A Marriage and a City

A city, a glorious city we made
Of stone and glass, of strength and beauty
Towers and halls, rivers and gardens
Busy streets and quiet pathways
Familiar routes and new discoveries.
Built together, with our hands and our hearts.

Starting with a roar we heard it coming
The shaking brought down our beloved city
Buildings crumpled, glass shattered
Gardens were buried
And streets cracked wide open
Everything is ruined, I said,
Everything is ruined.

It really just never goes away

When you lurch your way between the bottom of the pit and somewhere around the edge, you are always aware of what it feels like at the bottom. Have I said this already? The problem is that I am always aware that things are always as bad as at the very depths. The worst grief I experience becomes a permanent reality. I may be managing to paddle right now, to keep afloat, but that doesn't make the situation any better, it's just that I'm choosing to paddle. The reality and the pain never go away, just because I am paying them less attention at the moment. Which leads me to the question, is that how you survive this and carry on? By just not thinking about it so much? That seems like a pretty crap solution that has many flaws. I guess I will get back to you on that one.

Fun

Fun. I miss having fun. The little guy is fun of course. But I miss the humour that Kent and I shared and the humour that he brought. We used to have a lot of laughs. A husband and wife are a lot of things to each other, but one of these is just having fun together - that never faded for us. I miss being carefree and lighthearted. No doubt having small children and paying a mortgage and being seriously sleep deprived wouldn't be quite the same as our early married life, but compared to this of course it would be a breeze. There are fun things now, we have good days and do enjoyable things, but these come with a such large stone hung around my heart. Sometimes I want to just chuck in all the pain and sadness and say I'm done with you, but I can't, because as long as he's not here that stone will remain.

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.

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.

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.

EAH

He was to be the love of her life
Protector and defender of her heart
She would find safety in his arms
But he's gone from almost the start
Oh may she not wander and give away her gold
But keep hold of what can be torn apart

He shed tears for her when she arrived
And she'll shed tears when she knows he's gone
Together they shared just a thread of life
But that thread was golden and strong
He'll know her face in a hundred years
And together they will carry on.