but numb.

But every “second” experience was just as bad. Each one taught me the emptiness that had descended on me within seconds of Jane’s death was not something mere time would wipe away. Even 38 months later I am aware of the dense silence that surrounds me in every environment, no matter how noisy or crowded it is. Coming to grips with the reality that nothing I did or tried to do could fill that void was the work of the second year of grief—and of much of the third.

At one point in that third year, I described myself as a toddler in my dealings with grief. I had learned to cope with the emptiness at times, but like a toddler, fell on my butt periodically for no better reason than it happened. We often refer to such events as “grief tsunamis:” They come washing in and drown whatever progress you think you have made without any warning. They can be triggered by the smallest seeming event but leave you swimming in tears and exquisite agony.

Two weeks ago, I was at a dinner to kick off the season our local Relay for Life. I was talking with an old friend Jane and I had worked with. Suddenly, the DJ spun the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody.” It was our favorite song. I fled the room, knowing what was going to happen if I stayed.

But I might as well have stayed. The words were in my head and the tsunami had been launched. It was a week before I felt ready to deal with anything again. Without the need to get the Jimmy Fund Marathon Walk pages together the end of last week, I might still be paralyzed. The truth is that even with that pulling me back to the surface I am still struggling as I write this. The house is too quiet, too empty, too filled with memory.

To the people around me, I look to have recovered from Jane’s death. I can carry on a conversation, talk intelligently about a piece of art or some new piece of scientific theory; I make the bed, clean the house, go for a walk every day; I laugh at the appropriate times and seem to avoid being cruel most of the time—though I still have my moments. But each day I realize the truth of my neighbor’s words shortly after Jane’s death. She had lost her husband a dozen or more years before. She said people told her all the time now how she seemed to have gotten beyond her loss. She said she sometimes told the ones who could handle it that the truth was she had just learned to cope—that the grief and emptiness were still there—that she still sometimes cried when her children were not home or when she knew they could not hear her.

Three years and two months into this journey, I can give a good counterfeit of normalcy most of the time. I’ve always been good at hiding how I really feel from everyone but my very closest friends. Sometimes, like at that dinner, I have to struggle to control what others see. But, for the most part, people think I am doing fine.

They don’t see me screaming at the top of my lungs like a three-year-old when something frustrates me. They do not see the blinding anger that I still feel about the unfairness of Jane’s death. They do not see me struggling to go to sleep at night, struggling to find a reason to get out of bed in the morning. They do not see the fear that stalks me—or the loneliness that plagues me.

I cope with the life I live. I cope with the losses life has dealt me. I cope with the well-meaning ignorance I encounter every day. I cook and I clean and I write letters and articles and I work on this project and that event. I look normal and well adjusted and like I am moving on with my life.

I went to the cemetery yesterday. I placed a decoration I had built for the 38-month anniversary of Jane’s death on her grave. I will write a poem for her, and a card, and buy some flowers to put up there Friday for Valentine’s Day. But there will be no reciprocal gift or card here that day. I will wake up alone and go to bed alone and feel just as empty and alone as I did on Christmas Day—or any of the other holidays I have faced without her these 38 months.

The day after Jane died, I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “I’m too young to be a widower. I am too old to be a bachelor. What the hell do I do now?” For 38 months, the answer has been grief—and working to prevent others from experiencing what I have experienced by fighting Carcinoid/NET cancer with everything I have left. Where others see success, I am too aware of my failures—too aware of how much more I could have accomplished if I could bring my full focus and energy to bear.

Loss has weakened me. I have endless ideas, but lack the energy and focus to make them work as well as they could. But I keep trying. The tsunamis keep knocking me down. But I keep getting up. The silence and the hurt cripple me. But I keep moving forward.

It’s who I am.

Peace,

Harry

(This is largely similar to a piece I posted on Walking with Jane earlier today.)

[enna]

"Loss has weakened me. I have endless ideas, but lack the energy and focus to make them work as well as they could. But I keep trying. The tsunamis keep knocking me down. But I keep getting up. The silence and the hurt cripple me. But I keep moving forward.

It’s who I am."

That about sums it up, Harry. This place is one we can come to and know that we are being heard by those who really do "get it." We do "keep trying." We do "keep getting up." And we do "keep moving forward." This is what I have learned from getting to know you. Yes, it is who you are. You are a light for those of us who do not always keep trying or get back up or move forward but with your POSITIVE example we somehow get the courage to deal with our own grief.

Thank you for being who you are. And yes, you are making a difference and Jane is so aware of it.

Anne

[feralfae]

Dear Harry,

Your piece was eloquently delivered with enough resonance for me that I want to simply add,

Amen.

Thank you,

fae

[boogieman]

Thank you Harry.

For communicating exactly what I have known about the aftermath of loosing My Paula almost 10 months ago.

I instinctively knew that I would never fully overcome this great tragedy.

Your post serves to confirm what I know to be the situation in my case, too.

There are few men here. I appreciate and respect our unique perspectives.

Chris

[wmjsca]

I can only say that three years and four months gives a sort of kinship, I guess. But all I know is that I'm right there with you.

[Wifflesnook]

Harry, thank you for expressing so much of what I feel. I too am involved with various projects. I know people think I'm recovering. I hate that gap between what they think and what is going on inside me, but how could they understand if they haven't yet experienced this loss of soul mate. Yesterday I forced myself to replace an old electric blanket on our bed. It's not been working well for a while and yet I wanted to keep it because my Pete slept on it. Then I thought what he would want me to do. It's cold here and he would say don't be daft, Jan, get a new one. I'm not in an old blanket. He might even say "I'm here with you" if he could.

You know that we are all with you in your loneliness but some of us can't articulate it as well as you can. Thank you. I find it helps me to read what you write. Strange that reading of another' s grief helps but I think we all know this is true. It doesn't increase our own sorrow. It just ratifies it. That isn't the right word but after struggling for the right one I will leave it in. Jan

[nats]

To Harry and My Friends In Grief,

We all see a different view when we look at the picture but the painter is the same "By Grief"...I am quickly approaching 48 months in two days and of all days "Valentines Day" is the day Ruth passed, the day for "Love, and couples" ...any day would have been a bad day for her to pass but this day triggers as Harry says my “grief tsunamis” as it is hyped so much by the retailers I just can not get away from them. I've noticed myself lost in a daze the past week...I've been staying busy but I still get side tracked, I took some time the other day and looked at pictures and video of my sweetheart, it left me so drained but feeling happy as well because I'm so thankful for the years and time I had with this wonderful woman...Ruth was so full of life and always knew how to comfort me, picking me up when I felt down, and bringing a smile to my rather smug face during times of stress and worry.

This year is by far the hardest since she passed and I'm not sure why, maybe because my life is moving at light speed and I feel the emptiness of her not being by my side, it started really bad last week prior to my Birthday, maybe turning another year older has increased the feelings.

Brenda is so understanding as she mentioned that people forget I do not celebrate Valentines Day as most people do when she saw some cards I received. Being in Love again is indeed a wonderful feeling and having someone who really understands is even more of a blessing...Friday will be a quiet day for me I'm off work on Thur. and Fri. so that works out well.

We all have so many feelings to deal with when going down this grief road and it is indeed good to read what we each do to continue our lives without our beloved spouses, they are all special in my heart as I'm one of those people who feels much of what you do when I read what you express...I wish we all could find that perfect answer to solve our emptiness, heartaches, and just plain missing them but I doubt that will happen so with that being said we move ahead with the memories and the thoughts each day that they are no longer on this earth with us but they will indeed be forever in our hearts, minds, bodies, and souls.

May We All Find The Peace We Seek...

NATS

[kayc]

Harry, hugs to you, and thank you for what you wrote

Nats, that has to be hard, and I thought it was hard that George passed on Father's Day! It's hard because my kids are all busy with their dad on the anniversary of George's death and so I'm alone that day every year. And it's hard because Father's Day lands on a different day every year so I have TWO anniversaries of his death, Father's day AND the 19th!

[HAP]

Dear friends,

Thank you all for your kind words. My good news I have posted on the positive thread.

I had to go out for a bit this morning--I had shopping to do. At the first store, the clerk at the register wished me "Happy Valentine's Day." I said it back to her, but thought, "If you only knew."

Then I got to the grocery. The place was mobbed: We have the storm that blasted the Southeast arriving overnight and the bread and milk crazies were out in force. It is supposed to be mostly rain here, but that made no difference. I try to shop Tuesday or Wednesday because usually the stores are empty and they have had time to restock from the weekend.

And the place was flooded with Valentine displays: cards, flowers, candy--you name it--even heart shaped cakes.

Then I got to the check-out. The woman bagging the groceries was bubbly. "You should take your Valentine to dinner at--she named a restaurant in New Bedford, but the name escapes me--The fish I had this weekend was the best salmon I've had anywhere."

I couldn't control my mouth. "I'd love to do that," I said. "But my wife died 38 months ago." I immediately felt bad about saying that--she had no way of knowing--I still wear my wedding band--and I apologized and she apologized--and she suggested I go there sometime by myself. I told her I would, but that it would not be on Valentine's Day.

I could not believe how angry it made me. I still can't get my mind around it. Jane and I always hated those letters people sent to the newspapers complaining about how intrusive the day is for those without partners--and here I am feeling that anger I so disliked in others. It is stupid to feel like that. They are happy and in love and in my heart I want them all to stay that way. My anger makes no sense to me. But there it is. Emotions never make logical sense--even when they do.

This is a strange land we live in. We are all wounded ducks. And maybe, she, too, was a wounded duck. One never knows. I try to live by the credo, "Be kind to everyone you meet for you do not know the burdens they are carrying." I failed to live up to that credo today. I know why--but it doesn't excuse my doing so. I need to work harder on that.

Peace,

Harry

[kayc]

We don't know how it is until we find ourselves there.

[Wifflesnook]

Oh Harry. The shops here are full of valentine cards etc! but it isn't yet the British way to mention it like that thank goodness. This will be the third valentine's day without a card and kiss and hug from my Pete. The first one he was still alive, but in hospital and very ill and I have no recollection of it at all. I have lots of cards, many home made, from him and may do what I did last year and put one on the mantelpiece. I'm going to make a donation to his favourite charity as a gift for him. But oh it's so hard to be without his love on Valentine's day.

[KarenK]

Harry,

As I read your posts, I had this crazy thought. The thought that in some ways, grief & parenting are a lot alike. Both subjects have hundreds of articles & books written about them, yet until you have experienced the subject, you really have no clue. What if your experience does not fit any of the scenarios in those writings?

None of us are masters of grief. We can only act according to our hearts & minds. Don't beat yourself up for being angry. Whether any of us admit it or not, I'm sure we're all a bit envious of those who will have someone to celebrate Valentine's Day with.

Luv,

Karen