It’s a brittle glittery fall day here in Seattle.  The leaves are turning and the wind has a sharp bite.  I love the transition seasons, spring and autumn.  They remind me that change is afoot.  

    But of course change is always upon us, the only constant, regardless of the season.      

    Each day is different for me.  Grief still lurks, waiting to pounce, but I’m following the advice of my counselor.  Instead of dreading and fearing the onset of grief, I’m trying to recognize that episodes will wash over me from time to time with terrible pain, but then, they will recede.  So when grief shoulders its way in, I tell it, okay, bring it on, knowing that it will sink its teeth into me, but then I’ll get through it and past it.  And that’s what happens.

    And though it seems counterintuitive, it’s strangely comforting to remember that I am, in terms of the universe, merely a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a…  My whole being is tinier and more insubstantial than a dust mote in the entirety of existence.  Even though I feel my loss intensely, it’s personal to me, not universe-shattering.  When I listen to the news every day, it’s clear so many others have suffered exponentially greater losses and tragedies.  No life will be untouched by grief and loss.  

    What helps most right now is a recognition that life still offers joy.  A dear friend lost his life to pancreatic cancer a couple of years ago, long before Mark received the same terrible diagnosis.  Just this last month, his youngest daughter gave birth to her first child, and the pictures of that new family clustering close and rejoicing in their very tiny baby made my heart swell.  We all wish her father was still here to celebrate with them, but the world just didn’t unfold that way.  He was fortunate enough to walk both his daughters down the wedding aisle in his final year before succumbing to that dreadful disease.  None of us will get all of what we want.  

    And as goofy as it may sound (especially to those who aren’t “animal people”), having the enormous ungainly puppy here is incredibly life-affirming.  Rusty is one year old now, but as is common in large breeds, he won’t lose his “puppiness” for at least another year.  He’s rambunctious and awkward and a lot of work, and he’s quite a bit bigger than the breeder told me he would be.  If Rusty and I  had conversations, they would sound like this:

    Me:    Oh, it’s such a gloomy day.

    Rusty:    Let’s go for a walk!

    Me:    Makes me want to sit on the couch and brood…

    Rusty:  Let’s go for a walk!

    Me:    —sigh--

    Rusty:    It’s a great day for a walk!  Hey!  Let’s go!

And so, we go for a walk, and the world suddenly is a more cheerful place.
  

Three months.  It’s been three months.

The third of each month is going to clang like a discordant bell for some time, I think, as a marker of time passed since June 3, when Mark died.

Hospice has written to me:  “It is not uncommon for people to describe their grief as ‘getting worse’ or describe their grief as ‘stronger’ three months after the death.  People often report their natural supports have begun to fade away, which may intensify any feelings of loneliness after a loss.”  They ask me to call if I want to talk.

Right now, I don’t want to talk.  What I want, of course, is to have Mark back.  I want him to walk through the doorway and give me a hug, and I want to realize that this has all been a long bad dream, one of those dreams that make you shudder when you wake up, cold all over from the realization that in your dream state you believed the horror was real.

Last night I dreamt that I was on a wide beach struggling to run away from the ocean, but I was mired in sand and couldn’t make much headway.  Behind me, I could sense massive dark waves mounting and climbing, coming my way, but I didn’t dare look back.  I didn’t want to see them.  I just kept pushing ahead, until I woke up.

Most days are better now, because the passage of time has started to work its inevitable magic.  I’m no longer constantly surprised at the turn my life has taken.  I can’t say I’m used to the changes, but I’m following this path with my eyes open, sometimes trudging with determination, but there are many intervals when I feel, well, normal—my new normal.

I’ve found comfort in the poetry of grief.  These poems are not new to me, but they have a different resonance now.  Rumi’s “The Guest House” urges me to be open to all the feelings that sweep through my life.  Rilke’s “Pushing Through” reminds me of the universality of the experience of grief.  It begins:


          “It’s possible I am pushing through solid rock
            in flintlike layers, as the ore lies, alone;
           I am such a long way in I see no way through,
           and no space: everything is close to my face,
           and everything close to my face is stone.
           …”

Perhaps it is Rilke’s poem that is the inspiration for the observations by the grief counsellors that the only way out of grief is through it.  

There is still so much to be done, and so much of it still seems impossible at the moment.  I picked up Marie Kondo’s book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up:  the Japanese art of decluttering and organizing because everyone seems to be talking about it.  My first observation is that Kondo must be a trifle insane.  I don’t really believe that the socks in my drawer can’t rest because they are balled up together.  Nevertheless, serious decluttering probably is life-affirming.  I just don’t think it’s time for me to do it yet.  Mark’s half of the closet remains untouched, except for the items Chris has taken to use.  (Fortunately, Mark and Chris shared the same size in almost everything.)  I started to fuss over what to do with some of Mark’s clothes.  Mark had a large collection of absolutely beautiful designer silk ties.  Chris may be able to use one or two, but what should I do with the others?  When I mentioned this to the counselor I was seeing, she asked me why I felt I needed to do anything right now.  Just pack them away, she advised.  You don’t need to deal with them now, she said.  

She’s absolutely right.  There is a lot more pressing and immediate business to address than disposing of Mark’s ties.  Now is a time to triage, and to only take on what needs to be taken on.  The rest can wait.