Memories and Grief - Some Happy, Some Sad

Way back in 2019 Vince and I attended a charity event and, since we were all gussied up, Vince asked someone take our picture. It was a wonderful, memorable evening.

 

Back in 2019, we didn’t know that in a few months’ time, we would be isolated because of a thing called Covid. We didn’t know we would eventually catch the virus ourselves.

 

We didn’t know that a few months after that, Vince would be gone.

 

So we didn’t know that we needed to celebrate each moment with smiles and photos so that five years later I could look back and remember the fun we had.

 

Actually, though, that’s what Vince always did – he documented all the moments, big and small. And because he did, I have tangible proof of my happy life with him, even though it was only thirteen short years.

 

Recently, that photo came up in my memories on Facebook, so I had to repost it. Lots of people posted kind comments and there were more than 140 “likes.”

 

So I started looking at the names of friends and family who liked it. And, as I was scrolling down the list, I became teary-eyed.

 

Because all those people were telling me that they care. About me. About Vince. And they were letting me know it was okay to post that photo.

 

That even though we are approaching the three-year mark since he has been gone, my friends and family understand that it’s okay to remember him. Three years seems like so long ago, but – to me – it also seems like it happened yesterday.

 

For some who haven’t lost anyone significant in their lives, it may be difficult to understand that grief never goes away. That it sometimes softens with time. And it’s perhaps not as paralyzing as it was in the beginning. But that those feelings of grief will come and go – probably forever.

 

That the person who grieves might go on with life as if nothing is wrong – and if you ask them how they are, they will invariably respond, “fine,” but that may be the furthest from the truth.

 

Or maybe they are fine. (Grief can be confusing!)

 

Sometimes it only takes a scent of the cologne they wore, or their favorite meal printed on a menu to bring the grief back.

 

Or it may be a photo of a happy occasion that does it.

 

But most people who are grieving are not broken. We are repairing our shattered hearts and going on as our loved ones would want us to. We have good days and bad days, like everyone else.

 

Some people are not okay with grief. With allowing a person to express their memories or their sadness. Or their joy over a funny memory. They don’t want anyone to bring up the name of the person who passed.

 

I ask, “Why?”

 

Why is it so uncomfortable? Are they afraid the person who is mourning will burst into uncontrollable tears?

 

And to that, I ask, “So what?”

 

What’s the worst that will happen? Maybe they need that cathartic cry and will feel better when they’re done. If someone viewing such a display is uncomfortable, just grab some tissues, hand them to the person crying and step back.

 

Chances are, if a memory is brought up about a deceased loved one, the person grieving will latch onto that memory. We love hearing their name. We love hearing stories about them. What better way to honor their life by remembering them?

 

Recently, I read a post by a woman in my Widows/Widowers group on Facebook who said that the last time she attended a gathering with her late husband’s family, she proposed a toast to him. She had hoped his family would join in and bring up a happy memory or say a few kind words about him.

 

But no one did.

 

And she was so saddened by this. Particularly since he had passed only three months before. And it was his family.

 

More recently, one of his family members asked her not to bring up his name or propose a toast to him at the next family gathering. She was devastated by this and considered not going to the event. She wanted opinions of the people in our private group about what she should do.

 

I thought this was so disheartening.

 

Of course, I don’t know the particulars. Was there family strife? Was it a happy occasion (birthday for their 90-year-old grandmother, family wedding, or baby shower) where her timing was off and a toast to her deceased husband was maybe not the most appropriate thing?

 

Nevertheless, I hope that my family and friends will never stop me from mentioning Vince. And I hope it’s not uncomfortable for them, because it’s not for me.

 

Now, granted, I try not to talk only about him. You know – exclusively. I get that that could be uncomfortable and a little repetitive. I try to keep the Vince mentions down to an appropriate level and if I’m talking about the price of paper towels, for example, I don’t try to tie his name into it.

 

Because, really, who wants to talk about the price of paper towels? And anyone who knew him would wonder at my sanity that I’m bringing Vince’s name into a story about the price of paper towels.

 

But if we’re talking about a great rack of ribs, or the perfect fire pit fire, well, all bets are off. Vince was the most amazing grillmast…uh…

 

…perhaps I’ll save that story for another day.

 

More About Grief. Part II.

What I have learned over the past several years is that grief is as different as snowflakes. No one experiences it the same. And grief may strike the same person differently depending on who it is they’re grieving.

 

I know when my dad died in 2016, I felt overwhelmed and it took me a long while to start the grieving process. Dad’s heavy burden of being my mom’s caretaker and advocate suddenly fell to me. And I didn’t even have to take care of her daily needs – we entrusted the staff at Parkside Village to handle that responsibility. 

 

I had to clean out their house to get it ready to sell. Getting rid of fifty years (or more) of “things” and memories is one monumental task. And I kept more things than I might otherwise have because I didn’t want to “erase” my parents or our history of living in that house.

 

So losing a parent is hard. 

 

But losing the other parent is even harder. I’ve heard people say that they suddenly feel like an orphan – even if they’re middle-aged. 

 

The first person who ever said that to me was my mom after my grandmother died. Mom was in her 60s by then and she said it at her mother’s funeral. I thought it was a strange comment. But it was also a comment that resonated with me through the years. 

 

Because it made me realize that my mom, too, would get old and die some day – and I didn’t want to miss making memories with her. So I let go of the friction that sometimes happens between mothers and daughters. My mom was, after all, pretty opinionated. And I didn’t always agree with her opinions. 

 

It's a popular thing these days for mothers and daughters to say that the other is their best friend.

 

My mom was never of that mindset. She was the mother and I was the daughter – and “best friends” didn’t enter into it. 

 

But we grew pretty close. Whenever she’d state some opinion (that I didn’t agree with), and then say, “Don’t you agree, Jane?” I’d sometimes reply, “Yes, mom.” 

 

Because in that particular instance, I knew that an argument wasn’t worth it. I certainly wasn’t going to change her opinion – and she wasn’t going to change mine.

 

Sometimes I’d look over at dad and he’d have this wry little smile on his face. And I realized that he’d long ago learned that trick himself.

 

When Mom died in 2020, her words about feeling like an orphan came back to me. Oh, mom. I thought. Now I know what you meant.

 

Because now there is no one alive who knew what it felt like the first time I was placed in their arms as an infant. The person who dealt with my spit-up and fevers and who cheered me on as I took my first steps or won the grade school spelling bee or graduated from college.

 

So now I miss her – and dad – every time something happens to me that I want to share with them.

 

Like losing Vince so suddenly less than a year after mom passed.

 

Losing a spouse is even more devastating. For me, it was especially unbearable as I felt like Vince and I had only started on our journey together in this life. 

 

We didn’t marry until days before my 50^th birthday. I never thought I’d get married, but once I met Vince, I couldn’t imagine my life without him. I had never felt so loved. We were incredibly happy together. And we had so many more things we wanted to do together in this life. 

 

So I know firsthand that there are different kinds of grief, some of which I haven’t experienced.

 

I can’t imagine losing a sibling. Or a best friend. But if we live long enough, we’re likely to experience that kind of grief as well.

 

The type of grief I can’t even begin to comprehend is the loss of a child. I didn’t have children, so I’m not qualified to talk about it. But having known friends and family who have, I can only believe that it is a grief beyond description.

 

Since COVID, it seems as if so many people are grieving. And so many people are trying to comfort friends and family. They write, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

 

I’ve said it before myself. Mostly because I didn’t know what to say. 

 

But as a friend who lost her husband recently said, “It got to the point where I couldn’t stand hearing, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’” 

 

I guess because that phrase has gotten so overused it’s like fingernails on a chalkboard to some people.

 

I get it now.

 

I just wish I had a magic phrase or – better yet – a magic potion that could make us all feel better. Make us not hurt as much. And make us come to the stage where talking or thinking about our loved one brings a smile to our face rather than a tear.

 

But I, for one, am not magical and I can’t take the pain away – for me or for anyone else. So I believe we just all try our best. And I try not to be too critical of whatever expression of condolence someone makes.

 

I have to take things day by day. And I understand that some days will be good and other days won’t be so good. But that’s okay. I know I have to give myself the time and the space to accept my grief and let it wash over me as it comes. Because denying it won’t make it go away.

 

I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I have been that friends and family continue to stay in touch with me and ask how I’m doing – and let me talk. About Vince. Or about nothing and everything. Just having that connection matters.

 

If I could share one hint to folks who want to show support for someone who has lost a loved one, it would be this: don’t tell them to call you if they need anything. They probably don’t have a clue what they need. So you make the call. It means much more than you can imagine. Sometimes a person grieving has a hard time asking for help. Or a shoulder to cry on. Or a willing ear to listen.

 

So to all those people in my life who have given me such support, I thank you. And I thank you for reading this – you help me more than you know. 

 

I can’t always promise my blogs from now on will be about the ditzy goings on in Jane’s Domain. Sometimes they may be a little more serious. Because life happens. And death happens. And we have to try to go on.

 

One step forward…