Sit With Me

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Eight weeks.”

“Two months isn’t long,” he responded.

Yes. And No.

It’s twenty-two blogs long. Nine weeks today. Sixty-three days since I last held Rob’s hand. The one I placed his wedding ring on. And another five weeks prior to that since we last shared a home together, sick as we both were.

That’s a lot of time to be afraid and pray and then grieve. One day rolls into the next and soon it will be ten weeks since he left us. Then eleven. You know the rest. And every day that stubborn sun keeps coming up, trying to tell me to keep going without him because I have no other choice.

Grieving is exhausting. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and to my surprise, physically draining, as well. My counselor keeps reminding me that while I’m grieving, my immune system is low. My sleep schedule is, well, unscheduled. Thoughts are scattered. The only things working well are my tear ducts.

“It takes a lot of energy to maintain relationships right now,” she said. “You won’t be able to keep up with all the things you used to manage with the limited energy you have at the moment.” I’m trying, though. I’m hugging my family. Talking to my daughter and son every day. Laughing at the antics of my daredevil grandbabies in Kentucky. Playing cards with my granddaughters. Watching my grandson climb trees. Herding sheep and pigs and chickens and ducks and one bossy turkey when the family is out of town. Livestock are good for my soul. And hilarious.

There are a lot of good moments in my days. But I’ve talked a few times with my mother-in-law who buried her beloved husband nine years ago. “You never get over the grief or the loss,” she told me. “You just learn to live with it.” That’s what I meant in my last post about waking up every morning and knowing this is a life sentence. I’ll never see Rob on this earth again. I had no idea it felt like this until I got to this side of grief. No one knows what this side of grief feels like without being here, and I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

But there are a few of you who, despite never having been in my shoes before, choose to sit with me in the middle of my sorrow, a witness to the anguish that I often feel, and cry with me. You listen to me without judging me. Put your arms around me and give me the hug that is rarer than it used to be. Pray. But mostly, you sit with me. Quietly.

I have never done that with anyone before. I have never seen anyone go through this before and I’ve never sat with them while they did. I wrote nice notes. I sent flowers. I even quoted Bible verses. But I never sat with them in their suffering. And for that, I am really sorry.

This is a holy place, this seat of suffering. It’s also lonely and sometimes misunderstood. Scary, even, to witness, since we’re all terminal. I hope that in the future I will remember what I’ve learned from this side of grief and show up with arms to hug and lips that are sealed as I take my seat next to another in their suffering.

You who have sat with me have taught me a great deal about love.