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.