Daryl Wood's Blog

A few months ago I joined two online sites for Widows and Widowers. I wanted to find people who were grieving the way I am or at least close enough that I felt I wasn’t doing this all wrong. At first, it felt good to read about the struggles that people were having weeks, months, years and even decades after losing a spouse/partner. It felt reassuring that my reactions were normal. Some of the stories were told in heartbreaking detail of daily struggles. I saw myself over and over again.

Then one day I realized that it wasn’t really helping me to be reminded of my pain and suffering. As I moved along my path I wasn’t sure what I wanted but it didn’t feel like this was a good fit anymore. I had only posted one comment that had only a few vague responses. I got it. The way I posted didn’t resonate with many people. I kept reading the raw anguish that came from people and how everyone said this was a safe place to express all your feelings. I wondered how ‘safe’ a place could be with over 2,000 members from across Ontario. I was reluctant to share more and left the group.

Tonight, I long for connection, for comfort, for Doug to be here with me now. It is this feeling of desperate loneliness and despair that I realize moves people to do desperate things like join a group and pour their heart out to thousands of strangers. After all, I’m posting on this blog which could be seen as the same thing. And right now, it feels like I am doing it out of desperation. Each of the wonderful people who pause their lives to listen and hold space for me are not available. It happens. And when it does, I tell myself that this is a sign that I’m supposed to figure it out and manage it for myself; this is my work in this lifetime to learn to be self-sufficient and self-soothing. And I hate this work. At least right now I hate it. I want a companion. I want someone committed to my wellbeing. I want someone to just listen to how hard this is for me right now. And more than anything, I want Doug. And no one can give me that and no one can even fully understand how this aching for him robs me of the joy I’ve experienced these past few weeks. Even last night watching a spectacular fireworks display with a young couple I love dearly (and who love me back) I was so enthralled I forgot for the moment how the longing cuts like a knife to my heart. Today I’m trying hard to stay in a space of gratitude the best light show I’ve seen in decades and for the gifts of friendship and time that have been given to me lately and over these past unbelievably long months.

I’m trying. I’m trying because the risk of doing something desperate, whatever that might look like, is always present in these dark, dark moments. And I know that if I wasn’t spending day after day sorting through years of accumulation in Doug’s garage I might not feel this way. If I wasn’t watching the cottagers coming back and setting up for the summer I might not miss what was our prime time of year. And if I wasn’t trying so hard to distract myself from my feelings I might find some relief in just letting it consume me until it runs out of steam.

So maybe writing this truth is my own form of desperation. And maybe it is therapeutic in some way. And maybe I’ll read it again in a month or a year and know that I survived another desperate moment.