My beloved husband, Kent, died in January 2012, 3 years after diagnosis of a brain tumour. Our son was 2 1/2 and our daughter 3 months old. He and I were far too young. I am now hurtling through the black space of life without him.

Thursday 19 July 2012

Encouragement

I visited a guy who works in "alternative" medicine earlier in the year, as I have done a number of times over recent years. We chat a bit (as an aside to why I'm there) and I enjoy hearing his views on things. He gave me an info sheet about grief and the kinds of things you are likely to experience while grieving. He encouraged me that this was a reminder that there is light of the end of the tunnel. I will get to the other end. But I didn't like this idea, because what I was grieving over would never be OK. I know that's not what he was saying, but it's very hard to differentiate. If what happened to Kent is never acceptable and I always want him back, how can my grief ever end? (I'm sure we all agree that it won't entirely). There is no end. For the rest of my life Kent will not be here. As I headed out to pay, the receptionist held both my hands and said "I know what you are going through. It happened to me 12 years ago and it's still really hard." 12 years? Really hard? Shit it's still going to be really hard in 12 years time??!

And there you have the problem. I don't want to think it will ever be easier, and I don't want to think it will always be this hard. I don't know where this leaves me except here, where it's really, really hard and where I am grieving. I'm not in a hurry to be anywhere else. What it feels like is hell, and I don't like it, but I can't be anywhere else nor visualise anywhere else. I don't want to stop any encouragement. Encouragement shows care and concern and the knowledge that there is a positivity around me even if it isn't mine. This is good. But I also find helpful the friend who said "I'm sorry I haven't had anything to say. All I can think is that it must just be so excruciating." Exactly. Yes, exactly. And she was with me, giving words to the pain, right here, where it's really, really hard and where I'm grieving. Right now I'm not going anywhere else.

Wednesday 18 July 2012

Near

I can feel what it feels like
to have you near,
But I can't remember what it feels like
to live without fear.
I can feel what it feels like
to have you near,
But I can't remember what it feels like
to not be drowning in tears.
I can feel what it feels like
to have you near,
And I'll always remember what it feels like
to have you here.
I can feel what it feels like
to have you near,
thank goodness.

Thursday 12 July 2012

Seeing Red

So then. Anger. If I'm going to write a blog about grief, I should mention the A word. It's a phase on the curvy graph on an A4 sheet of paper that I have about grief. In reality, it's a hideous beast and of course, like much of this, feels like it will be with me forever. Don't get all positive on me and tell me how good it is that I'm working this through, it's better-out-than-in, good to process my feelings, blah, blah. I'm not sure I want to tell you how anger looks for me, but it is a very ugly and unpleasant companion. The little guys don't see the worst of it, but they do see some of it and how I hate that. It's my understanding that lots of parents with small children get angry with them at times - toddlers certainly know how to press the wrong buttons. But it's here that I realise I can't quite relate to that. I have never been a parent not living under the shadow, or crushed beneath the blackness, of cancer. It's not uncommon for the little guy (combined with my sleep deprivation) to trigger my anger, but it comes from a place, and goes to a place, far beyond him and like all of this grief, it is unbearable.