This Fool's Holding On

I probably should quit telling people that I miss Greg when they ask how I am doing. Responses range from “I bet you do” to “You need to let him go” to “You need to move on with your life” to “What you need to do is find a man and have some fun.” (I toned that last one down but I’m sure you get the drift.) I have been told to sell our home, to do something different, to get out and do things, to get Greg’s belongings out of the house, that I don’t need to live in the past and to not let guilt cause me to cling to the past.

I have been told these things by people who have never lost a spouse and by people who have lost a spouse and remarried. I don’t know if they don’t understand grief or have buried it deeper than I have been able to, or if their emotional connection to their spouse didn’t go to the bone. Most likely they don’t comprehend the bond that Greg and I shared.

In six days it will be two years since Greg left this life. Some days it feels like it’s been an eternity. Other days it feels like it was five seconds ago. 

Grief has been my constant companion since 14 August 2019. While I have shed countless tears since then, I have not become a recluse, never getting out and doing things that interest me. I dine out – alone and with friends. I have attended concerts – once in another state. I go shopping when the mood strikes. I do printing jobs for long-time customers. 

While I miss Greg so badly at times that I wonder if this really is my life now, I will not sell our home. I will not remove all of Greg’s belongings from the house. I will not actively seek another love to be in my life.

‘Cause I’ve been a fool too long.

Little Things

Two sheets of paper covered with Greg’s handwriting. A gospel song he wrote. Nothing complex but it was from his heart. A heart that was tender and loving. A heart that was mine. A heart that I will never hear beat again.

Little things hit hard. Those two sheets of paper. A guitar pick on his desk. A golf ball found under a table.

So many little things that made up our life together. The keys to Greg’s truck that have I have carried in my pocket for twenty-seven years. The Doublemint gum in the Explorer’s glove box. A credit card receipt for gas Greg bought at Sherman Burton’s.

Little things. I will keep these little things. Pieces of my life. Reminders of what I have lost and will never find again.

Little things that only I will cherish. Little things that made up the fabric of our day-to-day life together. Little things that bring tears, for they tell our story.

Big things don’t always matter. We talked about some big things, and did a few big things, but in the end only the little things matter.

Little things like our love.

Getting Used to Grief

I read a lot. One to two hundred books a year. I also read magazines, newspapers, articles on-line, just about anything I can lay my hands on.

This past week I read a murder mystery and one of the characters was talking about grief. “You don’t get used to grief,” he said, and went on to say his therapist said the best you could do was adapt to grief as a permanent presence in your life. (I’m sure I haven’t stated this anywhere close to how it was phrased in the book, but I think I’ve put in the essence.)

Adapt. One year, eleven months and seven days.

Adapt. An unwanted way of life.

Adapt. Realize just how alone I am.

Adapt. Greg’s laughter no longer in my life.

Adapt.

Am I? Or merely drifting through life? Existing, futilely missing what can never return nor be replaced.

I know I need to move ahead; Greg wanted me to. I cannot determine how to do that when I know Greg’s love for me is something so precious that there is no substitute for it, no equivalent love to be found. 

About all I feel I can do right now is adapt to grief; I am sure not getting used to it.

The Rating Game

 “On a scale of . . .”

I’m sure most everyone has heard or read that through the years. Rating customer service. Food quality. A person’s looks. Satisfaction with a product. Pain.

The number of choices on the rating scales vary. I have seen them as low as three and as high as fifteen. Some will utilize columns with headings such as “Very Dissatisfied” to “No Opinion” to “Very Satisfied” and/or “Would Recommend to Friends.”

I thought I would rate my grief for the past week. Using a scale of one to ten, my week overall has been around seven. I have cried several times. I miss Greg constantly. Everything I see or do reminds me of Greg. Yet I have not been in the tight clutches of grief as I have been many times since the first of the year. That is a relief and at the same time a worry.

A worry that grief will crush me again, clutch me in its fist and squeeze until I abandon hope of any better days ahead. I hope and pray that doesn’t happen, even though I am sure that I am not free of further onslaughts of grief. This is a respite that may last the rest of the month or the rest of the year, or maybe just until tomorrow morning.

How will I deal with another attack by grief? I do not know. Some days a pleasant mood is so fragile that grief requires little effort to send me reeling. Other days, grief’s attacks may bring tears, but I am strong enough to endure them without sorrow lingering for several hours or days.

Right now, I would rate my day as a six. I have cried several times, wished Greg was still at my side so we could ride around wherever struck our fancy, and sadness is the footing my mood is built upon. 

I will visit Greg’s grave when the sun is down a little farther, thank God for the wildflowers blooming in the pasture and the birds singing in nearby trees, and talk to Greg about my day. Yes, I will probably cry, hopefully not much, but I will strive to keep grief at bay so it does not color my night with sadness.

I am strong enough to survive whatever grief throws at me.

Jealous of the Angels

Once in a while, the lines of some song will drift into my mind and stay with me. I look up the lyrics and listen to those songs, then see other songs listed down the side of the page. Sometimes I also listen to those songs.

Wednesday the song with the title above was listed. I pulled up the lyrics, then listened to the song. It tells of there being another angel around the throne and the only hero the singer knows being with the angels. I should not have listened to that song. I probably should not have even read the lyrics.

My darling Greg is with the angels, singing God’s praises for eternity. I can no longer hear his voice lifted in song. I can no longer see his smile, hear his laughter, nor feel his arms around me. 

Yes, I am jealous of the angels around the throne tonight.

No Rocks

Fifty-one years without my first rock. Nearly two years without my second one.

Enough said.

Foundation of Sadness

Since Memorial Day week, grief has given me a reprieve of sorts. I have cried several times, most often just a few tears when something reminds me strongly of Greg, and a few times I’ve cried for an hour or longer.

Even with the tears appearing the past two and a half weeks, grief hasn’t dragged me into the intense sorrow that I have endured several times this year. Instead, there is an underlying sadness that permeates all my days, no matter what I am doing. Listening to music. Petting the cats. Mowing the yard. Driving. Eating a meal. Doing laundry.

Even during pleasurable activities such as attending a Travis Tritt concert last week, sadness lingers just under the surface of my life, coloring my thoughts with ‘I wishes” and ‘whys.’

Perhaps this is the foundation for the rest of my life. I will do things that I enjoy, things that make me laugh, things that are pleasant, but each and every thing that I do will be touched with sadness, sadness that persistently reminds me of what is no longer in my life and that I can never have again.

This is not a pleasant foundation but right now it is what is there. The sadness is more bearable than the heart-wrenching grief that I have experienced often this year. I can tolerate this foundation of sadness. 

Like it, no. But I can tolerate it.