Watching my favorite detective series about an FBI
agent and his sidekick, as the credits roll the agent surprises his
longsuffering wife with a surprise marriage vow renewal, the intimate wedding
of her dreams.
And, just like that, I remember.
The evening I picked Rob up from the airport after he’d
been gone for two weeks, and instead of taking the familiar route home, he
drove us to a resort for the night. Overwhelmed by the surprise, I told him there
were things I’d need for a night way from home and what about the kids? The
kids, enjoying a sleepover of their own, had packed my bag, he answered. It was
in the back of the van. I never saw it there. I was in such a hurry to see him
again.
Triggers have a domino effect, much like the tears rolling
down my face.
A new memory arose, right on the tail of the previous.
A full-on vow renewal of our own, celebrated in the backyard of friends under
twinkle lights, complete with an audience and a fresh topper on the wedding
cake. From there we flew to the UK to finish celebrating our twenty-fifth
anniversary.
There will be no more celebrations like those. I've been sidelined.
While I’m still Rob’s wife, I’m
not a couple anymore. My presence presents a problem where foursomes are the
norm. I can’t join in any longer on conversations when the topic turns to the
habits of husbands. There won’t be any more surprise rendezvous with the love
of my life. The anniversary clock stopped cold at forty-four years together,
even though I’ll remember that day when year forty-six arrives right on time
this month.
The line of memories is endless. The tiny reminders,
the triggers, wait to sabotage even TV shows I enjoy. I’m learning that grief
is something I will carry for the rest of my life. Not because I admire the way
it slips over my shoulder and hangs at my side like a leather purse. But
because it has moved into the hole in my heart where all my love for Rob
resides. We grieve deeply because we loved deeply.
This is a lot of pain to observe. It has the potential
to be a buzzkill, turning casual encounters on their head the way this
afternoon’s pastime transformed into tears. A ninety-degree shift like that can
leave you with whiplash.
Casual. I’m not very good at casual anymore. My
elephants have been good at witnessing the aftereffects of my life's devastation. They are learning, just like I’ve had to learn, that advice is seldom
appreciated. Ordinary questions can cause extraordinary pain. And in the end,
when normal really does turn out to only be a setting on the dryer, everyone
winds up with either unintentional hurt or a realization that they’ve been
misunderstood. The wounded are wounded again while the healers are afraid to
say anything at all.
This, too, is grief.
I don’t know why I got thrown into this hell hole.
Perhaps it’s simply “too many candles on my birthday cake” as doctors have
begun to tell me. It’s the price of love, I’ve read online, I think. Or
somewhere else. Who knows. There are the judgy, unhelpful religious answers,
of course, but those should be moved to the sin category and never mentioned in
public again.
It’s simply very lonely here. I hear stories of some
widows and how they’re doing. I’ve even met one or two of them and heard them
take the high road, put on their happy faces, and tell everyone how thankful
they are and what gratitude they have for the years they were granted with
their soulmates. How staying busy is the answer and trusting God fills in all
the other blanks.
And I don’t believe a word of it.
Which is where I found myself crying again this
afternoon. I don’t measure up. I have never felt like I do, and even now when I’ve
lost everything and am no longer trying to prove anything, I don’t measure up. I don’t have a straight A report card
detailing how I’m moving on and getting better. There are no checklists showing
resolute advancement into the Season of Life promotion I’ve been given. There’s
no handbook on grief. No roadmap either. “It’s different for everyone,” the
authorities write. So, good luck. You’re on your own trying to figure out how
to start all over again without your beloved.
Just remember – be better, not bitter. It could be worse.
At least you’re not raising children on your own. You don’t have to go to work
to support yourself. You have your health. Try to stay positive. Keep a stiff
upper lip. Rob would want you to live your best life.
Like I said. I don’t measure up.
If grief is another of life’s great equalizers, it’s
been hijacked by the admirable desire that we find happiness again. As soon as
possible. This year even the American Psychiatric Association decided that
grief is a disorder when it lasts more than one year.* This makes it easier for
doctors to prescribe medication that insurance companies will pay for - their words, not mine.
Unfortunately, even medication does little to eliminate the problem of grief.
And the pressure from professionals and innocent bystanders to cheer up results
in fear among people already trying to find their way through the dark. What is
a natural response to loss is now considered by some to be mental illness.
We already don’t know how to grieve. We don’t know how
to support those in the middle of grief, either. So why not add to the
confusion by labeling those in loss with a disorder and pressure them to take
medication to cover up the symptoms?
I know this is starting to sound like circular
reasoning, but it all comes back to the same thing. We don’t know what to do
about the problem of grief. Even mental health professionals are on opposing
teams. My favorite author on the topic explains, “Grieving people are met with
impatience precisely because they are failing the cultural storyline of
overcoming adversity.” **
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