Grief: Five Years In.

I will first start with a disclaimer that five years is not the exact measurement.  My grief started even before Brian passed away.  One step at a time.  For the sake of simplicity (which is ironic to say because nothing in grief is simple) I will call it five years.

A friend and I were recently talking about my five-year journey.  He was specifically referencing the written account of what I’ve been through and what has been going on in my life over the past five years.  To be honest, I expressed frustration.  I thought things would be different by now.  My writing still has a distinct melancholy to it.  Many times, my life as a whole has a distinct melancholy to it.  But then he asked, “What about all the fun things you’ve done?”  He then proceeded to list a couple of recent adventures, such as a trip to Seattle, and a road trip to Toronto, plus a few ski trips and time spent in the mountains. 

It’s true.  Maybe I only write about the times I’m feeling reminiscent about the parts of my life I’ve lost, and I’m forgetting to appreciate the things I have. 

Perhaps it is the progression of my grief that has caused this melancholy.  On top of the intense grief in the beginning, there was a huge amount of relief.  The pain and suffering were finally over.  I was no longer forced to witness the horrific effects that cancer has on both the patient and the caregivers and loved ones.  The toll is immense.  The relief led me to discovering, or re-discovering, myself.  I was still grieving, but I was also finally free to focus on myself for the first time in a number of years.  I was an empty-nester and felt like a kid in a candy store. 

But then the reality of my loss started to hit home again.  We had promised each other we would grow old together.  The ‘till death do us part’ wasn’t supposed to happen until much, much later.  I missed the familiarity and security.  I no longer felt alive.  I began living in a shadow of pretending to be ok.

Still, I still feel stuck in that shadow.  I can see the promise of light on the edges, but it feels out of my grasp.   It is like a mist that is here for a moment, but not something I can hold on to. 

If I’m honest, I feel heavy.  Life feels heavy.  Being an adult and doing grown-up things feels heavy.  I also wonder if the reason I don’t write as much as I did before was because I no longer know how to turn things around and see the bright side of the story.

My friend has urged me to write about the high points.  The trips.  The newly learned skills.  The parts of my journey that give hope and encouragement.  I am left to wonder who I’m giving hope to?  Is it myself or my reader?  I assume it should be both.  However, it seems unauthentic to give hope to someone else when I don’t have it myself.  And that is where I am stuck.

As a grief coach, my goal is to be a support for others in their dark time.  My goal is also to hear the words, ‘well done, good and faithful servant’ in the pursuit of lifting up those who are down.  It’s not the wrong goal, it is just a hard one right now. 

I suppose ‘right now’ is the key phrase in all of this.  I know things will change.  Life is full of change.  Circumstances can change from normal, to cancer, to loss, and right back to normal again.  A new normal.  And, if things can change back to normal for me, then things can also change back to normal for others as well.  Maybe that is where the hope comes in.  Not only the hope of change…but the hope of change for the better amid the pain of today.

If you have read this far, thank you.  Thank you for giving me hope that I’m not alone, and that we can get through grief together, one step at a time.