May your grief be intense for them. May your grief be brief for you.
I had lunch with one of the friends that despaired in grief on the floor with me. She’s back at work, as am I. I was running an errand in the city, and we met up. We talked about the stressful things in our lives right now, the amazing things in our lives, all the things that make up the lives of two women in their 40s. Almost like a normal lunch.
Waking back to her office and BART, we shared our amazement at ourselves. It was only a few short weeks ago that I canceled lunch with my mother because I was crying too hard and totally freaked out to even drive myself to BART, no less be among the people. Everything was overwhelming. Grief was all I knew.
We tried remembering the first month following my boyfriend’s sudden death. There were a few things that stood out – people brought us food and sat with us. There was a lot of really expensive tequila. We all got our medical cards and had cannibis delivered right to the house. There was some nonsense with probate court. His brother and I fought with his landlord. The details are fuzzy, vague. It was a time I thought would never end. “I’m lost,” was all I knew.
And yet, here we are. Ordering lunch and not falling apart. Dealing with public transportation and work and family and life, without tequila and anxiety pills. Completely amazed at ourselves.
Grief is not over. It likely never will be. There will always be a space for Rupert. It will never be filled. It is still hard to look at photos of him, of us. Still, the intense, tight grip of grief has let go. Which created a new set of feelings.
It’s too soon! I feel quilty! Shouldn’t I be feeling…?
Nope. That’s what we need to remind ourselves. We shouldn’t be doing or feeling or thinking anything prescribed. My therapist was right when she said, “humans have an amazing capacity to survive and heal.” I thought he was the rest of my life, and his death was the worst thing that ever happened to me. It still is. But somehow, I’m getting dressed, I’m making plans, I’m putting one foot in front of the other. I’m, dare I say, moving on. I kind of wish I wasn’t. But to not move on would be to stay stuck. To not survive and heal the way I am designed to.
To know that moving on means that I still love him and remember him. To carry him in my heart as a live my life.