There are days I would feel pronouncedly alone. Not lonely. Alone. I feel I have to engage in a battle against the world, alone. But, there is no battle. There isn't even a squabble. This charmed life I live has no real struggle of any sort.
A few days ago, my mind wandered to emergency preparedness. We had a meeting place in case "shit happens." Eric, Katie, and I would meet at the library on 35th should something happen and we couldn't get home. The library was our meeting place. My mind wandered to the library but I realized, I no longer need a meeting place. In fact, I must find my own way home if shit happens. I need to remember the location of the water main and the gas shutoff. The breaker. How to operate the fire extinguishers. My emergency bag and batteries and lighters. The need to consider everything and make every decision on my own frustrates me and suddenly maddens me. It maddens me, rational or not, that I am "abruptly left alone" to consider these decisions on my own.
I realize millions of people - men and women - make these decisions, alone, everyday. But that's not the point. I was mad that I was left with "all this work" to do… Alone.
That same day, I panicked that I have "forgotten" how old I was when Eric died. I had to count. I was 45. I was 45 when my husband died. I didn't know why, but that fact maddened me, too.
"There is no right way to grieve, and you have to let people grieve in the way that they can. One of the things that happens to everyone who is grief-stricken, who has lost someone, is there comes a time when everyone else just wants you to get over it, but of course you don't get over it. You get stronger; you try and live on; you endure; you change; but you don't get over it. You carry it with you." ~Poet Edward Hirsch, author of Gabriel: A Poem
I don't know if I am still grieving. I know, however, that even I want me to get over my grief. When I listened to the NPR interview with the poet Edward Hirsch, who lost his son Gabriel, the words struck me really hard that apparently I will NOT get over the death of my husband. I will carry it with me, but I will not get over it. It comforts yet frightens me. How long do I carry "it" with me? What the hell does that even mean? Why should I carry it with me? I never asked for this burden nor did I sign up for this grief; yet, it landed on my lap. Solely. Squarely. Solidly. Why is this mine? Who died and made you king? I was mad again.
Emotions are mysterious. I don't feel "grief" daily, but still, everyday - everyday - something will hit me and I shed tears over it. Everyday. I cannot label those emotions, nor is it necessary. Perhaps, that's when I "carry" it with me. I carry those sentiments when I go on with my day. They may be sentiments of gratitude. Thankfulness. Anger. Abandonment. Humor. Memories. Love. Sorrow. And yes, grief.
I never regretted marrying my husband. Never. But how about that emergency bag? Wish he had packed that damn thing.
