Good Grief
I'll be honest, I've never known anyone close to me to die, so when Brian passed last year, I got my first dose of what it was like.
The only way I can explain it is this - Grief is like being pushed off the high dive while you're wearing a super big sweatshirt, heavy jeans, and boots (because you weren't expecting to and you don't even want to swim). And the pool is filled with scary, painful, unknown, angry and sad feelings that soak into your clothes and pull you under repeatedly. And as you're struggling in all of that - totally accepting that you're here but still barely gasping for air - you look outside the pool and see all of the happy and fun memories sitting in the lounge chairs. And even though you want to enjoy those memories, somehow the angry and sad feelings have soaked through your clothes and just weigh you down - pulling you even deeper into the pool making those happy memories a part of the struggle.
Yeah - that's pretty much it. Basically, every thought of that person becomes pain.
Brian and I were divorced just as long as we were married. Ten years each. Our relationship was fine, but didn't have any regular rhythm. We'd go months without talking and sometimes we'd talk a couple of times a week if the kids had something going on or we were in town visiting for a holiday. We had completely different lives and directions. We had accepted each other and found peace in where our relationship stood. He could irritate me like only an old friend and ex husband can do - always in good fun and usually teasing me about something. But no matter what - he had my back.
I could tell so many stories of times that I called him to tell him about my most recent fuck up and how that was going to fuck up the kids.
Like when my ex fiance was getting custody of his daughter who had ADHD and I worried about how her instability would impact our kids - he told me that I would be a great influence for her and the kids would love her.
Or when I left my ex husband and I was unemployed and living in a 2 bedroom apartment, he told me that I was doing the right thing and would find a way to care for the kids - I always had before.
And when I moved to Charlotte, where I knew no one and bought a house that could be a huge money pit - he told me the kids would be happy to have a home and that I could rely on him to help if I needed it.
He always assured me that I was capable of coming out on the other side. He always made me feel like I could do it. He was my first romantic love. He was my husband. He was my friend. And in many ways - he was also my rock.
From the outside I look independent. I'm a single working woman who pays my bills and takes care of other humans. But behind the scenes - I've relied on a few people for encouragement. And Brian was one of those people that I could call - completely hysterical, hiccup sobbing - and he would tell me it was going to be okay. And even though he would offer no solution - I believed him.
We don't talk about our grief at home. We talk about Dad. We tell funny stories. I summon up old memories that the kids might not have heard every once in a while about his and my early relationship or being young parents when we were broke and things were scary.
But I have a secret. I grieve. Regularly. Usually when I'm alone. Like right now when I have nothing to do and no one expecting anything from me and I could be doing anything I wanted - I grieve.
But sometimes it hits me super hard in the most unexpected times. Happy moments.
I was moving Ceci into ODU. We had just gotten there and we were checking in. They gave Ceci a huge blue laundry bag and her room key. They gave me a parent calendar of events to hang on the wall at home... and 2 tickets to pick up "Proud ODU Parent" t-shirts.
Two tickets. One for Mom. One for Dad.
Ugh. Why can't he be here to enjoy this? He would have put his shirt on right away. He'd wear it all the time and to every family event. He would be so happy and proud of that t-shirt and of our daughter.
So, now I have 2 "Proud ODU Parent" shirts. And every time I look at them - I think of how he would have loved his.
Grief sucks. And it's hard to live with and it's hard to talk about because there really isn't a solution. But I know if he were here, and I called him right now - ugly crying - he would tell me that it was going to be okay. And I was going to get through it. And I was tough. And capable. And his favorite, "If you can't do it - no one can. But people do - and so you will also - but better."
I miss you, man. The kids miss you too. It sucks doing this without you. Wish you were here.
The only way I can explain it is this - Grief is like being pushed off the high dive while you're wearing a super big sweatshirt, heavy jeans, and boots (because you weren't expecting to and you don't even want to swim). And the pool is filled with scary, painful, unknown, angry and sad feelings that soak into your clothes and pull you under repeatedly. And as you're struggling in all of that - totally accepting that you're here but still barely gasping for air - you look outside the pool and see all of the happy and fun memories sitting in the lounge chairs. And even though you want to enjoy those memories, somehow the angry and sad feelings have soaked through your clothes and just weigh you down - pulling you even deeper into the pool making those happy memories a part of the struggle.
Yeah - that's pretty much it. Basically, every thought of that person becomes pain.
Brian and I were divorced just as long as we were married. Ten years each. Our relationship was fine, but didn't have any regular rhythm. We'd go months without talking and sometimes we'd talk a couple of times a week if the kids had something going on or we were in town visiting for a holiday. We had completely different lives and directions. We had accepted each other and found peace in where our relationship stood. He could irritate me like only an old friend and ex husband can do - always in good fun and usually teasing me about something. But no matter what - he had my back.
I could tell so many stories of times that I called him to tell him about my most recent fuck up and how that was going to fuck up the kids.
Like when my ex fiance was getting custody of his daughter who had ADHD and I worried about how her instability would impact our kids - he told me that I would be a great influence for her and the kids would love her.
Or when I left my ex husband and I was unemployed and living in a 2 bedroom apartment, he told me that I was doing the right thing and would find a way to care for the kids - I always had before.
And when I moved to Charlotte, where I knew no one and bought a house that could be a huge money pit - he told me the kids would be happy to have a home and that I could rely on him to help if I needed it.
He always assured me that I was capable of coming out on the other side. He always made me feel like I could do it. He was my first romantic love. He was my husband. He was my friend. And in many ways - he was also my rock.
From the outside I look independent. I'm a single working woman who pays my bills and takes care of other humans. But behind the scenes - I've relied on a few people for encouragement. And Brian was one of those people that I could call - completely hysterical, hiccup sobbing - and he would tell me it was going to be okay. And even though he would offer no solution - I believed him.
We don't talk about our grief at home. We talk about Dad. We tell funny stories. I summon up old memories that the kids might not have heard every once in a while about his and my early relationship or being young parents when we were broke and things were scary.
But I have a secret. I grieve. Regularly. Usually when I'm alone. Like right now when I have nothing to do and no one expecting anything from me and I could be doing anything I wanted - I grieve.
But sometimes it hits me super hard in the most unexpected times. Happy moments.
I was moving Ceci into ODU. We had just gotten there and we were checking in. They gave Ceci a huge blue laundry bag and her room key. They gave me a parent calendar of events to hang on the wall at home... and 2 tickets to pick up "Proud ODU Parent" t-shirts.
Two tickets. One for Mom. One for Dad.
Ugh. Why can't he be here to enjoy this? He would have put his shirt on right away. He'd wear it all the time and to every family event. He would be so happy and proud of that t-shirt and of our daughter.
So, now I have 2 "Proud ODU Parent" shirts. And every time I look at them - I think of how he would have loved his.
Grief sucks. And it's hard to live with and it's hard to talk about because there really isn't a solution. But I know if he were here, and I called him right now - ugly crying - he would tell me that it was going to be okay. And I was going to get through it. And I was tough. And capable. And his favorite, "If you can't do it - no one can. But people do - and so you will also - but better."
I miss you, man. The kids miss you too. It sucks doing this without you. Wish you were here.
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