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.