April 12, 2014, the day Roy came home to die. The fog has rolled in again as the anniversary of Roy’s death approaches. The heaviness comes and goes and the reality that he is never coming back sinks deeper into my soul. My grief journey has merged with my life expedition. The sun will rise tomorrow; thoughts of Roy are ever present. I stay busy most days; the emotional tenderness is not far in the background. Thoughts of my own mortality compete with thoughts of reshaping my life. I am a Phoenix suspended between destruction and rebirth. I grow weary of the daily decision to keep going and trust that I will stay strong enough to take the next step.
Finding the words to express how I continue to cope is impossible. I stare at the reflection in the mirror. Who is that woman? Grief has etched sadness on my face. The overall trajectory is a good uphill climb to some place different. I still have sudden temporary upsurges of grief (STUG) attacks, the year has taught me to lean in for the ride, embrace them for they are transitory.
“Be gentle with yourself,”
I cannot keep pace as new people come into my life; they do not know the overly responsible woman who rarely missed a beat. Where is my constant rhythm? I miss a meeting, forget to respond to a phone call, become overwhelmed with emotion when I see an older couple engaged in an activity that Roy and I dreamed of doing after retirement. I am no longer in shock; living with grief is the new normal. I find myself wanting to explain, “I missed that phone call because… or my eyes are filled with tears due to…I am just too tired to make that meeting, the day has been…” I am not charting new territory per se, I am keenly aware that bereavement is a culturally forbidden topic of conversation.
My paternal great-grandmother became a widow at the young age of forty-five and died at eight-three. As far as I know she remained single for thirty-eight years after my great grandfather died. Her daughter, my grandmother, was murdered before the age of twenty leaving my great grandmother with her daughter’s baby, my father, to rear. She was single and poor. I remember her as a strong determined woman who did not have the privilege to look back, receive grief counseling, or respite from a harsh life. In the 1930’s and 40’s she took care of my father by cleaning, and cooking, she was, The Help. When she died in 1966 she had outlive all but one of her five children. Did she ever talk about my great-grandfather or grandmother; how their deaths changed her life? I am sure she thought about them, but the stories I know about my great grandfather, Arthur and my grandmother, Hija, are second hand from my father. I was raised with the woven tale that my grandmother died in an accident; it was not until my late teens that I stumbled upon the truth. A man shot her at a church dance. How does a mother make meaning from a tragedy like that?
My maternal grandmother died before I was born. By the time I came along my Papa had remarried. He never talked about my grandmother. How her death from a heart attack at age thirty-six changed him. My mother was motherless at sixteen. I grew up surrounded by grieving parents and relatives that due to financial circumstances just got on with life after losing their partners, parents and children. Their silence and stoicism was necessary for survival.
At night I stretch out on the leather sofa in the TV room, my laptop rests on my thighs as my fingers tap out my latest blog entry. Roy’s physical presence is a fading illusion; his spiritual presence grows stronger. I am beginning to understand… Maybe I am charting new territory?