Over the past five+ months since Jennifer died, many have reached out with care and concern and asked me how I am doing. For someone who is grieving, that’s always a loaded question. Not unlike asking an elderly person “how they are feeling today?” The rule of “be careful what you ask for” certainly applies in both cases. While the question itself is legitimate, and conveys genuine care and concern; in reality, sometimes I find myself thinking how much do you really want to know?
The most common stock answers are: “I’m doing okay,” or “I’m just taking it one day at a time.” And sometimes those statements are accurate. But, in truth, the answer can vary greatly from one day (or even one hour or minute) to the next. Furthermore, for a grieving person, the definition of the state of being “okay” is also highly variable.
Grief has a way of lurking beneath the surface and hiding around corners waiting to jump out and grab you. A word, a smell, or an image can instantly trigger a memory like one of those nasty spring-loaded steel-toothed animal traps. And those memories can evoke strong emotional responses on the spectrum from sadness to joy, but always tempered with melancholy.
Sometimes “I’m doing okay” simply means I’m doing okay. While the loss of a beloved spouse at a relatively young age is a traumatic and life-altering experience, the reality that life goes on dictates that the survivors continue to exist and operate in the real world. There is some comfort and healing in the mundane acts and routines of daily life. Though I miss Jennifer greatly and mourn her absence, I am not sad all the time. There are even moments of joy and happiness in my days. So sometimes I really am “okay.”
On the other hand, sometimes “okay” means “I’m here but barely holding it together.” Sadness and loneliness are powerful emotions which have the potential to incapacitate us. We cannot (and should not try to) keep it from happening; but I think the key is to limit how long we allow it to freeze us in place. They say it is healthy for a grieving person to cry. The physical act of shedding tears is an outward manifestation of an inner release. For me, as a full-time caregiver for my wife over the 15 months from her pancreatic cancer diagnosis to the end, I cried a little each day as I desperately tried to balance the soberness of her diagnosis with hopeful optimism of beating the odds; and subsequently, as I witnessed her decline and watched her slip away. When she took her last breath, I wept uncontrollably for a brief time.
But then there was an overwhelming sense of relief. First, for her, that it was over and that she was in the presence of Jesus and no longer in pain. Secondly, for me, I could finally be relieved of the constant physical and emotional strain of my caregiver role and get some desperately needed rest. This experience of feeling relief as the initial part of grief is, sadly, not uncommon for those dealing with loved ones with terminal cancer. It is an insidious disease which causes so much physical and emotional destruction to both the patient and those around them. Be assured, though, once the initial shock sinks in and the body partially recovers from the physical exhaustion, the relief turns in to mourning and sadness. Now, over five months have passed, and the tears still come and go. But they do not incapacitate me. Perhaps, because I shed some of my tears along the way.
So, if you ask me how I am doing, and I answer with “I’m doing okay,” just know that at that moment, I am somewhere on the spectrum. For grief is a journey between two realities. One in the past with someone who is no longer there; and the other being a new normal without that person in a peaceful co-existence with their memory. Right now, I am still in the early stages of my grief journey. I find myself clinging to memories and am painfully aware of her absence. Everything around me seems to trigger a memory and emotion...and yes, tears. I feel lonely and hunger for lost intimacies and I miss my companion in life. But every day is one step further on the journey, and, even now, I can see subtle changes in the intensity and depth of the pain; and despite what we may think, thankfully, our capacity to endure grows.
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