November: Making Peace with My Past
If you would have told me before that I would be remembering Tim’s anniversary while enjoying myself on a cruise, I would have told you that it would never happen in a million years! To me, death anniversaries and cruises couldn’t belong in more contradictory worlds of thought than night and day, weed and stress, or even Ben and Jerry’s Toothpaste and Orange Juice ice cream flavor, for that matter! The former evokes nostalgia, reflection, yearning, sadness, loneliness, and re-living the painful past. The latter - fun, laughter, excitement, joy, celebration, and anticipation of new adventures.
Yet, that is exactly where I am at this moment – on the huge Norwegian Cruise Line’s Getaway. It is not lost on me that I would be on this particular ship and in the middle of the ocean that Tim loved so much as I remember him today.
I have always considered November as Tim’s Trifecta month, although not in a totally auspicious way. Tim died on November 25, the day before Thanksgiving, and three days before what would’ve been his 55th birthday. Like all the other anniversaries, November has forced me to look back and reflect on what has transpired between my personal Ground Zero and where I stand today. I have found that it doesn’t necessarily get “easier” so much as it has changed. It is still painful sometimes. The yearning is still there, but it is different because I have learned to co-exist with my grief and loss and that, somehow, makes it a bit more bearable.
The Early Years
In the early days after he died, I felt like I lived in a bad dream. I knew he was gone but my mind could not wrap around and grasp the enormity of what had just happened. I was mostly in a fog, so thick, that I managed to host and “celebrate” Thanksgiving the following day as if life as I knew it had not just imploded.
But once reality hit, I never realized that grief was such a physical experience – intense, visceral and bone deep. I was in excruciating pain all the time. No person, no words, no act of sympathy could bring relief. Tears? I can’t even begin to explain where they all were coming from. Just when I thought I was wrung dry, more would come - torrential and ugly sobbing. Grief was all-consuming and exhausting. Thoughts of Tim and wishing my old life back were with me at every waking moment. It seemed that everywhere I looked, there was a memory of him attached. There was no escaping him and the realization of his permanent absence. Losing him had irrevocably changed my life. I didn’t think there was any way I would ever survive this trauma.
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For the first anniversary, our family went to Monterey, California, his favorite place on earth, to release his ashes. He had made it known that when the time came, he wanted to be returned to the ocean where he would “rejoin the primordial ooze from whence all life began” (his words). It was a bitter-sweet send-off from a place he always described as so beautiful, that for sure, God came down to kiss it. We spent Thanksgiving there and somehow managed to express gratitude for having him in our lives and for the opportunity to experience Monterey and understand why he loved it so much. We felt his presence the whole time and that brought much needed comfort.
The second and third anniversaries were more difficult. With the fog gone, the real grief work commenced. The waves of grief were still tall and unforgiving, but I found it gave me some short moments of respite where I could catch my breath. I came to accept the finality of my loss and even entertained the thought of one day feeling better or normal again. My “grief pass” had long expired and now the world expected me to rejoin the land of the living and move on. I found that you can never move on from your loss. You can only move forward with your life. You can never get your old life back the way it was, but you can settle in to a “new normal.”
I had this irrational fear that I would forget about Tim – the sound of his voice, his laugh, the feel of his hands, his weekend scruffy face, his kisses and hugs, our conversations – because I could not command my mind to roll out memories of our life together. It was as if my brain decided to lock them up in some deep vault for safekeeping where I could not retrieve them. At least not yet. So like a crazy, obsessive person, I kept everything of his - even pieces of paper where he wrote phone numbers and messages, or doodles - as proof that he was truly alive once and shared a life and love with me and my children.
It was difficult to find joy at this stage and my participation in life was more perfunctory or necessary than voluntary. Grief had become my only connection to him. I felt that if I let go of my pain, I would be letting go of him too.
On the fourth and fifth anniversaries, it seemed like I woke up one day and the paroxysms of grief had subsided and the intervals between the waves now stretched for longer periods of time. While grief remained and I still thought about Tim, his absence was no longer my waking and only thought. Time seemed to soften the sharp edges of pain. Life persisted in sending me moments of joy until I finally found myself responding willingly without guilt but with laughter and gratitude.
I was finally gaining some traction on this new life.
Fast Forward
Today marks my ninth year without Tim. While I am still on this journey, the face of grief has changed and so have I. I no longer feel guilty for feeling okay and enjoying the beautiful moments life brings me. Although I have felt sorrow every now and then whenever grief wanted to remind me of its presence, it was no longer the same intensity as the early years.
Looking back, I was determined to get through the loss. I wanted to live my life as well as his. Though I was left behind in this world, I wasn’t going to let time leave me in the past. He would have wanted it that way—for me to take control of the future, even if he wasn’t a part of it. That is what was special about our love. Together or apart, our desires and dreams were interwoven; and so I can still sense his presence with me, motivating me to travel and see the world. To live on. To keep striving toward my dreams.
In a way, this newfound hope on yet another year without my husband is probably the best gift he has given me. To say, proudly, that I was able to overcome the endless waves of grief and move forward fearlessly is an achievement in and of itself. Though there are times when I still have to choke back the emotions and “deal with it,” I realize that this is me being human. Regardless of being heartbroken, lonely, and blindsided by the loss of my spouse, I was able to pick up all the shards and piece myself back together by actively setting my sights on something more.
While becoming a widow isn’t something people usually plan for or expect, it happens. When I became a widow, the world seemed cruel and cold; but I didn’t let it freeze over. Using support from friends and family, while remembering my husband, I set out into this world as an individual overcoming grief. I didn’t let the shadow of the past cloak me in depression. Instead, I chose to cast off that shadow and live in the light, taking in new experiences every single day.
Not too long ago, in a moment of deep meditation, Tim came to me looking so young and happy. He was smiling and radiating light from within and around him. While no verbal communication was exchanged I knew that his message was: “You are loved. You will always be loved even if I am not there with you. I will be here waiting for you when your turn comes. In the meantime, go live and open yourself to love.”
Now I know that for as long as I live, grief will never end; that there is no other side to get to in order to feel better or “normal” again. It has become a part of who I am. But so has our love. I know that death has no power to take away that love. I found that in letting go of the pain, I am not letting go of Tim because his memory does not live there. His memory lives in me, in my children and everyone who loved him, everything we shared together, and every way I choose to honor him. And the best way to honor him is to live my best life!
Peace be with you, November.
Music: Tell Your Heart to Beat Again by Dan Gokey (No copyright infringement is intended as this video presentation is made in appreciation of the artist and his music.)
