Grief Bides Its Time

Grief is patient. It plots and plans, watches and waits for its perfect moment. The moment that I won’t be expecting a frontal attack, much less a flanking maneuver, then swoops in with all its forces, trampling my defenses, and defeating any countermeasures I may bring into play.

While last weekend was sad and lonely, I drifted through on a fairly even keel. I cried some but not much at a time. I enjoyed the beauty God has presented this Spring, and by Sunday evening was doing better than I had been the rest of the weekend.

Monday and Tuesday were good days. Oh, I missed Greg at every turn; that I will do until the end of my days. I did things that needed to be done for customers and worked on putting together flower arrangements for tombstones.

I visited Greg’s grave Monday and Tuesday mornings and late afternoons. On Monday afternoon I was at peace while sitting there, the weather suited me, and everything was so beautiful in the pasture that I could have sat at Greg’s grave all night. Both Monday and Tuesday I talked to Greg about the day’s events and about things we had done in our life together, laughing frequently. Tuesday evening, in the moonlight, I walked back to Greg’s grave and sat and listened to crickets and tree frogs, and the buzzing of some large insect as it wandered around the hill.

Wednesday morning I wasn’t in a rush and the morning was sweet, so I walked to Greg’s grave and sat there for a half hour or so, listening to songbirds and crickets, and seeing what wildflowers had bloomed during the night.

I got in the new truck and started to town. Grief launched its attack before I got out of the driveway and by the time I got to town I was an emotional mess. Every time I got in the truck on Wednesday, I cried, and have no idea why, for Greg hasn’t even seen the new truck, much less ridden in it. By lunch I had had to do a half dozen things around town that required driving so about the time one bout of crying was easing up, I’d need to do something else and the crying started again.

A friend chauffeured me around hither and yon Wednesday afternoon, getting the new truck home, Greg’s truck to the mechanic and me back to the body shop to pick up the Explorer. By the time this was finished, I was exhausted and starting to hurt from tension. I was hurting so badly by the time I got home that I went to bed at six p.m. but the pain didn’t stop enough for me to get any restful sleep. Thursday and Thursday night, Friday and Friday night, I hurt all day and all night. I know I’ve said before that grief causes pain clear to the bone, but up until around two p.m. today, even my bones have been hurting. I’m still tense but most of the pain has subsided.

While I don’t know what brought on such an overwhelming bout with grief, I do know that I do not want to go through another three days like the past three. The emotional pain itself undermines my desire to do anything; with the physical pain added, simply breathing seems like too much effort to expend.

Grief apparently wants me as its prisoner of war.

Long Weekend

Early Sunday evening

I’ve had a lonely and sad weekend. Even though I interacted with a few people this weekend – the gentleman who gave me a quote on tree trimming, the barkeep at Reno’s when I gave her my order, and my friend and her husband during lunch today – overall I have been sad and lonely.

I awoke that way Saturday morning. Even though the conversations I had with other people were pleasant, the sadness and loneliness didn’t subside. The heat hasn’t helped; it’s added crankiness.

Right now I’m sitting in a shaded pull-off on 704. Crickets and birds are making music, and a lone tree frog is blending his voice with their melodies. White clover in bloom scents the air. Daisies and blackberry blooms add splashes of white amid the fescue and other grasses. Red clover and wildflowers are scattered through the grass. Trees are fully leafed out, providing cooling shade.

A beautiful place. A peaceful place. God’s grace in abundance.

I came here hoping to elude the sadness and loneliness. God’s peace is with me but the sadness and loneliness linger. While they aren’t as wrenching as when grief waltzes in with torture on its mind, they are tiring, leaving me exhausted mentally and emotionally. 

I will return home and visit Greg’s grave as I have done both morning and evening several days this past week. I will talk to Greg and talk to God, watch the broom sedge sway in the slightest of breezes, and listen to the birds talk as they are settling into their nests for the night. 

Maybe a second dose of God’s creation will lift my spirits and the sadness and loneliness will be gone by morning.

Right Turns

Saturday afternoon

This morning I gave directions to a gentleman on driving from Walmart to some trees I need trimmed.

Six right turns.

That got me to counting turns I make while driving. Five rights and a left to the shop – five right turns and a left to get back home. Seven right turns and a left to Reno’s bar.

And wondering if I have made enough right turns in my life since Greg’s death.

Without Greg at my side I follow roads I am unaccustomed to traveling. All I can do is strive to make right turns for my life until the end of my days.

Freedom. Not Really.

I woke up this morning with just one thing on my agenda: meeting someone to get an estimate on tree trimming. Other than that, I could do whatever struck my fancy.

Drive to Louisville. Shop for a new wardrobe. Go to a movie. Rent a houseboat for the night. Dine in the fanciest restaurant around. Spend hours in a bookstore. Walk through a state park.

Whatever I wanted to do.

I don’t have to answer to anyone about anything I might or might not decide to do. No one is expecting a phone call from me. No one is making plans that include me. No one is waiting for me to come home.

No one. But I am not free.

Grief is taunting me today. Telling me all the things I might have been doing with Greg today instead of rambling alone.

Driving down back roads. Sharing a Pepsi and M&M’s. Watching Crocus Creek flow. Listening to Travis Tritt’s music. Gun trading.

Oh, I could do any of those alone. But I could not face them today as Greg is not here to share these things with me. 

My only responsibility right now is to myself and my cats. I can do most anything I choose. But I am not free. Memories and grief tie my days in fetters of sorrow, sometimes making me unwilling to do anything without Greg at my side.

Freedom is illusive.

Rainy Days and Sundays

Rainy days don’t get me down. Sundays . . . an entirely different story.

Since Greg died, most days feel like they are either a Friday or a Sunday, sometimes the two entwined. Many Friday evenings we left work and went to a movie. Sunday afternoons we ate out or rode around, sometimes both. Those times were our relaxing times together, nothing we had to do but be with each other.

This Sunday has been particularly rough. The rain this morning didn’t dampen my mood; getting up and knowing Greg was not in the house with me had already done that. I’ve done some housework, driven a hundred miles, bought some things I needed, listened to some Travis, read a little, admired God’s handiwork . . . and cried. 

Even though I’ve cried most of the day, grief hasn’t had me in the depths of despair as it has done many times before. Today, I’m missing Greg desperately, wanting his presence and knowing I can never have him in my life again. All my thoughts of Greg bring tears, no matter how pleasant those thoughts may be.

My Sundays are sad. I can sit in the yard and enjoy seeing all that God has made that surrounds me. But sadness lingers, seeming to be a tangible part of the landscape, as if our farm is also grieving over Greg’s loss.

I can’t skip Sundays. I can only hope they eventually become less sad.

All By Myself

. . . Words from a song that have been running through my head most of the day . . . now I’m going to have to look up the lyrics to see what the rest of the song says.

All by myself on a glorious Saturday afternoon with the temperature above my comfort zone of sixty to sixty-five degrees. All by myself. Driving. Dining out. Shopping.

No matter what I do, nor where I go, I will return home all by myself.

All by myself. For the rest of my life. All I can do is endure the next thirty years without my Greg and his love for me.

Strength to endure. God is supplying all my day-to-day needs so I’m sure He’ll supply the strength also as He is all I can rely on each and every moment.

All by myself on this physical plane. Supported and loved by God on the spiritual plane.

I am not as all by myself as I feel at times.

We Had No Song

Through the years, I’ve read many books that would have a couple mentioning “their song.” I was listening to some random music this afternoon and “our song” was in the lyrics of one song. And that set me to thinking . . .

Greg and I never had a song that could be called “our song.” The closest thing we had to “our song” was Conway Twitty’s “I’d Love to Lay You Down.” Greg would occasionally sing that to me.

If repetition counted, George Jones’s “He Stopped Loving Her Today” would definitely in the running for “our song” as Greg sang that song -- and ONLY that song -- for at least a year after it came out. I heard it so much that I was at the point of hunting down George Jones and strangling him.

However, “He Stopped Loving Her Today” could be “my song” as that is when I will stop loving Greg . . . when the wreath is on my door and they are carrying me away . . . for “I Stopped Loving Greg Today” whenever that day may come.

Leveled-Out Week

Mostly.

Sunday morning I was in a fairly good spot emotionally until I talked to Greg’s “daughter” in Walmart for a few minutes. So many memories appeared -- of Greg, her and me at work, times she rode with us to deliver work, times she and Greg would argue about something -- usually reaching an agreement without too much bickering.

Tears followed, through my shopping, through driving to the shop and checking email and feeding the cat. The tears dried up around noon but the rest of the day was saddened.

I’ve shed some tears the past few days, but not as many nor with the intensity there has been the past few months. I don’t know if this is an indication that grief has decided to ignore me for a bit or is plotting a comeback that will devastate me.

I hope there is no comeback. The occasional tears I expect and can usually chase them away with pleasant thoughts of Greg. Lasting through a full-fledged attack by grief is rough and recovery time is lengthy.

So far this week I have done daily routines, sat at Greg’s grave and talked to him and talked to God, petted the cats, mowed the yard, listened to some music. I have thanked God for all He does for me, and started writing a blessings journal. I’m still writing about things that bother me, and letters that I cannot send, and burning them.

Maybe the accumulation of all that I’ve done has helped me have an easier week emotionally.

Oh, I miss Greg -- constantly, with ever fibre of my being. My life will never return to what I consider “normal” for Greg isn’t here to share it with.

My mood may have leveled out but my life never will.

What My Hands Want

There seem to be a zillion things that I need to do, at the house and at the shop. Cleaning, of course. Sorting. Trashing. Filing. Giving away.

I start one thing, work on it for a few minutes and stop. I start something else, work on it for a few minutes and stop. I’ve repeated this starting and stopping before I finish something for months. There is plenty for my hands to do. Plenty of necessary things. Plenty of things that need to be dealt with. Plenty of work to keep my hands from being idle.

Occasionally, I finish something because a customer needs it.

I have finally realized that my hands aren’t wanting to work. They are wanting Greg. Wanting to massage tension out of his shoulders and neck. Wanting to feel the texture of his hair and beard. Wanting to feel the warmth of his hands. 

Wanting something neither they nor I will ever have again.

Greg Won't Be There When I Get Home

The anger of last week faded away in the night. My mood was leveled out this morning, and while I didn’t have what could be called a happy day, it was calm.

I did a few odds and ends. I finished reading a book I’d been reading on all week. I did a little shopping. And I went to Greg’s grave to sit and talk to him a while.

Then grief crept in, starting with a few tears as I talked to Greg about things we had done, and my telling him that I miss him and will never stop loving him. The tears occasionally running down my cheeks I could deal with.

But grief wasn’t satisfied with a few tears. It wanted wrenching sobs and painful heartache to remind me of what I have lost and can never have again. I endured them, for what else could I do, and right now am feeling washed-out and exhausted.

And wanting to drive and drive and drive and drive until there is no road, no place to go, nothing in sight but emptiness. What I would do when I got to such a place I have no idea. I most likely would have no choice but to turn around and drive back home.

Home. A house filled memories. Memories of Greg. My Greg. Who will never again be there when I get home, no matter how many miles I may drive.

Embracing Grief

After this past week, I have decided that fighting grief is an exercise in futility. No matter how much I try to keep it at bay, it overcomes all my resistance and frequently brings me to tears.

The most innocuous things bring tears. I ordered some cement sealer and stain today from a company in Connecticut. I told the nice gentleman on the phone that I wanted to stain a deer statue to use as part of Greg’s tombstone. We discussed differences in concrete finishes, the chemicals that might be in concrete and affect the stain -- then, near the end of the conversation, he offered condolences.

And the tears came. Just thinking about it hours later brings tears.

This has been my life for nearly two years.

I have fought grief. I have let the tears fall at times I probably should not have. I have tried to force myself to have -- if not happy -- pleasant and peaceful days.

Nothing works.

Embracing grief and all the upheavals it brings seems to be my only choice. If I allow myself to let grief wrap me in its darkness as often as it likes, will it become bored with me and dissipate sooner? Or will I sink deeper into its clutches, never to resurface?

Grief is not easy to live with. I am tired of experiencing sudden tears, the pain that arises when I least expect it, the loss of stability in my moods throughout a day.

So, I will embrace grief. If this means long nights of tears, so be it.

Something has to give and I don’t intend for it to be me.

Traveling Without Music

This past week my emotions have run the gamut from grieving over Greg to mad as hell for no reason to being at peace while appreciating God’s handiwork to laughing at something silly a friend said. The overriding emotion is anger; I have no idea why it is here nor what brought it on.

I have thanked God for the beauty He provides daily. I have sat at Greg’s grave and talked to him. I have done yard work and odds and ends of other things. I have done things I normally do.

Except for listening to music while driving. Only one day have I listened to any music while driving and that was on a fast trip to town and back. I was in an angry mood and the music playing on the Explorer’s stereo could be considered rebellious -- you know, aimless wandering, doing things my way, confrontational.

(I did listen to Travis Tritt’s new album -- Set in Stone -- at the house. The acoustical version is good whiskey-sipping music. I also listened to Travis’s music while sitting in Reno’s bar this afternoon.)

Mostly I have listened to the silence of the road. The wind flowing around the cab of the truck. The radio antenna singing. The song of a bird sitting on a fence post.

The sound of rubber meeting the road has brought the anger down to a slow simmer, though I feel it could become a full rolling boil at the slightest provocation. So . . . I am avoiding people and music while driving.

I have no idea why I am avoiding music. Perhaps the memories of Greg it brings and the following tears. Perhaps the sorrow and frustration I feel knowing Greg never accomplished what I know he was capable of doing with his music. Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . I don’t know.

I will return home and absorb the silence echoing there. Songbirds. Tree frogs. Owls. Breezes in the trees.

I will sit at Greg’s grave and watch the sun go down. I will talk to Greg and talk to God. Watch broom sedge sway in a breeze wandering across the hill. Hope another dragonfly blesses me with a visit as one did Tuesday afternoon, brushing its wings against my arm.

Will God’s silence calm my chaotic emotions? I hope so. I need some stable and consistent peace.

Driving to Nowhere

Since the tenth of February, I have put five thousand miles on one vehicle. I don’t know how many miles I have put on my other two. Other than a trip to Pikeville in February, I have not been to a town farther than fifty miles from home.

I have mostly driven aimlessly, though sometimes I had a particular restaurant as my destination. I have driven on two-lane and four-lane roads. I have driven through rain and fog, some snow, dreary days like today and days of cloudless skies. I have watched Spring arrive in all its glory.

I am driven by grief, unsettled in my bones, wanting what I know I can never have again.

So I drive. To nowhere. For nothing. Aimless and lost, knowing the way back home but not the way back to me.

I will drive until my spirit finds peace.