I can honestly say that this was the last thing on my mind 25 years ago. What was on my mind was how very blessed I was to be pledging my eternal love to Bill and he pledging his to me! Okay, I'll admit, he was quite the eye candy too! YUM! One class act!
Nine short months before the wedding, I overheard a telephone conversation Bill was having with a friend. His friend had obviously asked if he (Bill) had popped the question. Bill's response had been, "Better Dead than Wed". Hmmm, strange the things we remember in time of sorrow! For those who don't know our story, he ended up popping the question only 30 days later! After 26 years of knowing each other Bill is dead and I am still wed.
I always felt that I was living on borrowed time with my husband and that is probably why in all those years, we never once fought - not even raised our voices to each other. Don't get me wrong, we didn't agree on everything - that would be boring and there was nothing boring about us. I am so thankful that besides dealing with the day-to-day business of grieving, I do not have the added weight of I should have been kinder, I should have been more loving, I should have ... I should have ... I should have! Despite this, I feel poorly prepared to deal with his death. There really is no recipe or instruction book out there. As I previously wrote, it is all about the relationship.
Six months have passed in this blinding grief and the sense of unreality lingers. At night, I still reach for him only to realize he is not there. I really do confess that for the first few months, I even missed his snoring - but would be lying if I said I missed that today! The man could lift the roof with his snores. We all wanted to get to sleep before he did!
What does settle in at night is this terrible longing for him to hold me as no one else can, a hunger to feel his skin, to hear him say goodnight. During the day, I sense a quiet acceptance settling in as I tend to life and all of its demands. The open weeping has stopped (for the most part) and some days, and in some moments, it seems like the worst of the pain has passed. Those are what I call my gentle moments, my gentle days, neither good, neither bad, not even numb, just gentle. The melancholy does not distinguish between night and day, between bad days or gentle days - it is always there.
What always seems to take my breath away are the 'drive-by' moments of grief - they are totally random, hurt like heck and are irrational. I call them drive-by simply because it mostly happens while driving. A song, a snowflake, a ray of sun - triggers the opening of the flood gates and the screams at the top of my lungs. Yikes! Imagine driving by and seeing this little lady driving crumpled up face with tears streaming down her face and yelling like some bat out of hell is chasing her? Yup ... enough to make you want to press on the accelerator and get as far, far away as you can!
I feel that this is the real grieving escaping. It has been held back by the countless things that need tending to and the "acceptable" behaviour when in public (after all, it has been six months as some would say), and the being there for the kids who need to know Mom's okay. There is literally no space for all out grieving (except for in the car) and as a new widow, I need to find this space. Can't use the garage ... it is not sound proof!
These are my difficult moments, they are waves of grief that wash over me and sometimes I struggle to breathe. The waves carry me back to the numbing fog of the first days and I feel as if I am starting the cycle of grief over again. I remember sharing with one of my earth angels, that it is like I am being hit with grief on a new level. Only now, I don't seem to have as much numbness to protect my heart. Little things ... driving home after work and being startled again by the reality that Bill won't be there. I thought I had dealt with this ... guess these moments of drive-by grief are simply saying "You are not done; you are still feeling."
On a positive note, if I am still feeling, that means I will be okay!
Ginette, You wrote this a long time ago, but today I found it to be most meaningful as on May 12 it will be six months since Gwen's death. Golly! I continue to experience the feelings you describe and have even thought some of the thoughts. That things about feeling as though the grief will be never ending is particularly poignant. In the poem about cold water that I recently wrote I refer to it as the forever winter.
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