Outsmarted

I get so tired every night. My counselor reminds me often that grieving is exhausting—physically, emotionally, and mentally. At the end of every day I feel as if I’ve run another emotional 5K. The waves of sorrow have begun to shift, but that doesn’t mean they’ve lessened. The rhythm is just becoming less predictable. Yesterday, for example, I shed a few tears when I woke up, but nature called and I needed to move, and soon I was up and facing the day. For a little while there, I thought I’d pulled a fast one and Grief couldn’t find my heart to attack it.

But Grief is a lot more devious than I thought.

It found me later in the afternoon while I was sitting in the investment guy’s office, changing accounts and beneficiaries. I nodded in agreement as the man doublechecked Lee’s birthday and then that familiar knot rose up in my throat and I almost lost my composure. Ever since our son arrived on our fifth anniversary, the 25^th of September has been a shared day of celebrations. This year, we’ll be back to one again.

It’s things like that that hit me broadside and send me spinning. I never see them coming.

Driving is another favorite of that schemer, Grief. There I am, sailing down the road, enjoying the bright sunshine and cursing other drivers, when a memory of you surfaces. My stomach goes into a death roll, my eyes flood with tears, and keeping a firm grip on the steering wheel is all that keeps me from blindly sliding into another lane—or worse.

Today when that happened—grief, not an accident—I thought about the time you called me while I was panicking over a house we were buying. You got worried and told me to pull over until I stopped crying. I probably kept driving, cuz that’s what I do, but I did chuckle a little at the memory, figuring that where you’re watching me from your front row seat in Heaven, I’m probably giving you a heart attack. Only now you can’t say anything to me about it.

Maybe I outsmarted Grief with that one.

It’s so unexpected, the way a memory morphs into physical pain. I was helping my friend, Sue, make a few pans of Lemon Bars while we talked about sticking to recipes vs. winging it when we cook. I made a remark I’ve made for the last forty years, about how you always said I’m a good cook because I follow recipes, and suddenly my stomach knotted up and I couldn’t see or breathe or stop the tears. It was always a connection to you and us when I said it before. Now it’s a painful reminder that I’ll never cook for you again.

Friends don’t mind when you melt down on their watch—they’re here for me now, more than ever, and help me get through it. But it’s freaking embarrassing when it happens when I’m on the phone with an Amazon Customer Service rep who clearly hasn’t been schooled on how to deal with grief-stricken women. “Please don’t cry,” a lady said to me in broken English a few weeks ago, while I tried to hack into your account to look for fraudulent charges. I felt sorry for her, so I hung up. I also thought I should stop trying to hack into your accounts.

Don’t even get me started on that ridiculous password book you left behind. I told you that thing would drive me to drink.

I’m getting better at telling people on the phone that my husband passed away without dissolving into tears. Doing it in person is a different story, though. There are a lot of bite marks on the inside of my lip and fingernail grooves in the palms of my hands from trying to keep it together until I can get out of sight of whoever I’m talking to. Grief doesn’t care where I am when it lobs another reminder in my direction that you’re not coming back. It just wants to be sure it hits its mark. Unfortunately, it’s far more experienced at this game than I am.

It’s winning this unwelcome competition about three million to one, last count.

Yesterday afternoon while I sat out on Katy’s front porch in a rocking chair, hiding in the shade and enjoying a reluctant breeze, somebody on a skateboard sailed up the road in front of her house, waving at me and yelling, “I have your mail! I have your mail!” It seemed odd for a postman to act that excited about his job and I squinted in the sun to see whether maybe I’d won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. I didn’t. A neighbor boy skidded up the driveway and handed over a fat envelope, addressed to me, opened by mistake. I thanked him and sat back down to read whatever was left inside.

It was from the Hospice Center whose staff member stepped into your hospital room on your last day. I almost fell apart right there in full view of the skateboarder and all the neighbors. Why does Grief keep hunting me down like this? Twisting my heart into a limp rag while it wrings out all my tears?  I looked at the sympathy card signed by two dozen people I’ve never met, read over the notice that I’m invited to join a grief support group in the mountain town of Lakeside via Zoom, and then a little booklet fell out into my lap, entitled appropriately, “Grief.”

Boy, that miserable emotion is really a narcissist.

I threw it all on my bed and forgot about it until later when I finally flipped through the little booklet with its “reminders for healing.” Somebody’s been tattle tale-ing about my pain. It spoke to almost every point of sorrow that has kept me drowning in guilt or trauma or expectations.

·         Remember that you are still alive. Your place is here, on this earth, with those who remain and love you.
·         Know that their pain has passed, except for how it lives in your memory. You are the one in pain now. It is best to lovingly care for your wounds.
·         Denying sadness denies healing. By letting your heart break, you let your heart heal.
·         You may feel guilt, yet you did the best you could have possibly done. Few of us know exactly what to do in the face of the pain and death of a loved one.
·         You may never resolve all the issues surrounding their death.
·         You may be disoriented, depressed, and forgetful. These things are normal with grief and will pass.
·         You will forget they are gone and then remember again, and your heart will break one more time.
·         This is a time of intense and mixed emotions. At times you may be surprised by what you feel.
·         Grieving takes just as long as it takes . . . this is a process. It may never truly end, but it will always change.
·         Some moments you may feel intensely alive. Remember that life springs from death.

And the one that sold Grief out completely:

·         The remedies for grief are time, courage and love—all applied with tenderness.

There’s a remedy for Grief. Its days are numbered, even more than mine. All that courage that people keep telling me I have, all the love our friends and family keep pouring out, multiplied by the second worst enemy in all this loss, time—that’s how Grief gets outsmarted in the end. I’ve been told that Someday—remember, Baby? our word of hope during that first separation we endured while you were overseas?—Someday, all the memories of our life together will stop hurting and will instead become a sweet balm to my wounded soul.

I’m not there yet. I’m sobbing while I write this. But I’m hoping against hope that it’s true. Healing will come. Grief will fade. And I will discover how to go on without you in my world.

Take that, Grief.