Sadness versus Grief & Epilogue

It hit me recently that I have had little to share of my own story here in over a year. Oh, don't get me wrong. It's not that there haven't been things going on. However, in terms of anything specifically related to this journey through Hell that is grief, there has not been as much, or at least not much new. Two more anniversaries of her suicide have gone by, one relatively benign (if such a word can ever fit) and the last harsher than experienced for several years. It seems that's par for the course. I doubt that day will ever completely pass me by without the sting of it taking my attention, if even for a moment.

I've come to accept that this journey leaves it's marks. Whether it's from the price of entry or what goes on during the trek, it leaves its traces and scars. No one I've met and talked to on this road has come through completely unscathed and unaffected. It does have benefits, again if that word can ever be used without a twitch or twinge. Greater compassion for others, greater understanding of what truly matters in life, less concern about things that don't matter, increased self-awareness...all of these seem to come, to one extent or another. But there are also prices exacted for them, some of which seem to be ongoing. At this point, I can't say for sure. It has been just over six years; I don't know how it will look or be by 10 or 15 or 20.

I do know, though, that it is no longer the central, dominating point in my life. I know that not every waking moment is, if not defined by the grief and loss, somehow touched or tainted by it. I don't recall a day that has gone by where some thought of her hasn't come to mind. However, they no longer consistently have the power to take my breath away, to drop me to my knees, or even to stagger me. Again, don't get me wrong. Those things do still happen. They have become more occasional, though. Much more the exception to the rule. More often these days, when they do affect me like that, it is more of a brief stagger than a near-collapse. I imagine it to be like someone with an old wound from a bygone injury, who sometimes feels the twinge in a knee or feels an arm briefly go weaker. Reminders but not catastrophes.

I had thought this might only be an epilogue to the story I started telling here, but it seems there is one last idea that wants to make itself known, and it's tied to the idea of there being a coda to at least this part of my story. Life has moved on, and not all the ways in which it has done so have been painful or bad. I've found new accomplishments and the ability to find joy and satisfaction again, both in new things and in returning to some I'd feared permanently contaminated by her memories and loss. Perhaps one of the greatest has been having the capacity to see a future returned to me. Before then, looking ahead showed me only a series of grayscaled images of me, standing in front of a house with a car in the driveway and a cat in the window. As they'd progress, perhaps the details would change, a new car, a different house, a different cat. And me just getting older until my time would just...run out.

That's not the case anymore. I can now see a future. The images have color and vibrancy to them, and they call to me. I find I've had a return of the capacity for hope that I'd started to believe had been burned out of me by the sadness and confusion and fear. It's still a new thing. I'm still having to learn how to balance it out in my experience again, not being too driven or carried away by excitement. At the same time, also not getting overwhelmed by the occasional fear something might not work out and those seemingly fragile hopes might be dashed. But that doesn't seem like dealing with grief and loss anymore. Instead, it seems like it's re-learning how to live, revisiting lessons from my teenage years. As uncomfortable as that can be, I'm OK with it. Coming alive is a good thing.

Just as important, I've found the capacity to love again. That's a long story, one for another place and another time. What is relevant is that it's returned. As of just over a week ago, I got engaged. Yes, there is some fear of things ending as they did, or at least as badly as they had, before. But now there is also the hope that they may go well. Along with that, there is the feeling that the chance is worth taking. One complication is that she lives in another state. It's a situation we're working to resolve, though it won't happen as fast as either of us would like. For now, we're having to content ourselves with visits when and how we can. She just left four days ago from such a visit, which was when our engagement was formalized between us. Seeing her off at the airport was, as I'd expected, painful. Adjusting to her not being here again has also been hard.

It's brought what I'd first been tempted to call the final lesson. Realistically, though, I'm not sure of its finality, so perhaps it's better to say the latest lesson: sadness is not the same as grieving. The first time she left, it was nearly devastating. Even though the visit had gone well and all was good between us, I found myself reacting as if she had disappeared from my life for good. The water glass and coffee cup she had used went unwashed on my countertop for weeks. I couldn't bring myself to undo those reminders that she had been here, that we had shared some cherished time. There were other indicators, too, all of which told me I was desperately clinging to those memories, and much of that from the fear that was all there would be. Irrational, I know, but nonetheless undeniable.

This time around, though, I can see that coming up, and I have the sense of sadness. I also can see how it differs from grieving a loss. Yes, it still hurts that she isn't here. I suspect that will be the case for at least several more days. But I can bring myself the reminder that she isn't gone, not in any permanent sense. I have reminders enough, not the least of which are two pictures of our hands together with her engagement ring clearly prominent. I know she loves me and wants me in her life as much as I love and want her. I know I will see her again, and that the day will come when such departures are much more the exception rather than the consistent state of affairs. I'm learning how to be sad again, and not fall back into grieving what part of me still fears is a tremendous loss. Much like learning to have and manage hope again, it's another lesson to re-learn. It's another that I take on willingly, and even gratefully.

For now, it seems the story I have to tell here has come to its close. Mine hasn't; it still goes on. But the purpose for this blog seems to have run its course.  I may put up more; I may not.  Regardless, I'll leave this here for others to find as they may need it. I know the stories of others helped me make it through. Knowing that someone else had had to trudge these paths, to push through each of the circles and layers of Hell, and had been able to come out on the other side gave me hope. I'd offer it out to those who sadly must follow, that it might be a similar source of hope and encouragement. As frightening and painful as it can be, this kind of Hell has no power of its own to hold us fast. It only gets that when we stop pushing through ourselves. Each step might be only a fraction of a millimeter, but each fraction brings us closer to the final egress. There are times to fold and cry, times to stop and rage, times to pause and question the apparent capriciousness and cruelty of creation. If we can continue on, though, we will make it out. In Dante's original work, it meant making it down through all the circles of Hell, finally past the lake of ice in which Lucifer was forever frozen, to find the ultimate way out and onward. It can be done. It requires only willingness and persistence.

To those that follow, know my heart is with you. For what it might be worth, know you have my blessing, my encouragement and my love. This Hell cannot stop or bind you. You can make it all the way down, and ultimately out. Others have made it. I am no saint, and if a man like me can make it through, then rest assured you can as well. Know we are on the other side, cheering you on. Despite its power to frighten and confuse and sadden and enrage you, Hell ultimately has no hold on you. Your heart and spirit are your own.

You can get through. You can get out.

PSA for DGI's #1--Looking OK Does Not Always Mean Someone Is OK

One of the things that multiple widows and widowers I've talked to have mentioned is that there have been many experiences with well-meaning but apparently clueless people (heretofore known as DGI's, or those that “Don't Get It”) who early on have commented on how well they're handling things, how well they're doing. That they seem to be taking the news so well, that they're seeming to be calm and level-headed. It's usually intended to be a compliment. Based on what they were seeing, it's understandable. The person they're looking at who has gotten news of a world-shattering experience isn't seen to be crying or wailing or gnashing their teeth. No rending of clothing, wearing of sack cloth, dusting their heads with ashes. They're seen as being able to handle life. They're doing jobs, taking care of the kids (if any), keeping up the house, and not obviously freaking out. They don't seem to be acting like people in movies or on TV who frequently will be more obviously distressed. And so the DGI is impressed and wants to pay a compliment.

The problem is, sometimes it just doesn't fit. The DGI doesn't seem to understand that one phase of grief does involve tears and anger and yelling and distress. That is certainly an indicator that someone's hurting and having a hard time coping. But there's a phase that's worse than that. Shock is a much more concerning state for someone to be in. One of the best illustrations of that came from the television show M*A*S*H*, about an army mobile hospital during the Korean war. In one episode, a general who sustained a minor wound is complaining to the colonel in charge of the camp, asking how long the men have to scream before they get help. The colonel responds by calmly and tiredly telling him that it's the ones who can't scream who need to be seen to first.

Shock is what happens when the body is hit and hurt so badly that, instead of focusing energy on screaming out warnings and alarms, the concern is strong enough that it starts shutting down nonessential things. That's why people who are in shock will seem calm, despite having been badly hurt. It's why they'll pass out, when the body shifts blood flow away from the extremities and pushes it toward the internal organs to help keep them alive. If they can stabilize enough to start screaming, that actually means they're doing better, not worse.

The same holds with emotional functioning. When the “usual” or “normal” kinds of bad things happen, people get angry or yell or cry or otherwise act up. However, when something a lot worse happens, then some of t he internal parts of the person shut down. They just don't have it in them to even be able to cry or scream or yell. If you take a minute and look into their eyes, you can see that parts of them are just...shut off. They're standing and walking and talking, but other parts of them are just...not doing anything at the time. The fact that they're not screaming and crying doesn't mean they're doing OK. For folks who are in that state, it means the exact opposite. And they know that something's very wrong, even if it's not mainly because it hurts. It's because things are numb and off-line, roughly what I'd imagine it would be like to have an accident and suddenly realize you can't feel your legs anymore.

At that time, being told how you seem to be doing so well doesn't help. It makes it painfully clear that people just don't understand how bad they're doing, how badly hurt they are. Instead of being reassuring, it tends to end up being alienating...even more than feeling that broken. So, the tip for today is, don't gush about how well someone seems to be doing. Instead, just ask how they are, and then be willing to take the response at face validity. It's more likely to be of help....trust me.

A Glimmer of Light

A couple of days ago I had a moment that, in and of itself, wasn't anything big. At the same time, the profundity of it was earth-shaking. I think if I hadn't still been sick and depleted and low on energy I would've been thrown for a serious loop. At least I had enough presence of mind to recognize it for what it was, the first real glimmer of light on this long journey.

As I've often told people before, I really, REALLY hate being sick. One of the main reasons for it is that it seems all of the negative, unpleasant, uncomfortable emotions get amped up by an order of magnitude. I don't just get a little irritated, I suddenly have to reign in volcanic fury. I don't get a little disappointed, I get soul-crushingly depressed. I don't just get a tad anxious, but instead have to try to keep a grip on terror that wants to run wild. Irritatingly enough, it never seems like any of the positive emotions get that kind of enhancement, which is wildly unfair as far as I'm concerned. Anyway, dealing with being sick and changes at work and general stress from around this time of year was less than fun toward the end of last week. One thing that's often helped settle things out during those times is going for a walk-'n'-talk with God, where I'll walk for a couple miles, usually have a few smokes, and have a chat with the Deity-of-my-(VERY)-Limited-Understanding. Thankfully, the weather wasn't too cold last Thursday night, so I was able to head out after work to spend a bit of time with that.

As usual, it seemed to be working. Getting to walk around and vent (quietly) to the Divine seemed to be helping take a lot of the intensity out of those emotions. It made it easier to think straight, or at least straighter than I had been for most of the day. It took a lot of the sting and burn out of the caustic jambalaya of feelings that had been roiling for most of the day inside of me. In and of itself, that wasn't a big surprise. I'd found that'd worked well before, and worked well consistently. It was the main reason I was willing to head out into the dark and cold for awhile. No, the surprising part came toward the end of the walk.

For a couple of minutes, as I was nearing the end of the loop I usually follow through my neighborhood, I found myself in a bit of a daydream, as it were. I found myself imagining what it might be like to work somewhere else. For the first time, when the idea of having some challenges with a new job came to mind, I wasn't reacting with panic and recoil, but instead finding myself thinking of some ways I might be able to get those worked out. I could see myself meeting new colleagues and co-workers and getting to know them and getting along.

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN NEARLY FIVE YEARS, I COULD IMAGINE A FUTURE WITH SOME OPTIMISM AND HOPE.

It only lasted a couple of minutes, ending shortly before I got back home. There was no intense closure to it, no abrupt departure. It faded like a mildly pleasant dream during a midafternoon nap. I wasn't left with a radically altered perception of life and the cosmos. At the same time, I knew something had happened that was deeply meaningful, even if it was small and relatively quiet. A part of myself that had been inactive for a long time had briefly sparked to life. It had breathed a quiet whisper into my psyche. Thankfully, I knew better than to try to make it happen again at that moment. It was enough to know that it had happened once. And that, if it happened once, it could and likely would happen again.

I know it's not the end of the journey. I know there's more yet to come, more to face in time. There's more work yet to be done. But this is an indicator that it's been paying off. It's a tiny thing in and of itself, and yet it speaks of huge change behind the scenes. And, at the same time, it's just a bit terrifying that it's taken nearly five years to have a couple of minutes of optimism and hope for the future again. Because THAT speaks of just how catastrophically me darlin' wife's suicide had hit me. I know that others from the outside'd seen more of the devastation than I did at first; there wasn't enough of me to be able to perceive it at the time. And it's always hard to grasp the dimensions of a labyrinth while trying to work your way out of it. But that moment provides just a bit of perspective on how horrific that damage was, and what it's taken to come just this far.

But it's still a glimmer of light, bright and pure and true. It happened once. I trust it'll happen again.

Whimsical

Yesterday was her birthday, the fifth one since her time in this world ended. She would've been 50. Like many other events over the last couple years, I found myself at a loss for just what I should be doing for it. After all, the general assumption would be something somber and serious and tinged with sadness over her no longer being here. And that felt...wrong. I know it's what might be expected, walking through the dark alone, lost in thoughts of what no longer was and could never be again. And, like I said, that just seemed...wrong. What was difficult was that I didn't know what might feel right. Which is more than a little bit frustrating. Those cultural conventions are supposed to give us the ideas of what we should be doing, the “right” steps to be taking. And they yet again seemed to be failing.

So I had to fall back on something I've learned to do in the last few years: be open to inspiration. Let me be clear on this. Just because I've learned to do it doesn't mean it's the first thing to come to mind or that I'm comfortable doing so. But it's served pretty well thus far, and was pretty much all I had left, short of doing nothing and then likely afterward feeling like I'd somehow fallen short. So I just tried to leave myself open to whatever idea might come and then not to think too much about it (which always gets in the way of inspiration coming along, at least for me). Running some errands seemed like a good way to provide a distraction for my conscious mind, to get it out of the way. Kinda like giving a little kid a toy to play with outside when you're trying to cook or clean up in the house.

And it hit me while I was driving around. She'd had a whimsical side to her. I still have some cartoon sketches she'd done a couple times. One was from when we'd gone out for karaoke. She wasn't one for singing, but she liked hearing me sing, and I always saw her face light up when I'd sing one of a couple specific songs directly to her. This sketch was of our pets forming a band: cat and rat and ferret and snake. There was definitely that innocent, playful side to her, that showed up in a lot of ways. I think it was a good counterbalance to some of my darkness, and I think it was one reason why I sometimes felt so protective of her. That included a couple times of putting myself in harm's way to protect her, but those are stories for another time. The recollection of that aspect of her felt right. So I hit a local crafts store and picked some things up. I got a tube of some plastic animal figurines. I'd thought of just finding a cat and rat, as those would likely be common. I thought a ferret would be good, too, but also exotic enough of a pet to likely not be there. Much to my surprise, one “tube” of animals had all three of those, plus a lizard, a bird and a fish. That rounded out all the animals she'd kept as pets over the years. And then I'd also picked up a coloring book and some colored pencils.

On her birthday, by the candle I lit, the plastic animals were arranged. And I spent about an hour sitting on the couch watching a movie she'd liked that'd made her laugh and coloring in the book. It felt like the right thing to do...and it was. If nothing else, if she'd been here, I think those were things she would have loved getting as presents, and that works.

More's been coming up for me since. See, I hadn't thought of that aspect of her personality in years. I don't think I'd forgotten it. I just think it was something I wasn't ready to remember. Because it opens up my own enjoyment of whimsical things like that...and the vulnerability that comes with that kind of innocent enjoyment. I don't think I was ready to deal with that before. I think things had been too raw, too scary. And now they're not, or at least not so much. I spent some time sitting with that tonight, and was good with it for maybe half an hour before I found myself closing up again. I guess that's OK for now. Being able to connect with that part of myself again, and to remember that part of her, is the important step at this point. I guess it just goes to show that healing does happen, even if we don't see it going on. Sometimes it will just surprise us from out of nowhere. And maybe it says something for me that, even though this felt somewhat strange, I was able to sit with and appreciate what it means.

In Inferno and Escape from Hell, there are references to the attributes of saints developed by those who have gotten free and wandered through Hell to try to help others through. In the second book, the main character at one point is surprised to find he has one of those gifts, the gift of tongues. There's never any mention of what he specifically did to earn it or how it came to him. He was just doing what he felt was right, trying to get free and to free others. And it just came. Much like the gift of the whimsical came to me on her birthday.

Does It Ever Get Better???

Being part of several widows & widowers groups, I think I can say honestly & accurately that this is the question I've heard come up the most often: does it ever get better? It comes up in different forms, sometimes worded just like that, sometimes asking if it keeps going like this forever, sometimes hidden in questioning what we did to deserve this. It's even often implied underneath statements of not feeling like life's worth living now or not being sure how much more we can take. There's that question that follows and haunts and taunts us. Does it ever get better?

I don't know that I can answer that with solid authority. I'm coming up on 4.5 years out, not as long as some other folks I've gotten to meet have made it. But I have lasted this long. And I've seen others who've come along, too. So, while I can't answer this question with regard to what can happen over the span of decades, I can speak for a period of almost five years.

The simple answer to that question of whether it ever gets better is: Yes. The problem with that, as with almost all simple answers to complex questions, is that while it's true it's also very inaccurate in its limitation. “Better” is a relative thing. It implies a comparison to some other thing or state of being. And it doesn't specify in what way or ways things are better. What's important to me might be relatively meaningless to someone else...and vice versa. And how much of a change does it have to be to qualify as “better?” Sure, from a purely mathematical standpoint, ANY improvement qualifies for “better.” However, when it comes down to how things feel, then it takes more than that. There's a minimum threshold (again, varying for each of us) that has to be met to notice the difference, for it to be meaningful. And, when we're still reeling from the loss, there's yet another complicating factor. At that point, about all we can compare is how life felt before the death/loss, usually focusing on the good aspects, to what life's become. We don't have the capacity at that point to see what it could become, and so usually the idea of “better” is framed in terms of closer to what it used to be.

So what do I mean by “better?” It's hard to come up with a specific definition for it. The easiest place to start is to give some examples, and then go from there. There came a day when I drove past the hotel where she'd gone to end her life and I didn't feel the urge to scream and claw my face off while driving off a cliff. And then, after that, there was the first time I drove by there and didn't realize I was doing so 'til I was past it. There was the first time I had a good memory of her come up and for the first 10 or 15 seconds it didn't hurt or make me want to howl. Later, there was the first time one of those good memories was only tinged with sadness, where that didn't become the overwhelming emotion that came along with it. There was the first night when I fell asleep and didn't realize 'til the next morning that I hadn't been thinking about how much I missed her being there. The first time I felt like I could make it through a whole day. Or the first time I felt like I could probably make it through one of the Big Days (birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, etc).

You might've noticed a theme here, of being somewhat surprised by changes. Well, that's the way it's seemed to go, for me and others I know. See, I think what happens is that we grow and heal in tiny increments every day. The problem is, when they're so small, we don't pick up on them. It's not 'til we've suddenly got a new capacity back or a notable improvement that it suddenly seems like we've healed. I think the truth is that we've been healing all along, it was just happening below the level of our awareness.

However, there's another piece to it, too. I know in the first year, it was more than just things hurting. There was a sense of being not only empty but also shattered. It came up with feeling like something should've been hitting me harder or meaning more, but it wasn't. That there was supposed to be an associated additional memory or experience, but it's just not there. Like trying to put together a puzzle and realizing that there are pieces missing. And at least one of the ones that's missing is the one that's responsible for how upset we end up feeling over things being missing. Part of what I saw only much later that meant things were getting better was that, in the second year, things hurt and were a lot more upsetting. I thought I was going backward, that I was going crazy, that I was falling apart. I understand now that it was the capacity to have things connect, to feel, that was coming back on-line. It didn't feel better, but it was a sign of things getting better. And this was only one thing that I didn't understand at the time, that I didn't see until later. There've been a LOT of those.

I remember being only a few months out from me darlin' wife's suicide and hearing the same from other folks. At the time, I didn't see how it was possible. I didn't think they were lying to me, but I couldn't fathom how it'd relate to me, to my situation. Sure, that was what'd happened for THEM, but that didn't mean it'd happen for me, too. And besides, how much was it maybe that they'd just learned to bury and hide it really well? That it felt better 'cause they weren't looking at it anymore, but it was still there? Or maybe I was just too broken to be able to do and have what they'd done and gotten. I didn't know. I just knew that I couldn't see it. And yet I could relate about so many other things they talked about. While I couldn't understand or believe, they gave me a critical element: hope. Maybe I could someday get somewhere near where they were, too.

So, does it get better? Yes, it does. When you're lost in the middle of it, no one can tell you how or when it'll happen. No one can give you an understanding of that journey. A large piece of it is just going through until you see it for yourself. When people tell you it can get better, there'll be plenty of times when it'll be hard to believe that. That's OK. If you can take it as something to give even a glimmer of hope, that can be enough.

How Have Things Changed??

This started from a post I saw from a fellow suicide widow in a support group on the 'Net. She's going back to school and posted the following: “Alrighty folks, I'm writing an essay on the effects of suicide. In your opinion, how has suicide effected your life? Financially, emotionally, long term effects? I know how it has effected me, but I wanted to hear from other survivors.” At first, I just had a couple of words come to mind. Then more than a quick response would really allow. As I've thought more about it, more kept coming to mind, and it occurred to me that it's a good question to deal with in a post.

First off, how about the effects I see as bad/negative:

• After 11 years of marriage and almost 15 years together, I've been having to figure out life on my own. That not only includes things like goals and plans, but also a fair chunk of my own identity.
• Financially I'm in a harder space than I was before. It's always easier when you can split the bills with someone else. She was also the one who kept on top of getting them paid on time, and I'm still struggling with that.
• In terms of emotions, I know it's harder for me to be happy than it was before. I just don't seem to have the same strength or intensity of positive responses to things that I used to.
• Along with that, it's easier for less pleasant emotions to hit hard. Thankfully anger seems to be fading back down to about what it was before, at least overall. However, it's still substantially easier to get sad or anxious these days.
• Physically I don't have the energy that I used to. I've recovered a fair amount, but not back to where I was. And, added to that, I picked up an arrhythmia in my heart since her death, and it's hard to think that didn't have at least some to do with it.
• I have a harder time being as focused and productive at my job. Thankfully it's not so bad I'm in danger of losing my employment, but I also know that I'm not doing as well as I used to there, either.
• I can't say I'm sleeping much worse now, because I wasn't sleeping real great in the last couple years before she took her life. However, I was able to handle running low on sleep better than I can now.
• I know this is more on me, but I picked up smoking again. I'd been quit for several years before she'd died, and was even able to stand outside with her when she'd smoke and be OK. I know it was my choice to pick it up again, but I also know that I very likely wouldn't have without having to go through dealing with not just her death but all the extra crap that comes with suicide.
• There are still a fair number of things I wish I'd have been able to do, or do differently. Those thoughts don't come up as often, but I suspect that they'll never fully go away.

These are, however, counterbalanced by some things that are positive:

• I would likely never have learned as much about cooking, and how much I enjoy it, as I've done in the last four years. At first it was primarily driven by necessity. Now, though, I'm finding there's a great deal I enjoy about it, especially seeing if I can make/do new things.
• I also likely wouldn't have gotten back into hiking the way I did last summer. And one good thing that came from that was getting to see that I can still manage a really tough hike in a pretty short amount of time, even 20 years after the first time I did it. Not bad for a middle-aged desk jockey.
• I wouldn't have made the friends I have through some of the groups that I've been lucky enough to become part of. There are some truly amazing people I've met, several of whom have humbled me more than once by what they've said and done...though never with malice. It's always been leaving me in awe, and wanting to be like them when (if??) I grow up.
• I'd thought I was a pretty good person before. However, in dealing with all of this, I've gotten to see I have depths of character I hadn't dreamed were there. Lord knows I've still got a lot to work on and some more growing up to do, but there are also aspects of me that I'm quite pleased with and proud of. One example was seeing that I could drag myself to the memorial service for a co-worker's wife who'd passed away...five months after me darlin' wife had shuffled off this mortal coil. I hadn't wanted to go. I hadn't planned on going. And yet I showed up and was able to offer a few words of condolence and support. Plus, I didn't start crying until I'd left and gotten out to my car.
• As hard as it is to admit, I'd feel like I'd be lying to not admit that my life's now better for not having to deal with her anxiety and depression and isolation and rage.
• At this point, I think I've got an overall better sense for who she was, both good aspects and bad. However, that's counterbalanced by knowing that my memories of her have gotten a bit faded and fuzzy with the passing of time, and so I'm not sure.
• I firmly believe that us being together bought her a fair chunk of the last 15 years of her life that she might not have otherwise had. She'd told me several times in the last few years I was the main thing that kept her holding on and kept her going. Well, I can now view things as having in part been what gave her a chance to deal with her stuff, and that's a lot right there.

I'm sure there's more to it than that, but those are the first things that had come to mind. I don't want to write out a novel here, or use it as an intensive, in-depth therapy exercise. I do think it's good, though, that it wasn't too difficult to identify a decent number of aspects that're both good and bad. In slogging through the Hell of grief from suicide, it's sometimes way too easy to get lost in what's broken or tarnished or stained or just....wrong. That's part of it, but it's not all. And that's good to KNOW.

Four Years: My Progress and My Choice

February 4^th is the date I.....what is the right word? It's sure as Hell not “celebrate.” That's got too much of an implication of something that's appreciated and enjoyed and brings happiness, which this day doesn't. Perhaps the right word is “honor”....or even “remember”....when me darlin' wife died. I know it's not the actual day she died. They couldn't tell me that, but from what they described (and what I saw for myself) of the condition of her body, it wasn't that day. I have my guess of when it was, but I'll likely not know for sure, at least not in this life. Regardless, that's the day that's set aside. And this time 'round, it was four years ago.

First off, I never thought I'd get this far, either in terms of what I've dealt with or even just seeing this many pages on the calendar turn by. For a long time, my goal was to get to where I felt like I could handle a single day at a time, and that was months in the coming. Even just a single year? Forget it! The fact that it's now been four (and a spare bit o' change) is still somewhat surreal. I guess it'll sink in at some point, hopefully not too close on when I'll be coming up on year five.

I wasn't sure (yet again) what to do on the day this year. The only thought that came at first was part of what I'd done last year, namely buying a couple of flowers and leaving one in front of the hotel room where she died and another at a place that'd been special to us both, where we'd renewed our vows on our 10-year wedding anniversary, where I'd scattered a bit of her ashes. As I sat with it, that idea kept feeling more and more not-right, especially at the hotel. It wasn't so much about getting “caught” as the idea that it'd be passing on at least some confusion and awkwardness to others, if not some of the pain. And yet no other idea was coming. One of the prices to be paid for going with what feels right over having a set tradition and leaving it at that, I suppose.

The day before, when I was out having a smoke, I was mulling just that over, when an idea hit me. I've got a friend who uses the term “God-winks,” and I think that fits a fair number of things. However, this felt more like what I'd heard of as a “God-bomb” in one of Stephen King's books. Bear in mind that, as I write it out here, the whole thing blazed into my mind all at once, information that felt like it was carried on a spear of light. The idea was simply that what'd happened four years ago was tragic and painful and sad, and that a lot of why it'd come about had been due to tragedy and pain and sadness. Doing something to focus on those same feelings again would, in some ways, be remaining in and perpetuating that same dynamic. Instead, perhaps, it would be better to break that chain, to spend some of the time that day praying for healing instead. I can't claim credit for having thought of that. I'm not that smart nor that wise. I'm just grateful I at least had the capacity to listen and not reject it out of hand for not fitting with how I'd been looking at things. And the more I sat with it, the more right it felt.

On the day itself, I left work a couple hours early. After dropping off my work stuff and changing out of work clothes (and feeding the cat, 'cause I had no idea how long I'd be about this), I snagged a pocket-sized notebook and a list of places and headed out. All of the places listed were ones that seemed to have associations with things she'd been able to face down and overcome or places where she'd grown. And, at each, I spent at least a few minutes there, just reflecting on what she had done and what those places had represented for her, ending with jotting a few notes on what came to mind into that notebook. The places themselves don't really matter, at least not to anyone else, and I won't share them all here. Nor will I share all the things that came to mind, as some are very deeply personal still. Some I will share, though.

I stopped by the place where we got married. She'd been married before, and from what she'd told, it had ended badly and painfully. For her to decide to take a chance on marriage again took a great deal of courage and willingness to be vulnerable again. There's no guarantee with taking that step, and it represents both a massive risk of pain as well as an equally massive chance of fulfillment and joy. I get that now, much better than when we wed. Another was the school where she'd gone for her medical assistant training. She'd believed she was smart before, but this was a place where she got to show and see it for sure. She did incredibly well, graduating with a 3.96 GPA, which was far better than I'd ever done at my best (and I told her so repeatedly). A third was a coffee shop she'd gone to for awhile, checking out a local meet-up group. She'd been somewhat leery of reaching out to a community again, and this time around was able to find a group of her own, and some good friends. That took a lot of courage, too, as well as being willing to look at what role she'd played in some not-so-great experiences before in order to avoid repeating them.

All told, I was out and about with this for four hours. It was a real challenge to stay focused on those instances of healing and growth. The sadness and anger wanted to come up, did boil up hard a couple of times. At least I was able to set them aside for the moment while going through that. The couple places before the last were hardest, where I felt the most turmoil and resistance, but after the last it felt like a huge weight was lifted. I went home and lit a candle for her, and offered all the energy and good intention that revisiting those places—and even more importantly, those memories—had pulled together. I'd hope some would go her way if she's still needing it. I reckon some stayed with me, as that's often how those things seem to go. And the rest, whatever's left over, I offered out to the Creator to share with those as might be in need.

I'm still reeling and recovering. It was an exhausting process. The way my mental autopilot has been making a lot more mistakes lately lets me know just how demanding it was. At the same time, I can also be grateful to have gotten to a point where that's something I can do. There will always be sadness and probably occasional anger or resentment about what she did. But it's good to see that I don't have to be ruled by it. If there was any question left, this proves (at least to me) that the grief and loss can no longer run or define me, not unless I let them.

Is this the final climb down out of Hell? The scramble along the frozen passage at the bottom, where the devil stands trapped in ice? The way to the Great Egress? I don't know. But if it's not, it's put me far closer to it than I've ever been. And that gives me continued hope.