Daryl Wood's Blog

So far I’ve repackaged the pieces of lasagna, moved the spare freezer stuff into my kitchen fridge freezer, unloaded the dishwasher and put everything away, sorted all the cutlery, put most of the linen from the laundry basket away, went outside to smell the fresh air and read through some headlines. And it’s only 5:35 a.m.

It was a night sweat that woke me up but the racing thoughts kept me from falling back to sleep. At one moment, I realized I am all alone in the house. I can stay in bed and try to fall back to sleep, listen to a guided meditation, journal, ruminate or get up and do something. Lots of options and what was hardest to acknowledge was that Doug is not here for me to tiptoe around or worse yet, listen for in the other room. If you have lost a beloved spouse/partner this might make sense.

It was a weekend of perfect weather for family guests, bike riding, kids throwing rocks in the water, watching old family slides, eating, eating, eating and laughter and tears (only from me). It was what I had hoped Thanksgiving would be like this year. And it all worked. Except when it didn’t. And those moments were so hard to reconcile. How do I stack up the deep, raw grief with the happiness of seeing little boys loving the outdoors and siblings sharing stories. I learned quickly that this grief is mine only and that keeping it private serves the circumstances. No one wants to hear about or talk about or witness my pain. Neither do I and yet releasing it (mostly in private) is the only way to heal my body because my body remembers a time when I felt so loved and wanted and appreciated no matter what I said or did. I kept replaying a comment “You still have his clothes?” said with so much judgement. It made me wish I had never given away a single thing that he had ever worn or touched. I said nothing because it was Thanksgiving weekend and I didn’t want drama. At least not for them. It would be my own secret pain to face in the field of emptiness that Doug left behind. Mostly I don’t want to be shamed anymore for feeling sad or being self-absorbed.

And some of them tried so hard to accommodate my odd requests and quirky decisions. The ‘girls’ jumped in with all hands on deck to make things run smoothly. They did so much more than most guests would have had to do if Doug and I were hosting together again. But we were not. Doug was not here. He was not here to help with the hand dishes and laugh with me over funny things and celebrate the success of a big dinner. Doug was not here to gather up the odds and ends and put the outdoor furniture away. Doug was not here to walk with me and listen and talk and just hold hands. Doug was and is not here.

I know the power of changing our thoughts. I’ve been learning and teaching this for almost 30 years. I have all the tools I need to stop the tears from streaming down my face as I write this morning. But as I learned from Caroline Myss decades ago “Knowing the way is not going the way”. If I don’t find a way to live my beliefs I’ll suffocate under the weight of loss. My friends and grief supporters will know because they will see and hear it. The staff at the grocery store will know because my face will tell the story before I say a word. But not everyone will know because it’s too hard for some of them to look at me and hold that space in the silence needed to ‘keen’ with despair.

And today I’ll work with my neighbour on a yard chore. I’ll visit a friend who is suddenly in need of help and give my attention to her as I have done so often with others before grief took control of my heart. I will make a decision about the turkey carcass, finish making beds and cleaning, make some phone calls and do all the ‘normal’ necessary things that life is asking of me. And I’ll probably cry more as I mark another day without the person I want most to be with.

In 29 days it will be the second anniversary. Grief is marching alongside me and in me and ahead and behind me. When people say that I am not alone they are right. I am partnered with grief now and for the sake of those who are willing to wait for me with empathy and compassion in their love for me, I’ll keep going. Not in the frantic pace of trying to outrun grief but in a ‘slow down’ canter that allows for all feelings to be seen and heard.

The only person who shared what they were grateful for at the Thanksgiving dinner table was a bright eyed nine year old who said “Life”.