Today was a day I wanted to ramble the roads. I decided to drive Greg’s truck because it was a beautiful day. I headed for Somerset, taking my time, driving under the speed limit, admiring God’s handiwork in the trees donning their fall colors.
The drive was pleasant, the onion rings at Reno’s done nicely, I did some writing, and overall was having a good day.
As I was leaving, a gentleman driving a Ford truck stopped and asked me what year Greg’s truck is. I told him, and he was even more interested in the truck when I told him that, yes, it is a stick. I believe he would’ve taken the truck with him right then as he told me several times that the trailer he was pulling would hold the truck; it would’ve.
Then he asked the question. The question for which I have only one answer: A time machine so that I can spend another forty-two years with Greg. Forty-two years that went past much too quickly.
The past two weeks have been mostly leveled-out for me. I’ve had a few days with tears frequently throughout the day, but the tears were more from an overall sadness than grief. The tears this afternoon are those of the bone-deep grief that will leave me emotionally exhausted.
I know grief isn’t ever going away. I know I will shed more tears in the years to come. I did not expect that anything, good or bad, could so quickly plunge me into the depths of grief at any moment, no matter what is going on nor how good my mood.
Going from a day running pleasantly, with thoughts of Greg always with me, to feeling grief so strongly is jarring. It keeps my emotions off-balance, making me wonder if anything is worth the effort, if the future worth thinking about.
I don’t know the answer. If there is one. Perhaps someday I will find a semblance of an answer.
I must be strong until then.
Recently someone noted that the hardest day for them was the anniversary of the death of their spouse. That made me wonder how they see all the other days of the year.
Yes, the anniversary of Greg’s death is a hard day for me to face. But the rest of the days aren’t any better, knowing when I wake up each morning that I will never see Greg smile again, hear him laugh, be enveloped in one of his strong, warm hugs. Never again attend a concert, go to a movie, fuss and fight at work, or spend a Saturday just doing nothing with Greg. My Greg.
The hardest day . . . How would I ever determine that? Greg’s birthday? Christmas? Our anniversary? They are all hard days, from the day of Greg’s death until today – two years, one month, eleven days and twelve hours later.
Some days tears don’t come but linger nearby. Other days, like today, tears are a near constant through everything I do. From town to town. Down every highway. In sunshine and rain.
No matter which memories come to mind – even the happiest ones – the tears come unbidden for I no longer have my Greg in my life. That makes every day a hard day.
The hardest day? Today, tomorrow, the rest of my life.
Over the weekend, any time I thought of Greg, I cried. Just his name was all it took to bring me to tears. I didn’t have to think about anything we’d done together, nor the love and warmth in his strong hugs. Just “Greg.”
Yesterday I drove three hours to Sharpsburg to attend a Travis Tritt concert. I was in tears so much of the drive, that by the time I got to Mt. Vernon I was ready to turn around and drive back home. But I didn’t. I stayed the course.
Then it got to the point that if I thought about Travis’ music I cried, for Greg loved Travis’ music.
The gentleman at Holiday Inn asked whose concert I was attending, and the tears came when I said, “Travis Tritt.” The little waitress at Waffle House said, “Oh! Travis Tritt!” when I told her I was going to a concert last night. Again, tears. I told her why I was tearful, and she replied, “It never gets any easier, does it?” She must know someone who has grieved over the loss of a spouse; she might be twenty-five, if that old.
I drove to The Barnyard after lunch, just to get the lay of the land before time for the concert. Tears accompanied me there and back, and were with me most of the afternoon. If I concentrated really hard, I could stop the tears, but the merest thought of Greg brought them back.
Last Saturday was also an extremely tearful day for me, and playing Travis’ “Something Stronger Than Me” over and over for two hours slowed the tears some. I didn’t have that song with me on a CD yesterday, or I would have played it constantly while driving. And this morning on the return trip.
While the tears the past few days have not progressed into uncontrollable sobbing, they are still tiring. They leave me feeling lost in an abyss of weakness that I cannot remedy.
Even though sometimes I feel I lack the strength to battle grief and tears for the rest of my life, I do know one thing for certain – God is the something stronger I need every day of my life. I know He is all that has gotten me through the past two years, one month and six days since Greg’s death. He’s with me, no matter how a day is going, and He is the something stronger I will rely on forever.
God – always stronger than me.
Punkin Cat wanted me to operate on her schedule this morning, so she started merowing around five a.m. I got tired of listening to her complaints and got out of bed at seven.
After getting dressed and letting the herd of cats in for their breakfast, putting them out one at a time when they finished eating, I was ready to fix my own breakfast. I heard a tiny peck at the door, and opened it for Trapper Cat who hadn’t come in with the rest of the cats.
When I looked up after closing the door behind Trapper, I saw a doe in the driveway, nibbling at fescue. She was frequently looking behind her so I knew her fawn was somewhere close and a minute or so later, it came through the fence behind the Explorer. They walked into the yard, nibbling at grass here and there. The doe went into the garden to eat clover, while the fawn looked around the yard more than it was having breakfast.
I turned to tell Greg about the deer . . . only he wasn’t there. And the tears started. And will probably continue off and on for the rest of the day.
So many times we stood at the front door or the kitchen window and watched deer in the yard. So many times we shared quiet moments like this, at peace with each other and the world. So many things that I will never have again . . .
I listened to Raleigh Keegan’s “Handyman” this morning. Greg was my handyman, fixing a bad day with a hug and a kiss. Hugs and kisses I no longer have in my life. And “I can’t fix myself . . .”
There is no “fix” for grief. While the intense pain may lessen with the passage of time, grief never goes away, but lingers, catching us unawares at quiet moments, bringing sorrow to the surface even on this beautiful Sunday morning that God has provided.
I am lost in a wilderness that has no landmarks, no trails to follow. I have no compass to show me how to navigate through this trackless land that is now my life.
I have seen no signposts. If I have expected one to appear, this wilderness shifts its axis, relocating me in new areas of loneliness and confusion, positioning memories to lead me further into uncharted territory.
I knew there was no easy path through grief. No GPS. No guide book listing points of egress. No sherpa to lead me to the top of a high mountain where I can see tomorrow and a way out of grief.
I did not expect this wilderness that has no logic, no rhythm, no rhyme. Nor did I expect a turnpike of four lanes, with some slight curves and a few steep grades that I could easily travel.
I did expect tears and sadness, and to grieve from losing Greg until the end of my days.
I did not expect to be thrown into this wilderness of grief by the simplest of things. A “How are you doing?” yesterday afternoon had me crying off and on the rest of the day. Tuesday afternoon, tales about Greg had me laughing.
I receive clues on moving ahead. Some kind . . . Don’t sit home alone. Do something different. Get out and talk to people. Go shopping. Take a trip. Some blunt . . . Move somewhere else. Get Greg’s belongings out of the house. You can’t live in the past. And one that I consider hateful . . . He’s dead; get over him.
I have done the kind clues, without anyone mentioning them to me; they don’t lead me out of this wilderness. Our home is where I’m staying. I have given away some of Greg’s things; other things will stay with me.
Get over Greg. There is no way that is possible. I will always love him and miss him, no matter what may happen in the future. Greg was my rock, my strength, my love.
All I can do right now is to gather my strength and utilize it to wander this wilderness alone.
I will survive.
