Grief Has No Schedule

Nor options. Nor settings. Nor rhyme or reason.

The most innocuous of things can cause a few tears today. The same thing, two days later, may bring a smile. Two weeks from now that same item or event can bring on grief with the impact of a runaway freight train, plunging you into depths of grief that you did not know existed.

Yesterday morning it was the lines of a song. Over the weekend it was taking down Christmas decorations. Two months ago, a cedar tree in a neighbor’s fencerow. The long, long heartbroken summer and fall – everything. 

Only one place have I seen the ways of dealing with grief stated truthfully – no one can help you through this. You have to do it alone. No one can remove the pain, the unsettledness, the wants. Nor can drugs or counseling – they are at best flimsy patches on a wound that only death will heal completely.

My friend’s grief from the loss of her husband isn’t my grief. She has a different set of emotional reactions than I do. Her family dynamics are different than mine. Yes, we can discuss the loss of our husbands and how we miss them, but in the final analysis, she cannot alleviate my grief, nor can I alleviate hers. All we can do is discuss it, knowing each of us has a different reaction to our loss and a different way of mourning. We may be able brighten a dark day for each other, but the grief is still there, biding its time, watching for a moment to arise like a creature from the depths of Hades and wrap our spirit in pain we think will not end.

Today, I’m grieving but without tears and pain. I can think of Greg and all we did without dissolving into tears. Tomorrow, who knows? It may be a replay of today or I may feel on top of the world. Or one of those rough days from summer will stroll in and take possession of my emotions. 

Grief’s schedule does not coincide with my schedule. The grief will never go away, I will just deal with it differently as time passes. All I can do is endure until I have dealt with grief in my own way and in my own time. I will survive.

Muscle Memories

Muscle memory. Most people don’t realize it exists even though it is utilized in the accomplishment of our everyday tasks. Brushing our teeth, tying our shoes, driving to work. Muscle memory comes into play in any endeavor – typing, martial arts, riding a bicycle, playing a musical instrument. We acknowledge it is there, using terms such as “got the hang of it” or “learned the feel of it.”

I know I have muscle memory. There have been times when I was teaching someone how to do my job that I could not tell them how I did a certain function on the computer. I would have to tell them to get up and watch my hands as I did the function.

I had never considered how much muscle memory was tied to being married to someone for two-thirds of your life. Until this morning.

I had a long weekend of crying, mourning Greg, missing his presence. It took me three days to take down Christmas decorations at work and I had up about a tenth of what I normally have. In the process of grieving, I thought about a lot of different things, one of which was a conversation I had with a life-long friend a couple of weeks ago.

Her husband died four years ago. While she isn’t dating, she does communicate regularly with a high school classmate. She told me that I needed to find a man. No idea why she thinks that but I told her that I didn’t need a man in my life, that I’d had Greg for forty-two years and was still grieving over him.

This morning, in the midst of another bout of tears, I started thinking about the possibility of another man in my life. That’s when muscle memory came into play. I cannot imagine touching a man besides Greg, for when I think about touching another man, my hands and body recall the feel of Greg. The warmth of his skin. The strength in his muscles. The comfort of his arms around me. The beat of his heart against my back as I lay snuggled against him. The softness and curl of his hair wrapped around my fingers. The tenderness of his kiss.

Will my muscles ever forget the feel of Greg?

Men In My Life

Since Greg's death on 14 August 2019, it would appear that I no longer have a man in my life. I don't date. I don't meet anyone for lunch. I don't have anyone over to watch movies.

But that doesn't mean that I don't have a man in my life, because I do. Two, actually. Two men whose love for me was greater than I deserved. Two men whom I love heart and soul. Two men whom I will grieve for until my last breath.

These two men are Greg and Daddy.

Yes, both of them are in their graves, beyond my reach. Both of them left my life far too soon. Both of them gave me strength and courage through their love for me.

Neither of them can ever be replaced. It would be futile to try.

These two men and I will continue to be bound together by love that knows no end. By love that strengthens me and gives me the courage to continue in life without them.

How could I ever hope for more?

Lying and Grief

Lies. Have I told more to myself or to others? Have I lied to protect myself or to protect others?

Lies. About how I’m doing. Lies. About what I need. Lies. About what I want. Lies. About everything I am.

Lies. Have I told them to hide my true grief? The grief that no one knows. Inexplicable grief that ties my soul in knots a sailor could not fathom.

Grief. From losing Greg. Grief. From losing laughter. Grief. From losses others would consider inconsequential.

I sit alone and wonder. Would I? Could I? Should I? Then wonder what I am wondering about. 

If I abandon these lies and grief can I emerge from their shadows?

Wanderlust

Wanderlust. I've always had it. I think it runs in Daddy's family as many relatives have moved from place to place several times, across the country. The kid across the road and I had an elaborate plan to build a raft and float down the river to the Mississippi then to the Gulf of Mexico. (We'd been reading Huckleberry Finn.)

I'm not sure what I had over the weekend, and still have to an extent. If I had had a thousand in cash on me, I'd still be driving. I did do a lot of driving -- four to six hours both days -- but it did nothing to satisfy the urge to get in the truck and drive until I couldn't stay awake, sleep in the truck for a while, and drive again.

I have no destination in mind other than the open road. I don't think any particular destination would satisfy me. 

I am unsettled and emotionally lost. Grief and frustration are my companions. Travis Tritt's music helps but doesn't assuage this compulsion to drive.

I'm sitting at my computer writing this. I look out the window and wonder how long I could stand driving in the intermittent rain. Would I turn right or left at an intersection. Would my thoughts be any clearer after two weeks of driving. Would this ache go away.

I don't think anything will satisfy this calling including driving until I can drive no longer.

Existence Without Greg

Without Greg, existence is hard. 

Oh, I can do chores that need done. I can talk to people. I can blow money – 2020 Ford F150 last week. I can sleep. I can eat. I can carry on day-to-day functions as if nothing has changed.

But everything has changed.

It’s been a year and seven days since Greg died. I know most people who see me out and about don’t think that I’m doing anything any differently than I did for the past forty-two years. I get up in the mornings, go to work (well, not exactly – the shop is there and I have it open, but I’m not really “working”). I get lunch at the usual places and times. I go home. 

There are no words to describe this existence. No matter what is said, nor how it is said, words cannot begin to convey the grief, frustration, anger, loss, emptiness nor wariness that are my companions. Loneliness is perhaps the least of my daily burdens as I was an only child and am basically a loner. 

The best way I can describe my current existence is that I feel lost. Without an anchor. Without direction. Without purpose. Greg was my rock, my safety, my heart. A constant in my life that will never be here again. 

Reminders of Greg hit me hard, like driving down the road and meeting someone driving a truck like his. My immediate pleasant thought is “There’s Greg” -- then it hits me – that’s not Greg and I’ll never see him driving our 1994 Ford F150 again. Or picking up my cell phone to call Greg to see what time he’ll be home – and my heart sinks when I get halfway through dialing his number and remember that he will never be home again.

Everything reminds me of Greg . . . trucks, deer, music and guitars, sunshine and wind . . . if it exists, in some way it reminds me of Greg. What he liked, what he disliked. What he would say about those likes and dislikes. What he’d tell me about his childhood. What he’d tell me about people he met. 

There is not a single thing that doesn’t remind me of Greg some way, somehow; most, thankfully, do not bring me to tears, but those that do bring me to tears are painful reminders that my life is forever changed and there is nothing that can replace what is gone.

I Need A Hug

I need to feel Greg's arms around me, to feel his strength and warmth. I need the assurance his hug gives me that no matter how bad things may be at the moment, as long as we're together, everything will be okay.

I need one of Greg's hugs.