How are you doing? A question asked by loving, caring people
with a genuine concern for my well-being.
How do I answer? I’m doing
okay. I have ups and downs but move
forward day by day. It’s the easiest
response to give. I do share a bit more with
certain people who know how to read me, but it too is a watered version of my
reality. Honestly, I don’t want to
burden them with my pain, nor have them worry about me. There isn’t anything they could do to help me
through this. It is a journey which I
must take alone.
I’ve decided to capture these thoughts,
my pain, in words – an attempt to release some of weight of these emotions and allowing
me to move forward.
How am I doing? I just exist.
No desire. No drive. No dreams.
No direction. Numb.
Each morning I dread waking to a new
mediocre day, wishing to stay safe within my dreams. Daily tasks are draining. The hours drag even
though days go by so quickly. Each day
is repetitious, meaningless. I don’t
want to feel, think or speak. I just
want to withdraw, to hibernate. This is
not living. What I experience now is
colourless, empty, repetitive, meaningless.
This is grief.
It comes in waves – some just ripples,
others so strong they practically take my breath away. When a wave hits, I feel pain, despair,
anguish, and a tightness grows in my chest, almost suffocating me. Other times, it’s a memory which triggers a
longing, a yearning for what was; or a moment where emotions like sadness, heartache,
loneliness swirl deep inside me. He was
my anchor. My anchor is gone.
I’ve experienced loss before – family
members, friends, and my mother whom I loved so very much. What I’ve found is that with each loss, we
grieve differently. With losing my love,
my Walter, it’s all-encompassing – felt in every aspect of my life. He was a part of me, and I a part of him. In his arms was where I belonged.
Shock doesn’t even remotely describe
what we felt when we found out Walter had terminal Cancer. The months he had left went by so quickly. I wanted to protect him, care for him, cherish
him for as long as I could. No matter
what I did, I couldn’t stop the inevitable.
We watched our hopes and dreams fade away. The life we planned – gone. He was robbed of his passions, of his family,
of his future.
I dreaded seeing his long locks fall to
the floor because of Chemotherapy. I watched
this big strong man weaken; and saw the sadness in his eyes when he’d come to
me to open jars. As the Cancer spread,
he became frail. He couldn’t keep weight on, was so terribly cold; and needed
help showering. I saw how tired he was. I
felt so helpless – I couldn’t fix this for him. I saw his spirit begin to wither. I watched
him slowly fade away. All I could do is
give him kisses, hold his hand and tell him how much I love him. When his heart
stopped, mine shattered. A piece of me
went with him that day.
I strain to remember as many things about
him - as many details that I can. I want
to burn those images in my mind, in my heart, forever. There are times where I question what I
should have done better to help him, to lessen any burdens, to ease his pain. Other times moments just play in my mind over
and over. The person who would comfort
and assure me everything will be okay is gone.
It was him. He was my calm.
Everywhere I look, there are things
which remind me of him. I touch them, looking
for echoes of his touch. On his
nightstand sits his phone and the water bottle I filled for him the last night
he was home. I can’t bring myself to
remove it. His lips once touched the
bottle – it’s the closest thing I have to ever touching his lips again.
Our bed feels so cold and empty. We called it our island. A retreat impenetrable from stresses or
worries. Where we would talk about our
day and our dreams. Where we could be
vulnerable but know we were safe. Where
we lay in each other’s arms and would drift off to sleep. Five months later and I still have
difficulties getting comfortable and falling asleep. I strain to remember how it felt to have him
lie next to me. To hear his breathing
which would lull me to sleep.
So often I close my eyes, trying to feel
his arms around me, wanting to hear his voice.
At the kitchen sink, at doorway, in the hallway, where he would envelope
me, kiss me, then we would sway together, dance to the beat of our hearts. I miss holding his hand, random kisses, and
all his cuddles. He filled me with such
tremendous love. Now I feel hollow,
empty, without him.
I find over the past five months, his
loss has become more real, as the numbness begins to fade. It’s still there, but a little bit less. They say it all takes time. I find that moving forward is a slow process
– an intricate dance – not just two steps forward, one step back, repeat. Emotions of heartache are still just under
the skin, easily released; yet emotions of happiness; of normalcy are weak, not
ready to move forward.
Every step forward is bittersweet. It’s a step toward healing, yet a step away
from him. I find it difficult to make
plans, to dream – because he won’t be there by my side. Every milestone has changed to a first year
without; and brings a memory of last year with.
I enjoy a moment, an event, yet I feel his absence and that saddens
me.
I find that it gets easier to fake a
smile, to act normally as if everything is okay; even on the days where I’m
drowning. At times I feel people forget
how recent his loss was. Or they forget
the magnitude of the love, of the grief I experience. Some may think that five months has been a
while so I should be further along ‘the grief process’. I’ve surprisingly heard there is some magic
equation for grief – something like it should take x months after loss for x
years together. Trust me, there
isn’t. Time does not equate to intensity
of emotion. And there aren’t step-by-step directions to go through the grief
process.
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