Orange and blue is upon us, and I am reminded again that grief does not just ‘go away’. The changing of the seasons will probably continue to remind me of Robert’s illness and death, but the journey now includes inviting friends in for dinner and caring for this new landscape. I am a person of privilege.
Robert and I had been married two years when he was diagnosed – an unfair blow for young people starting out in life. Knowing that cancer did not discriminate, his goal was to live long enough to see his daughters graduate from high school; he nearly made it.
I have also noticed that when people leave their spouses because the situation was not a happy one, they feel a deep recurring sadness. They wanted happiness to appear once their move was decided, but are surprised that sadness still haunts them many months after the fact. Perhaps what was once a deliciously hopeful event has become a failed reminder of hope deeply lost and isolation deeply felt.
I think grief is what people experience when they are at ‘the bottom’. Whether alone in the night or hidden in an empty field, that insignificance cannot be made to go away. Crying seems futile; no amount of noise that comes from your belly can alter the situation. That shadow of death – the dark empty night of the soul – probably has to be lived before one foot can be placed in front of the other. Does that kind of journey make you stronger? Is this good to experience while still young? What if it happens again?
Traditional family times are the reminder to me that grief’s tentacles still hold their grip. The girls have built their own nests and my nest now has new people, different places, and some sort of story of how I got here. Perhaps it is good to revisit the story upon the changing of the seasons
Share this Post