Moving forward. How do you know if you're ready?
After losing a spouse, the thought of life without them is overwhelming. The confidante who helped you navigate the unknown isn’t there. The one whose arms around you provided comfort, is gone. You’re faced with an all-encompassing grief. Logically you know that one day you’ll get to the ‘moving forward’ part of the process. But how do you know if you’ve finished mourning? How long does that take? How do you know if you’re ready? If only there was a litmus test.
One must go through the grief process, not around it. Experts say there are five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Although for every loss, we experience each stage, they present themselves differently, from intensity to length. For me, I had nine months to ‘prepare’ or maybe ‘brace’ myself before he died. We tried to savor the time we had left, to experience joy, laughter, and happiness. But no matter what we did, we could feel the dark cloud of impending doom form, a gloomy shadow following us, getting closer and closer, just waiting to consume him. All the color around us faded as life drained from his body. No length of time, nor amount of preparation could prepare me for that moment.
At the end of his Cancer journey, my journey of grief began. The intensity of the pain matched the intensity of our love. A deluge of emotions enveloped me like a whirlpool, pulling me into the dark, cold depths of pain. Waves of emotion appeared without notice. Some with a crash shaking my soul, my very foundation. Others are like a ripple, slowly enveloping my thoughts. My anchor was the man I mourned. I was adrift in a sea of heartache.
I needed to feel the pain, feel the reality, soak in it. The cries from my heavy, broken heart echoed in my hollow chest. Normality was the air I breathed without thought, was gone. Gasping, the waves of anguish overpowered me. Weak and breathless, I gulped for air, trying to fill my lungs to keep me afloat. I strived to keep an awareness that this grief is a place I must visit, tread its waters, but not drown in its cold, dark depths of despair. Salty tears blinded me, but I had to find my way to the shore, back to my life, my world. Arrhythmic waves continued. Some left me breathless and others carried me forward. The sharp edges of the pain started to wear down with each wave.
In time I found myself standing on that shore. As the tears dried, I could see nothing was the same. I could feel the void where he once was. Where he belonged. In his place was an empty, lifeless void and a deafening silence. Around me, life had continued without me, without Walter. My sea legs beneath me needed to adjust, to build stability as I fumbled through the stages of grief. Irrational, nonsensical thoughts rattled through my brain. From begging God to bring him back, wishing I could trade his life for mine, to feeling such anger and sorrow.
Gradually the intense heaviness of despair started to ease. Left exhausted, moments came where I had to pause, stop time, not think, not feel. Melancholy blanketed me from the outside world, so I could weave a cocoon around me. Inside was a sense of safety, where I could process my thoughts, learn to manage the emotions, and to accept what was is gone.
I feared time would fade the memories; wear away fine details; losing him, losing us to the sands of time. Each trip around the sun would take me further away from him. I worried that in creating new memories, I would forget cherished moments. I would replay the memories over and over, trying to ensure they were burnt in my mind for eternity.
I experienced a year of ‘firsts without Walter’; filled with tears, sadness, and memories. Then another year of occasions ‘without Walter’ came. But this time there were less tears, but the memories remained. I even felt present in the moment, enjoying the now. I came to realize that some memories invoke strong emotions and that is a testament to us. When one’s loved so completely, so deeply, it will leave an everlasting imprint. I started to believe that moving forward wasn’t erasing nor replacing; nor would I forget all those little things that made him Walter.
Ever so gradually, I began to emerge, tired of carrying the weight of emotion, wanting to feel alive, to embrace the world around me. Three years had passed since his death and I wanted to, I needed to move forward. To not be the ‘grieving widow’. To pack away the proverbial black mourning gown. A rather scary venture, as I wasn’t as strong as I once was, nor did I have any idea which direction to go. I was embarking on another journey which would be an intricate dance, with steps forward and back, some sideways, and some slides. And most definitely the odd trip or misstep.
Experts write about the stages of grief, what to watch for, how to prepare, how to respond. But there isn’t much written on how to rebuild a new life after the loss of a partner or how do they know they’ve finished grieving? What I little I could find was vague and rather dated, practically moth ridden. Information for the Leave-it-to Beaver households, for the stay-at-home wife. I didn’t need information on how to balance a cheque book, nor how to operate the lawn mower. What I needed was a guideline as to where I should be – logically and emotionally; where I could find some reassurance that I was not rushing nor lingering too long. I couldn’t find such a reference, so I had to navigate this blindly.
The world around me was familiar but felt different. Our bed, once our haven, felt so cold and empty. I’d strategically place his pillow where he lay, where I cuddled up to it, trying to mimic his presence. As time went on, I gradually adapted, and the need to fill the space waned. As I emerged from the depths of grief, our home, which felt so cold and empty, gradually started to warm, to feel more like home again. Something which I hadn’t thought possible. Little by little, I was adjusting to my life after loss.
I think I’ve worked through the grief in a healthy way. I used available resources, from reading to grief counselling. I worked through thoughts and emotions by talking and writing; and humbly accepted the love and support from my circle of family and friends. But moving forward, starting over, or whatever one chooses to call it, is challenging. Not only has the world I live in changed, but I'm not the person I was before him. Because of him, my experiences, my abilities, passions are so much more. I'm more grounded, softened; the capacity, desire to nurture, to savor, to love had expanded. Not only am I creating a wonderful and fulfilling life for myself but am also discovering who I am. There is now curiosity and a desire to be present, to experience, to explore.
Before Walter passed, he and I were fortunate to have time together to have many hard talks, from dealing with his estate, what were his final wishes, and even my life after him. Walter was a very humble, thoughtful, and selfless partner. He worried about our children and about me, stating how horrible he felt burdening us and causing us pain. Of course, we scolded him for thinking such things, but that’s the type of man he was. He told me how sorry he was for leaving and wanted me to be happy again, to love, to be loved and cared for. I responded to him no, I couldn’t fathom the thought, he was my love. He assured me that our love is eternal, and that in our next life, we’ll find each other again, but much sooner than in this life. But he told me I needed to carry on in this life, and to not be afraid to live, to love or to laugh.
As the months went by, then turning to years; without even realizing, I had started to live again. My calendar started to fill with activities again – evenings out with family and friends, exercise classes, even vacations. The dark cloud of sadness which hung over me had lifted, unveiling the colorful world around me, filled with happiness, humor, opportunity. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, I’ve stretched my wings and become acquainted with the person I’ve become. I feel strong, grounded. Even with the newness, my traits that Walter adored had surfaced again – my silliness, spontaneity, enthusiasm. I had done what I promised, I carried on with life, am happy, am living a fulfilling life.
I’ve become comfortable in the silence around me and quite enjoy my own company. I have many varied interests, so I keep myself entertained. Being alone hasn’t been much of an issue. As a naturally extroverted person, I do enjoy the company of others and am blessed with a circle of amazing people, family and friends. So, when I get bored with my own company, I just reach out and chat or go out with a friend.
For me, and I believe for many widows, after the acceptance stage of grief, one of the biggest challenges is the loneliness that exists, and the guilt attached to it. Now, there is a difference between loneliness and being alone. Being alone is being by oneself, without the presence of another. We all should be comfortable being alone, independent and enjoy our personal time. But loneliness is the yearning for interaction, intimacy, connection with another.
I honestly, in my heart of hearts, never thought I’d feel loneliness. As in the intimate, companionship type of loneliness. Prior to Walter, intimacy wasn’t something that I really missed, nor thought much of. Part of this would be because I was busy with life, working, raising two sons on my own, running them to and from activities and I had an active social life. The other part would be that I had never experienced a healthy relationship until Walter. From the moment I met him, it was he and I in our happy place, filled with passion, pure bliss. After he passed away, I thought that part of me had died too.
I couldn’t give an exact date on when it first crossed my mind, but I sure remember the guilt I felt when I first thought of how much I missed the warmth of another. I surprised myself that the thought wasn’t connected to Walter. For years, any thought of such things was of him. Then out of nowhere this abstract thought came out of nowhere. After much reflection, and understanding that was happening was normal, even putting caveats on these thoughts, my guilt eased a bit.
Dare I explain the first time I looked at someone and felt an attraction? It had been such a long time and was so unexpected, I was worse than a thirteen-year-old girl. Trust me when I say I was a mess, I really was. What a mixture of guilt, panic, and oh, such embarrassment. After some self-reflection, I assured myself that is normal, so if it happens again not to panic, it’s okay.
I’ve been honest with myself and can now admit without guilt or caveats that I miss cuddles, kisses, intimacy. I loved being in a relationship, waking up next to a partner. I can now say that should I ever be with another, it would not be disrespectful to Walter, nor minimize what he and I had. I’m not sure what my future holds but am receptive to whatever fate has in store. Maybe a companion, maybe not. Maybe a house full of cats, maybe not. What I do know for sure, is that whatever it is ahead, I’m ready.
