Additional Posts

While going through some notebooks, I found these pieces on grief I had written in the spring and summer of 2022. I thought I would add them, in the order they were written, and as one post.

Lost in the Past 11 January 2022

“Get out and do something.”

If I’ve heard that line once I’ve heard it a thousand times.

“I do get out,” I tell them,  but they look at me like I’m lying.

Yes, I miss my Greg. Yes, I love him and always will. Yes, I would live our life together again, with all its ups and downs.

No, I am not interested in dating. No, I am not looking for a man. No, I don’t have to have a man in my life to feel complete.

Will I ever change? Ever move away from Greg, emotionally or physically? Most likely not.

I have no wish to, no reason to. Even though there are days I’d like to have a man to talk to, to go out to eat with, it is a rare day that I feel that way.

I have my memories of Greg. His smile. His laugh. His hugs. His singing. His love and warmth.

Some things simply cannot ever be replaced. Greg is that for me.

So, I’ll stay lost in the past. A past much better suited to me than a future that would be uncertain. I know Greg loved me for he wouldn’t have stayed with me otherwise. I do not know that about another man.

My past is me. My life. My love. My future is me. My life. Memories of love.

I am alone and alone I’ll stay.

In My Life 5 March 2022

Where to go today? On the road. In my heart. In my writing. It feels I have exhausted all the options on any of these.

Driving is getting tiresome. I can see the beauty God is putting in the world while driving but there is much beauty on our farm that I can see without stepping foot out of the house.

My heart. Greg is in my heart. I thought it was opening to someone else but realized neither my heart nor I am ready. So, I’ll pull back into my own world and stay there.

My writing. I can do things like this but haven’t been able to get a story rolling and to the end for more than a month. I can come up with openings and a paragraph or two, know how I want the story to end, but can’t get the two connected.

The rest of my life. Stay at home a lot. Go to Reno’s for a good meal. Pet the cats. Work on the house and the yard. Read.

Learn how to be myself all on my own.

Greg’s Birthday 2 April 2022

I’m fighting the tears. So far I’ve kept them at bay.

I had my day planned. Drive Greg’s truck to Glasgow and eat lunch at Gondolier. The truck made odd noises when I put it in Reverse so that was out. I got in the new truck, checked the mail, drove to town and got gas. I put the CD of Greg in the stereo so I could listen to his sweet voice while driving. That was also out as the CD clicked constantly – something it hadn’t done before.

Now I’m in Reno’s bar once again, listening to Travis and wondering what to do once I have lunch. I need to do a little shopping but am not in the mood.

Couples are coming in while I sit here by myself. I miss Greg and our life together. I am adrift without Greg, and now the shop.

People say I need to meet someone. Why? Greg is my heart, my love, my strength.

I was at the pawn shop yesterday and one of Greg’s buddies said, “Hey, there’s Greg’s wife!” After that wonderful compliment, what more do I need.

I Fall to Pieces 16 April 2022

Two years. Eight months. Two days. Ten hours.

A lifetime. A few seconds.

No way to measure the eternity I feel I’ve been without Greg. The eternity I will be without him.

A friend and I had lunch a week or so ago, and I cried while talking about Greg. She said memories can bring tears. I told her that simply thinking “Greg” brought tears – I didn’t have to think of anything else.

It takes so little, so suddenly, so quickly, for me to fall to pieces, no matter what may be going on at the time.

And the pieces never seem to fit when I attempt to move away from the sadness. My life is a jigsaw puzzle of unmatched pieces that change their shapes from time to time, scattering my plans for  a day, keeping me unsettled, unable to envision a time when I’ll be less sad.

Some days I can think of Greg and smile, remembering our foundation of love. 

Other days, I think of Greg and I fall to pieces.

Where? 26 April 2022

Where am I living? Today? Tomorrow? Yesterday? Right now it is yesterday. My heart wants what it can no longer have. Wants what it should not want. Yearns for something I do not know.

Dragging myself out of the past is hard. And it is going to be dragging, for my heart is not willing to look to the future. I’m not sure my mind is willing either.

I know I must for the future is coming, no matter what my heart – or my mind – may want to do.

I cannot change yesterday. I cannot change the past of only three seconds ago. I need to move ahead.

I think the what I might be moving ahead to is why my heart is staying firmly in its past, for I have no idea where my life is headed other than longer days and longer nights of only existing.

Tears. Laughter. More tears. A sadness inside me that doesn’t want to leave. A longing for a change in my life – but what kind of change?

Move away from our farm? Just the thought of packing tires me. And Greg is here, and he is my heart.

A new job? That might help me move into the future. At the very least it would give me something different to do.

Get past the fear of loving again? That is unanswerable.

I am here. I know where I am, what I do and what I like. Perhaps this is where I will stay.

Killing Time 14 July 2022

Two years, eleven months and nearly seventeen hours without Greg. I‘m no closer to moving into the future than I was two years, eleven months and nearly seventeen hours ago.

I’ve changed some things in my life since then. Bought a new truck one year, eleven months and two hours ago. Sold the shop building and cleared out thirty-five years of memories three months, fifteen days and twenty hours ago.

I have done things that needed to be done – repaired and repainted Greg’s truck, repaired the Explorer, reroofed the house – but those things aren’t changes – only basic upkeep of property.

I’m not grieving over Greg as much although I am sad most days and it doesn’t take much for tears to appear. I do things on my own – dine out, drive, shop, attend concerts; I guess you could say that is a change – I had never attended a concert until Greg and I attended a Travis Tritt concert 8 October 1994 – in the past two years I have attended three concerts on my own, and have tickets for another one scheduled for October.

But to say I’ve made any changes that will add up to a future doing anything differently than I have done since Greg died. No.

I don’t date. Don’t really have an inclination to do so, although, at times, a male presence while dining out would be welcome.

There are a few places I’d like to travel to but probably won’t. Distance. Time. Cats. Money. Considerations to be taken before plans for more than a night away from home could be made.

Selling the shop was probably not a good idea. Stepping out and locking the door behind me a final time was tantamount to losing Greg again.

And something left me that night. I’m not sure what, for while I can get out and do things, deep down I really have no interest in doing so. My past is gone and it took any vision I had of my future with it.

I’ve not been able to write much about Greg and haven’t posted anything for a few months. I’ve dabbled at short stories and songs but can’t seem to get rolling and complete any.

I’ve spent a lot of time sleeping this month and have blamed it on the heat, which has contributed to it, but I know I’m just trying to escape. From what and to where I am uncertain.

So, I drift through my life, just killing time.

Another Day 11 August 2022

Another day alone. Another day I feel nonexistent. Another day wanting what I can never have again. Another day contemplating a future that will no different than today.

Another day.

Another day I have accomplished nothing. And don’t plan to.

There are things I need to do. Put gas in the truck. Dust the furniture. Sort and trash. Trim tree branches that are hitting the truck. Mow the yard.

Nothing I am interested in doing. Nothing that catches my attention.

Nothing but reading, for I can escape into a story and be somewhere else for a while. But even that is becoming problematic as too many characters in too many stories remind of Greg in some way. 

And the tears appear.

Closing A Chapter

I am writing this on a Friday while wind roars in the treetops and rain pelts the roof. It is the third day of March 2023. A day Greg and I would have been together. I don’t know what we would have done, but a good meal would have been included. Maybe a drive down random roads. Maybe see a movie after having an early supper.

Doesn’t matter. We would have been together.

I’m sure anyone reading this blog will notice the gap between December 2021 and August 2022. A gap caused by another drastic change in my life.

In December 2021, I sold the shop building. This wasn’t a sudden decision. In the four or five years before Greg’s death, we occasionally discussed selling the shop. We’d talk about it a little while, and I’d tell Greg to do whatever he wanted. I don’t think either of us wanted to sell the shop. During the thirty-plus years we were in the printing business, the shop was home as much – sometimes more – than our house was.

The shop was where we conducted business, made our living. It was where we worked long hours, where we laughed, where we fussed, where we talked with friends, where we shared meals, where we dreamed, where Greg sang while I typed, where we were Greg and Joyce – in our own place

.
A place we drifted in and out of on weekends, sometimes work, sometimes a meeting place, sometimes a pit stop on the way to another destination.

The three months I spent clearing the shop of our printing business was hard. Thirty-five years of my life with Greg had to be disposed of in some way. I wept over many things, from notes Greg had written, to the destruction of printing equipment that had served us well.

I stored things. I gave away things. I trashed things. And wept about it all.

I cried at the shop. I cried in restaurants. I cried while driving. I cried at the house. I sat at Greg’s grave and cried; one day I was hurting all over so I came home and slept by Greg’s grave for a few hours . . . it helped.

On the evening of 29 March 2022, I locked the back door of the shop for the final time. As I stood there with the key in my hand, I felt more lost than I ever imagined I could. I had been without Greg for two and a half years. Now another major part of my life was gone. Neither Greg nor the shop can ever be replaced.
I have mourned the loss of Greg and the loss of the shop the past year, and have made several attempts to write this blog post in that time. It has been extremely hard to get words to fit on the page to relate how I feel. I don’t think what I have written today fully expresses the deep sense of loss I have been enduring.

A feeling of being lost in my own life. Without an anchor of any kind. No Greg. No shop. None of the day-to-day things that were my life for nearly forty-five years. Forty-two of those years with Greg. Thirty-eight of those years in Printing Creations.

Years of having my days filled with printing work and other things. Listening to Greg play a guitar and sing. Decorating the lobby for Christmas. Chatting with friends who stopped by. Eating a meal. Making flower arrangements for Memorial Day. So many bits and pieces of my life that are gone and irreplaceable.

This is most likely the last post I will make on this blog. Grief has morphed into sadness that permeates everything I do. The days are slowly becoming easier emotionally. I still cry over Greg; I doubt those tears will ever be gone. I miss Greg and the shop; I doubt that will ever change. I am at a point that I feel anything else I write would become repetitious. If inspiration brings new thoughts on grief to the surface, I will post more.

Until then, thank you to whomever has taken the time to read my posts. The poem below was written at least twenty years ago, but it is as relevant now as it was then.

Holes
In my heart
Once filled with
People
Pets
Possessions
Now gone
Irretrievable
Only death
Will make me
Whole

“Hooked on a Feeling”

That song was playing on the radio last week when I was sitting in my doctor’s waiting room. 

It describes my life.

Hooked on a feeling. The feeling of Greg’s love for me and all the good it brought into my life for forty-two years. I will always be hooked on that feeling. Hooked on all we had together.

Simple things. Riding down back roads at all hours of the night. Watching Christmas cartoons on a snowy Saturday afternoon. Sharing a bag of M&M’s and a Pepsi.

Wonderful things. Greg’s warmth and strength. His goodness. His arms around me when a day was rough. Listening to him sing throughout a day. Snuggling against him in the night. His laugh.

Hooked on a feeling.

And wanting . . . and wanting . . . and wanting . . . all I can never have again. Wanting what is impossible to replace.

The memories are always with me, bringing smiles and tears, often at the same time. Memories aren’t the same as having Greg by my side, but I am thankful God blessed me by letting me have this wonderful man in my life for forty-two years.

I am hooked on a blessing.

"I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry"

My theme song for this date – 29 October 2022.

Lonesome all the way to the bone.

I knew yesterday morning it was going to be a long weekend. I didn’t expect loneliness to hit me this hard, hard enough that nothing suits. Nothing.

So I’ve been driving. Traffic was moving so I’ve run with it, as fast as 75 to 80 in a 45 m.p.h. construction zone. Driving isn’t helping, even with Travis on the stereo.

Nor have I been able to consider reaching out to someone to talk to or travel with. The thoughts of having to be cordial disrupts my equilibrium more than it already is.

So I’m in a truck stop in Mt. Vernon, having breakfast for lunch, debating where to go from here. I will drive over to Renfro Valley and pick up a leaf, one that is cupped, and I’ll put it on Greg’s grave to use as a bowl for the M&M’s I leave there; a raccoon comes to eat them and sometimes walks over and pats my leg.

Greg. I’ve missed him all week. Missed all we did in our forty-two years together. Long hours at work. Driving back roads half the night. Meals in restaurants of all kinds. Concerts at Freedom Hall and nights in Executive Inn – Greg’s home away from home. And music – Greg loved music, and I loved to hear him sing and play one of his guitars.

Tears have come while I’m writing this, but they have been from sadness instead of the hard grief I experienced so many times last year. Most of the tears I’ve shed the past few weeks have been from sadness. I have had some bouts with grief, but the pain wasn’t all the way to the bone, and the attacks abated as quickly as they came.

Sadness lingers, and is overridden with loneliness today. I know neither of these is likely to completely disappear from my life. I can only hope that days like today become fewer and further between.

I will survive.

Just A Few Notes

A few notes in “Between An Old Memory and Me.” A few clear notes that catch  my ear and draw me further into the song. Notes that resonate with my spirit for reasons that are unknown to me. Notes that often bring tears to accompany the memories that are always there.

The squeak of guitar strings in other songs. A riff that sounds as if there are multiple guitars at work, but I know this is a solo acoustic recording, with only one instrument, one extremely talented musician bringing the music to life. Simple melodies woven through a song, easy to remember and sing. 

Notes in the music I listen to daily. Notes weaving rhythms delicate and complex. Notes of a guitar wound among notes of a violin and steel guitar, interspersed with a drumbeat setting the pace.

Notes connecting everything Greg was and everything we were together to my life today.

A life without Greg and his music. His singing. His guitar playing. His love of concerts. His talk of music. Music interwoven in Greg’s heart so deeply that memories of Greg nearly always contain music.

He sang throughout a day. While running the press. While driving. While playing his guitar. While listening to Travis or Merle or Bocephus or Waylon or Clint.

Perhaps the only times Greg didn’t sing were when he was deer hunting. He noticed God’s music though; he would tell me of a bird singing nearby while he was waiting for that trophy buck.

He played, he sang, he wrote songs. He entertained me. 

He occasionally recorded himself, and a friend transferred the songs from cassette tapes to a CD so I can listen to Greg sing at any time. Yes, I often cry, but I can hear Greg doing what he loved. Something that I loved to hear him do.

Greg and his notes have been missing from my life since 14 August 2019. Sunday I will listen to his CD and visit places we frequented. I will laugh. I will cry. Sometimes I will do both.

And the notes will dwell in my heart . . .

The Stories Are Gone

Greg was a storyteller. He told stories about golfing, fishing, hunting, gun trading, truck trading, concerts, pool games – and pool room brawls, playing poker, family history, work, old girlfriends, drinking, church, motorcycles, bars and nightclubs, travels . . . the list could continue for several pages.

I can’t relate the stories Greg told me. Some of them had so many people involved that I did not know that I had a hard time keeping straight who was who.  Other stories, like the ones about specific gun trades, contained information that I didn’t always understand. And then there were the ones he would tell that would have me laughing so hard all I could remember was the ending.

I miss those stories. Stories told by a man who enjoyed life, who wasn’t afraid to be himself, nor to be in a new situation. Greg might not want to be in a particular situation, but he feared nothing but God.

I miss the sound of his voice, the warmth, the humor, the sadness he unconsciously let mingle with his telling of a tale.

I drove his truck to a friend’s house today (5 December 2021). Thinking of the miles I had ridden with Greg in that truck brought tears and a sadness that has lingered.

I can tell stories of our life together, of two-thirds of my life with a wonderful man whom I will always love and miss, but I am not a storyteller like Greg was. He could entertain anyone with a story, have them listening intently, and smiling when he finished.

Greg’s stories are gone. No more will I hear him recount a day on the Cumberland nor laugh while he is telling of some antic he and a buddy lived through. Greg and his stories cannot be replaced, but my memories of him stay with me, bringing laughter and tears, sometimes together.

Our story had its ups and downs, but through it all our love was always there, creating a unit that sometimes defied reason.

No matter. The stories are gone. Most of the people Greg told stories about are gone. But the memories are there . . . memories I will cherish forever.

My Week Now

Fourteen socks in the wash
Doing dishes on Saturday night
Steam-free morning bathroom
One truck at the shop
Five p.m. bedtime
Weekend drives alone
One lunch to buy
Uninterrupted reading
Onions on a hamburger

And tears
Not always visible
But always there

How Much for Your Truck?

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.

Are You Looking for Someone?

An innocuous question from a pastor of a local church; I could not answer him for I would have started crying. The pastor was just in the spirit of the day – annual festival – and I was slowly walking around downtown. I guess he did think I was looking for someone.

The someone I would be looking for is no longer on this earth. I have missed Greg terribly this week, starting last Saturday. I have managed a day or two without tears by the time I got to town in the mornings, but some little thing would bring them at most any time.

Five or six young deer in the neighbor’s cornfield two afternoons ago. A heron flying up from the swamp when I went home at lunch today. One little deer at the corner of our trees by the cemetery road this morning. Cardinals swooping across the road as I drove up the hill from our driveway. A piece of chipboard on which Greg had written “Peggy’s pattern.” Making notepads, which are nowhere as neat as Greg could make them; I hope the customer understands.

And the really hard one this evening . . . sitting in the shop, listening to a band play on the square. Greg would have been out in the crowd, talking to everyone he knew, listening to the music, occasionally coming back to the shop to check on me and tell me who all he had talked to. This is Friday night. I will be here tomorrow night, listening to a different group of musicians and missing Greg with all my being.

I know tomorrow and Sunday will be hard. Tomorrow I will be in the shop from morning until after the evening music is over, remembering all the times Greg and I hung around here when there were events downtown, and how much he enjoyed listening to the music. Sunday I will sleep in and awake without Greg in my life. 

I never expected the grief and the heartache to go away. I know both will always be with me. I did think that I could manage to put some distance between me and the tears, to less frequently be crying, even over memories of happy times; actually those bring the most tears.

Yes, I am looking for someone. Someone I will never find again. My Greg.

The Hardest Day

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.

Something Stronger

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.

Sunday Morning Tears

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.

Lost in a Wilderness

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.

It Only Hurts Me When I Cry

A line from a Dwight Yoakam song, about a breakup, but the lyrics apply to me as well . . . I have a broken heart from losing Greg to cancer two years and nine days ago.

I’ve not cried for two days. That doesn’t mean that I’m not missing Greg with every fibre of my being. I will always miss him. Millions of memories ensure that.

Apparently the hurt wasn’t showing today as one gentleman told me I looked like I was getting younger. I don’t feel any younger although two days of being alone with my thoughts, memories of Greg and a shot of Maker’s eased the tears away today and yesterday. I could do without tears for a while, even though I know there will be more days of tears to come.

Greg didn’t like to see me cry. I don’t know why it bothered him so much. Maybe it’s a male thing . . . if they can’t fix it, it frustrates them.

For forty-two years I buried pain from all sorts of things, held back tears, substituted anger until one friend told me I was angry all the time for no reason. I told her it was either be angry all the time or be crying all the time. Apparently that burial failed as I have cried more since the first of this year than I have from 14 August 2019 until then. Some days the tears are from sadness and don’t leave lingering pain; other days grief has cut to the bone – I can only hope there aren’t any more of those days in the future.

“The only time I feel the pain is in the sunshine or the rain . . . ” sums up grief. I will always feel the pain of losing Greg. Hiding the pain – sometimes I can; other times pain is so close to the surface that a simple “How are you doing?” brings tears unbidden and sometimes unexpected. 

I will live with the pain, the sadness, the grief. I will continue my life, doing things alone that Greg and I did together, avoiding some places because they were so much “our” places that I can no longer stand to set foot there, do new things, learn new things, but . . . “I tell the truth except when I lie . . .” for the “Alright” I answer to the question “How are you doing?” is not alright . . . it is an avoidance of the truth. 

I am strong enough to be alone. I will survive.

I Can't Describe It

Two years and a day without my Greg. My rock. My strength. My love. My all.

Driving was all I knew to do yesterday and had intended to drive all day. A lifelong friend called me before I hit the road, so she joined me. We did some shopping, ate lunch in one town, had dessert in another town, and took a roundabout way back to town. Along the way we talked about our husbands, the gaps in our lives without them, and the emptiness – for lack of a better word at the moment – we felt without them.

When I said emptiness would be something I could deal with, my friend said there was no way to really describe the feeling. Grief is one thing. So are sorrow and sadness, and the wanting things to be the way they were before our husbands died. 

But this lacking that can’t be identified, this something indescribable, is haunting. A feeling of being unsettled, lost in a wilderness that has no end, no maps, no paths, no markers, no guides to let me know where I am going nor who I am at this point in my life, is about the best way I can describe this feeling my friend and I talked about yesterday. 

I know I’m sad and doubt that the sadness that underlies everything I do since Greg’s death will ever go away. Grief will always be with me; today I’m grieving, but without the intense pain that has accompanied grief many times. Though I don’t really feel lonely, some of the feeling of being unsettled may be loneliness – I don’t know.

Today I have cried. I have done housework. I have listened to music. Nothing suits. Nothing appeals. Nothing helps. I have tried driving, but couldn’t manage that today. I can’t get interested in reading which, for me, is as unusual as pigs growing wings. I don’t want to interact with anyone in any way. 

So . . . I’ll return home. Have a light supper. Go to Greg’s grave and talk to Greg and God. Shed tears of grief and longing that today will be tinged with frustration. Wonder what my life will be like tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, ten years from now.

Pray that God’s peace will settle my mood and provide a night of restful sleep to enable me to face another tomorrow without Greg.

And I still won’t be able to describe this feeling.

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.