Dreamhopper* was my husband. He left suddenly. There were no warning signs. We kissed, hugged, and waved each other goodbye one sunny afternoon. “Oooh, you meant that one!” he grinned as we pulled away from each other. I whacked him on the arm and smiled into his eyes as I got in the car. He was still waving as I pulled out of the driveway…
About four hours later he was dead. I was at work. Oliver was home, and since he couldn’t read the clock or speak English, we weren’t exactly sure when Dreamhopper died.
That was 8 months, 9 days, and about 2 hours ago. Although he was the only witness, Oliver didn’t share any details with me then and hasn’t since. He knew though. I could tell. For 3 solid months, he slept on Dreamhopper’s side of the bed, day and night. It was like he was waiting for him, in the very place where he took his last breath.
He’s half Maine Coon and 9 years old. Oliver, that is.
After those initial 3 months, Oliver began to move off the bed. I had barely noticed this reaction until it finally stopped. It occurred to me then that cats mourn death. This was a surprise.
At about 6 months he became playful again; cuddlier and more demanding. This was the Oliver that I knew and loved. Perhaps 6 months is the cut-off date for the feline mourning process. It’s not quite that quick for humans.
Why am I telling you this? My therapist keeps asking if I’ve started to write about the death yet. Since I’m a writer, he feels it would help me process the shock and the grief. Perhaps writing about Oliver’s grief will connect me with my own. So, I’m trying it out, and you’re watching.
Why now? Have you seen the 1946 Frank Capra film, “It’s a Wonderful Life”? It’s my favorite. George Bailey desperately looking for Clarence, on his knees, on the bridge, in the snow. That’s why. After 8 months, 9 days, and about 4 hours now, I’ve decided. “I want to live again.”
This was not always true. Since Oliver stopped sleeping on Dreamhopper’s side of our bed, I keep it filled with novels, puzzle books, and writing pads. Sometimes there are snacks. They fill up the space that once was his.
The night he died, I stripped the bed because it seemed to be the right thing to do. It was not dirty, there had been no trauma, blood, or damage left behind. It just felt necessary.
But here’s the thing. I didn’t make it again. I laid the clean sheets on Dreamhopper’s side of the bed, and I slept on the mattress cover. Not only for that night but for months. Probably for about the same length of time that Oliver was sleeping in that very spot.
If that is odd behavior, (and as I look back now it occurs to me that it very well could be), it didn’t feel that way. It felt like the bed was full and I couldn’t face it empty. So, it worked. For a while.
I was not suicidal. I just didn’t care. Not much mattered to me. A few days after he died, my dear friend was helping me pick out my outfit and jewelry for the funeral. Another friend had convinced me that I had to say something at the service, and I needed help figuring out what to wear. Over some wine and a stack of outfits on the bed, I said “I guess I’m a widow now.” “Yeah”, she said, “I guess you are.”
I’ve been nothing but a widow ever since. It was the only self that I could see. With this writing, I’m stepping out as something else. What that is, we’ll discover together. Let’s hope it’s worth your time and mine.
Grief is visceral. It is unseen. It is this tiny razor-sharp edge that snuck in on the night he left to poke little holes in my heart. Not enough holes to kill me, just enough to change my shape. It’s hard to breathe sometimes. The cruel joke is that it's still beating and still loving — my heart that is.
As you’ve figured out by now, he died in our bed. A policeman, who was there with the paramedics that night, suggested that I call someone. So, I did. I called one of our sons. He was the first to arrive. He entered the bedroom just in time to hear me say, “You bastard. I’m so pissed at you. I’m happy you went this way. This is how you wanted to go. But damn you. We weren’t done.” My head was on his chest, and I hadn’t realized my son was there until I heard “Mom!”
“I’m sorry hon, but you say goodbye your way and I’ll say goodbye mine.”
And so, he did. We all did. We have four sons, all of whom eventually arrived. It was a long night, and sleep was not a part of it.
So, what can I tell you about grief that hasn’t been said already? It’s the kissing cousin of death, which I’ll attempt to unravel alongside life, the “afterlife”, family, love, mistakes, twin flames, and woo; lots of woo. I hope to expose the connecting layers, the hard and soft spots, the unseen dirt, the exquisite beauty, and the fraying. Each of these hides beneath automatic smiles, “I’m okay”, bill paying, quiet nights, new adventures, and nutella; lots of nutella.
Tears didn’t come that night or the next. The first ones arrived two weeks later, at the funeral. I’d given my speech and sneaked out to my car to hide when they erupted in force. They didn’t stop until my son knocked on the window saying, “People are looking for you Mom, they want to say goodbye.”
The car has been my second favorite place to weep. It follows closely behind my couch. Sobbing or convulsing would be better descriptions of what happens in both places. I can tell you that it is exhausting and that tears can’t deplete themselves. They wait, always at the ready for that song or that thought. They are not quiet. They are not pretty. They give no warning. They eventually become familiar, yet they do not produce answers.
Grief is unanswerable and unending. It merely remains.
So, I’ll close for now and put my shield back in place. Maybe my therapist is on to something. I do feel slightly better. Dreamhopper’s departure feels a bit more “real”. As much as I hate to say it, it must if I intend to continue, and I do. It’s been this giant part of me, for almost ¾ of a year, that I haven’t been able to fit anywhere. I suppose it fits here. We’ll open this door again soon and see who shows up for Part 2.
I believe in you. I believe in us. I believe in love.
*Dreamhopper — a soul who “hops dreams”.
