A month or so ago I wrote a poem. Poetry is not my forte, and I won’t embarrass myself by sharing it. But the gist of it was that, even as I tried to prepare myself for what I knew was coming by imagining Jack gone, I knew that when that time actually came, I would be imagining him here.
And so it is—a challenge for the imagination; the chair sits empty, the house is quiet.
Of all the messages of condolence and caring that I’ve received, the one that speaks most clearly is this: We all must decide for ourselves how to deal with grief. It’s a lonely job
On this surprisingly warm November morning, I am at the lake, watching the day break over the familiar expanse of Agawa Bay. The hills are still shrouded in mist, and the forecast is for a sunny, almost spring-like day. I will hike with a friend.
It is not the first time I have watched morning arrive alone at the lake. Indeed, there is nothing I have done over the past three weeks that I have never done alone before. I am a person who has often craved solitude, insisting that occasional stretches of it contributed to a solid marriage. That was a hard sell for Jack, but he came to accept it.
This solitude is different, of course. Invaded by memories. Seasoned with tears. Heavy with permanence.
Jack has been gone for almost three weeks. Officially. In fact, over the preceding couple of months, as the cancer took over his brain, the man I had known for more than half a century gradually faded away. I was missing him, grieving for him, before he was gone, though I kept trying to reach him in ways that were frustrating for both of us. I gained real respect for those who live, for years, with dementia.
It is also a solitude gently and frequently interrupted by friends who have been with me from the outset of this journey, who know me well, and who continue to ensure that I have comfort and support when and how I need it. I cannot imagine a life without them.
I am groping for my own way to manage the lonely job of grieving—sometimes restless and unfocused, sometimes numbly going about my usual routines, sometimes having a conversation with the man who is not in the chair. Sometimes forgetting altogether that I am grieving as I laugh at a funny comment, or become animated about the American election.
And more often now, watching day break and knowing that I will be okay.
“Heavy with permanence”
I cannot yet imagine this kind of grief, but I think it describes the initial black hole so perfectly. Such a kind and good-hearted man. And given my unique perspective, it was his positivity and genuine joy that always struck me as most uniquely Jack. That is a credit and testament to the life you built together.
So, you occasionally find yourself talking to a chair. I still find myself occasionally talking to the cardinals who come swooping to my feeders whenever I feel particularly low and am missing my parents with an ache. I figure as long as your chair and my birds aren’t talking back to us, we’re good. 🙂
Paula, you write with such grace, clarity and honesty. Thank you.
“Heavy with permanence.” That says so much.
“Heavy with permanence”, you capture it so perfectly. Juxtaposed with the impermanence of us all.
Im happy you’re able to hike with a friend in this blip of wonderful, summery weather. Thinking of you, as always.
Paula, thank you for your openness and honesty. Beautifully written as always.
Hello Paula
It is so sad and I won’t be someone to tell you to ‘get over it’ or assume that in a few years you will be over it. When my first husband died at age 35 I never got over it. He is still with me. Back when I started a relationship with Sven he understood and held me and hugged me when I cried on important days…Lloyd’s birthday, anniversary of his death. In the last year I contacted his doctor from all those yrs ago, 1976, and we had a good talk. He lived around the corner from us and he was supportive after Lloyd died. I didn’t know him before that time. It was sad when he’d been dead as long as he was alive, but it’s way more than that now.
Sven has been dead for years also. We had a good marriage but he was nearly deaf so we didn’t have discussions in the last years. That was sad. We used to talk and talk and share the same books and he was very good to my youngest son before we had any kind of relationship. Of course we knew each other because we were both lawyers in a small town and then put our offices together before having a relationship.
I loved looking at pictures of Jack. Such a good person. Eventually you won’t be counting weeks but he’ll always be with you and I think that is good. Recently I was looking thru some old address books from the early years here. So many people have died. It’s just amazing, but that’s life. Still, it’s sad to think of all the feelings of loss that the survivors have. I’m glad that you have friends to walk with and share things with. I’ve been thinking about what your life would be like. Such a lovely place to live but it’s not so much where we live but how we do.
That’s more than enuf.
Beautifully written. This may help others who are frightened of the grieving in their futures.