Work

After Jim’s death, I was given many books on grief from some dear friends and family and I’ve read them all.  One thing that struck me was that, over and over again, the journey I am on was referred to as “grief work.” It was emphasized in each book that I need to do my “grief work” before healing can happen. I hate that. But it is so true. It is work!

Early on, my grief seemed to be something that overshadowed my life. I was sad all the time and cried every day. It was as if a black cloud hung over me and followed me everywhere. It was a sad, dark place to be. As the days went by, I found that I had good days and bad days. Evenings were hard but weekend were the hardest. I remember waking up on the weekend mornings with puffy eyes from crying all day the day before. 

Now, I’m experiencing what are called “grief bursts” or I’ve heard them referred to as “grief ambushes.”   That’s when I seem to be functioning okay but then something happens that triggers the pain and grief of losing Jim. It’s called an ambush because it sneaks up and attacks when you least expect it. And it’s really hard.

It was May 4^th and I was out running errands. I decided to take time to vote while I was out. I went through the line and gave them my driver’s license. The gentleman looked up my name and turned the book around for me to sign. And there on the page above my name was Jim’s name and a copy of his signature. My heart ached. I remembered all the times I voted and always saw Jim’s fresh signature next to the copy of his signature. It was always there because he always took time to vote first thing in the morning before he went to work. That day it was not there.  Because he is not here. My heart ached. I thought I should really tell them about his passing, but I just couldn't. I knew it would be the end of my day if I had to say those words out loud, “My husband died last December.” The pain would come and the tears would fall as they always do, and I would be exhausted from crying. It is hard work.

One day the phone rang and for a split second, I thought it was Jim. He would often call me to check in when he and I were apart. After a second, I came to my senses to realize it couldn’t be him. It's been five months! I took a deep breath and held it together so I could answer the phone. But the pain was there, even without the tears. And I ached.

Another day, as I was driving into my garage, I thought how unruly the bushes in the front of the garage had become.  Again, for that split second, I thought, “I need to tell Jim that he should trim those back this weekend.”  He always took care of those kinds of chores.  Now, they are all mine to take care of.  I hate that too.  I walked into the house and cried again missing Jim so much.  My oldest son began talking to me and then realized I was crying.  He put his arm around me and listened as I told him how painful this all is.  I said, “Just when I think I’m doing alright, some little thing happens and I end up crying again.”  

My wise son told me, “Just because we still cry, doesn’t mean we aren’t doing alright.”  And he is right.  It’s all part of the work – the work of grief.  And it’s hard.