Grief: A Strange New Bedfellow

Merriam Webster defines grief as "deep and poignant distress caused by or as if by bereavement". We grieve over a variety of things besides, or in addition to, losing someone we love to death. We grieve the loss of relationships, homes as we move from place to place, jobs, roles we have held. I have experienced all of those to some extent.

But actually losing someone close to you, someone who's passing leaves a real, visible hole in your life - in this case, my beloved grandmother, Lena - is very, very different.

What is it about this loss, this time? The mind can reason through all that one should be feeling and all the stages that are - and will - accompany such a journey. But explaining those things to one's heart? Welcome to a minefield.

Perhaps it is because her passing seems to have no benefit, at least not to those of us left behind (others were "burdens"; she never was). I find myself cringing at remarks of "she's in a better place....she's in heaven...at least her family was with her when she passed..."

So what!? Call me selfish, but I still want her here!

Often when her passing could only be counted by hours and days, I found myself going about, doing the every day things, when suddenly I felt as if someone was pressing down on my chest, squeezing my heart. My breathing became shallow, almost labored, and I would gulp for air. Then I would hear a sigh.

What was that?

In those moments, it was as if I had stepped outside of myself and could see and hear those things happening and I would wonder, "Who is that woman with the sad eyes and creased brow?"

Wait. That's me.

I would look around and wonder why everyone continued on - walking, talking, eating, drinking, living. Didn't they know? Why didn't everything stop? Shouldn't it stop?

You mean I still have to eat? Get dressed? Work? Smile?

Yes, that is what one is expected to do. So, I did just that. Wake up...check. Eat lunch...check. Make dinner...check. Go to bed...check.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Each day passed, and I wondered if anyone could really see me.

The first Saturday came, and we had promised the youngest that we would take him to a church festival. At first the diversion was welcomed, and folks were kind in their inquiries. I felt as if I was standing back, watching myself at a distance, when without warning, amidst colorful streamers, popping popcorn, and laughing children, I felt my heart constrict with an overwhelming need to get out of there. Now!

Breathe, Nicole. Just breathe.

But it hurts to breathe!

I frantically tried to process these feelings. The writer in me searching for the words to describe, detail, disect...

But there were no words.

I just wanted to see, hear, feel, breathe - for a whole day - without it hurting.

And then Sunday came. One week. And somehow, some way, the longing and sorrow I had felt all week began to dissipate a little, like wisps of fog rising from our frost-covered lawn.

I realized, as I snuggled with my husband at the end of that day, that I did not hurt quite so much...that the sharp pain had become a dull aching...that I had not sighed that day.

Grief.

It is still there. But with the passing of time, it has become an ebb and flow rather than a steady cadence beating in time with my heart.

Yes, it has remained. As another week passed, then a month...Thanksgiving...Christmas...a new year without hearing "Hi hon..." The first snow. Family gathering after family gathering, her absence an unspoken and unwelcomed guest.

One thing I have learned - the one thing I can be certain of - is that I want grief to remain. You see, it is both despised and welcomed. Despised because it means she really is gone.

But, welcomed because it speaks of love.