Dealing with this weekend
Saturday morning, a friend stopped by and invited me to accompany him on a search for some parts for a 1966 Mustang he's restoring. While I would normally enjoy doing so, I politely declined. I was having an "Irene Day," one of those thankfully rare periods when I succumb, even after several years, to the grief and pain that still linger from the untimely passing of my gentle, beautiful wife.
When you lose a life partner, you experience a deep-rooted, inexplicable pain that seems unending. Just putting one foot in front of the other and getting through each day becomes an overwhelming challenge. Over time, the immediacy of the ache passes but is always there, waiting to surface whenever prompted by a particular memory or occurrence. Such was the case this weekend.
From my own experience shortly after her passing until a few years later, I found that even in a room full of people, I felt alone. I endured a daily, palpable, physical pain in my chest as well as a profound sense of perpetual despondency that I could not shake. Throughout all of this, well-meaning friends, acquaintances, and family members would convey their condolences, tell me to get on with life, and relate episodes of loss in their own lives.
Understanding the difference
These good and decent people may tell you they know how you feel because they've lost a parent, grandparent, or sibling. But honestly, they don't truly understand the difference - that you've lost your other half, your best friend, the person with whom you planned to spend the rest of your life. You've not only lost your spouse but your dreams, your future. In fact, if you were very, very fortunate as was I, your other half was so special that you lost a principal element of your very existence.
I now understand the possibility of the phrase, "He died of a broken heart."
The same holds for that person who compares your loss to his or her divorce. Perhaps he or she really thinks they are equivalent, never once reflecting upon the fact that, should they choose, they can still see, talk to, and experience former spouses, or even share parenting concerns. They even have the hopeful luxury of possible reunion. When a life mate is lost, however, none of those things will ever be possible.
"... I also learned you can't ignore, bulldoze, or sedate grief; you must endure it to overcome it ..."
During all that time, I found that feeling as though no one understood only compounded my sense of loneliness and loss. I also learned, later rather than sooner, that turning to alcohol to numb the pain and grief only served to temporarily alleviate the symptoms and not cure the cause. Finally, after giving up the alcohol crutch I found that I had to re-live the entire grieving process all over again.
Endurance overcomes loss
I also determined that you can't ignore, bulldoze, or sedate grief - you must endure it to overcome it. Working long hours, keeping constantly busy, or self-medicating doesn't prevent the misery - it just delays grieving. Only after experiencing and mastering the pain can you then lay all of the complex elements of such powerful grief to rest, or at least reshape it into manageable form.
Now, years removed from sweet Irene's passing, the physical ache and daily feeling of hopelessness have been overcome - overcome but not totally expunged. How could they be? Till my life runs its course, there will be occasional, lesser instances of melancholy, of loss. But not like before, and at least with a glimmer of light at the end.
Just like this weekend.