Frustrations build

I am not well—physically, mentally or emotionally. For close to two weeks I’ve fought some upper respiratory infection. They tell me it’s viral, not bacterial—but I’m tired of it.

I’m mentally tired. Writing the grief book is taking a mental toll as well as an emotional one. I’m not sleeping well as I churn up the emotions of the last nine years. The lack of sleep makes it harder to call on my mental powers. My ability to stay focussed is diminished.

You try, too.

Emotionally, I haven’t been right for a long time—arguably since Jane’s rapid decline started in October of 2009. It’s hard to watch someone die and be able to do nothing beyond make them comfortable—and not always be able to do that—hard to mourn.

What was yesterday?

Yesterday marked 100 months since Jane’s body died. It was also the fourth birthday of a young girl somewhere in Europe. That body carries Jane’s soul. Sometimes, I can almost see her—almost hear her. Her work begins there. My work continues here. I miss her. Her conscious mind forgets me. I cannot forget her.

I cannot forget her.

My brother left yesterday after a week’s visit. We went to a Bruins game, went to a Red Sox game, talked about the state of the world, talked about angels and demons and the wings I keep cutting off my back that people keep trying to put there. We talked about what we have learned in our very different lives—and what remains for each of us to do.
There is mail I need to answer, events I need to plan, work I need to do.

Yesterday, a friend’s body went into the earth, another friend learned he had cancer, another friend mourned the passing of his wife, another friend mourned the passing of her husband, another friend mourned the passing of his mother and made arrangements for her services. I am surrounded by illness and death and pain and suffering. Part of what I do—what I have always tried to do—is ease the suffering of others. I do not always manage that. I am, myself, a wounded soul who does not always say the right words or do the right things. I remind myself I am only human—that I do the best I can. But sometimes I forget.

Lessons from small joys

And there is joy in the world. There are weddings and births and promotions and people falling in love. I see those things and they, too, touch my soul. I see the buds swelling on the trees, the robins building their nests, track the course of the hummingbird migration, and wait on the stirrings of the local orchard bees. The cone flowers have begun their annual eruption, the daffodils are in bloom, and a new generation of perennials slowly grow under lights in the basement.

I remind myself I am only human…

My brother tells me he envies me for my ability to feel those small joys. He says he feels satisfied by the things he does, the things he sees—but never quite experiences the light I get from the day-to-day experiences like sitting on the deck and listening to birdsong or the wind in the trees or the taste of a fresh tomato come straight from the garden. I find a spot of joy even in the planning of a small project—find one sometimes even in a well-executed failure—or even in a poorly executed one.

Lessons from the past

The satirist Art Buchwald asked an older friend after the Kennedy assassination, “Will we ever laugh again?” The friend replied: “We’ll laugh again. But we’ll never be young again.”

And there is joy in the world.

I’ve begun to really understand that quote over the last few years. I’m never going to fully lose the sorrow that arrived with Jane’s death. There are pieces of me that are truly gone forever—other pieces that are changed forever. Experience changes us in so many ways—and none so profoundly as the loss of those we love most deeply. 

Lessons from beauty

But beauty remains in the world. Our appreciation of it changes in the light of experience—deepens it in many ways. For a time, we may  lose our ability to see it—to experience the joy of it. But it remains patiently—waiting for us to return to our selves and to it.

Will we ever laugh again?

I know what it is to hurt so badly you can’t cry. I know what it is to wander aimlessly from room to room subconsciously looking for someone who is not there—who will never be there again. I know what it is to be on a ladder pruning a bush and find a hummingbird nest—and realize you have no one to share the discovery with. I know what it is to wish for death.

Lessons from patterns in grief

And then, something happens and you smile. You’re embarrassed by that moment in the midst of grief—made guilty by it. But it happens again—a simple, silly moment—and you are surprised by a sudden easing of the tension around your heart. And then you laugh—and somehow you don’t die from it. You dance and your legs don’t fall off.

I know what it is to hurt so badly you can’t cry.

But then—just when you think you’ve turned a corner—you literally turn a corner in the grocery store and the grief hits you like it never left. It engulfs you and drowns you and drives you to your knees.

Lessons from reality

And then you wake up one morning and you aren’t dead. You smile, you laugh, you find pleasure in small moments. And you breathe again—sometimes for weeks or months. Then you are walking down the street and see a beagle in someone’s yard and everything goes to hell again—until it doesn’t.

And then you laugh…

This is how grief works—really. There’s no magic formula. You never really “get over it.” You cope. You enjoy the good days and endure the bad ones. You laugh when you can laugh—and you cry when you cry—and you try not to feel guilty or embarrassed by either one.

And tomorrow…

Today, I feel lousy. I hate being sick. I hate being tired. I hate having a brain that doesn’t focus. I hate feeling depressed and alone.

This is how grief works—really.

Tomorrow will be better—or it won’t. But it will have beauty in it and work in it worth doing. I’ll try to appreciate both no matter how I feel. You try, too.

—Harry Proudfoot