The thing about grief is that you don’t see it. You don’t see it coming and you barely notice its departure. With this 6th attempt to write my way through it, some things have changed. Others haven’t.
Nutella is no longer a staple. I just noticed yesterday that there is still a giant Costco-sized jar waiting for me on the shelf. I went through those jars at a breakneck pace throughout most of 2024. I convinced myself that tortilla chips supplied me with vegetables (corn), and Nutella gave me protein (hazelnuts). That is what I lived on. Every single day. My neighbor kept bringing me dinner on Sundays, saying “eat something!”
This was so sweet, a reminder that food is necessary, yet it changed nothing. I don’t know when I began to cook, but I know what it was. It was frozen chicken strips. Eventually, regular meals crept in. Only in the last 24 hours has it occurred to me that I haven’t had Nutella in weeks, maybe months. I’m not even sure I like Nutella.
And that’s how it is. The grief is around all the edges now. It’s not right in front but smoldering and surrounding my days. Anything could ignite it.
Like doing income taxes.
This was a chore we both hated. As I mentioned earlier, DH and I approached everything differently. Yet the IRS gave us no choice. This is one thing we had to work on together. The tension between us was so bad at these meetings, that very early on we decided to wear funny hats, mustaches, or noses while we sat at the table amidst mountains of receipts and forms. The more ridiculous the better. Every time we looked at each other, well, we had to laugh. It helped.
This year, DH was still at the table with me. His W-2s were there. Our accounting firm sent us a document to assist with filing. It had both our names. Next to his, it read “deceased”. Swell.
This may seem obvious, but somehow it isn’t. Or wasn’t. The deceased part I mean. Of course, he is. There is no delusion here. Yet, somehow, until I read the word on a form I’ve seen dozens of times, it remained around the edges. It can’t now.
I saw the same word at the accountant’s office last week. It sparked an unexpected buildup of tears. I know these folks, so it wasn’t a problem, but it reinforced something worth mentioning. I suspect that my therapist was right. Writing is helping this process.
“Deceased”. Since seeing it in print I am just pissed off. Several months ago, I turned the photos of him, and us, that were all over the house, upside down. Seeing him everywhere just made me sad. After doing my income taxes, I’m angrier than I am sad. Reality is sitting on firmer ground. It’s sanctioned by our government. Shit.
The night after meeting with the accountant, I took off DH’s wedding band. “I’m not married to a f****** dead man” was all I said. I’d been wearing his ring around my neck since the funeral. It was my friend who suggested it to me, and I’ve just kept it on.
The next thing to be removed was my wedding and engagement rings. That happened the next day, and ignited a 10-hour marathon of sobbing, cursing, cleaning, and re-arranging furniture. Poor Oliver was beside himself, wanting to comfort me and steer clear of me at the same time. The smoldering had finally erupted. It was ablaze. This left me spent and hollow. My therapist says it was cathartic.
I had wondered about the angry part of the grief process. It hadn’t shown itself yet. Now I know something I didn’t before. It doesn’t have to be directed at the dead one. It just has to be felt. It was. I suspect it will be again.
The good news is that my family room is sparkling clean and re-arranged. It looks fresh. I think this was a necessary start. Things got moved and removed, and ta-da! One day and it all looks different. At least on the outside. Rings and couches have new locations. I’m not sure that the change will seep into my heart, but I don’t think that’s the point.
Regardless of my deep understanding of eternity, physical loss is devastating. DH and I talked about “who would go first” more than once. We finally decided to delude ourselves into saying we’d go together. We used to say, “We’d be no good on our own.” I am out to prove us wrong.
It’s one thing to start over after leaving home, or moving to a new town, or even a marriage. Those moves include hope, excitement, and curiosity. Starting over after death sucks. There’s no other way to say it.
There are a few new places where I laugh again. Some friends that I didn’t have a year ago. I just noticed that the house is now mine. I can paint it any color I want and move the couch anyplace I decide to. Some of these are cosmetic things, while others are healing things. None of them were planned. I think they all help.
I suppose this is what grief looks like. They say it takes five full years, and I’m not yet through the first one. I suspect the timing will be something that you notice after it happens. Most of this is a surprise. To me anyway.
And that is the point, isn’t it? We come here for the emotions and the passionate way in which they are felt, the force they supply to direct our days, the power they have to supply or else deplete us. These most recent ones are on the devastating end of the scale. Their volume is drowning out those on the blissful end, yet I’m grateful to say I’ve had those too. They were magnificent.
The pain doesn’t go away. That’s what hasn’t changed. I now have a constant companion who can show up any damn time he pleases.
The outside things that look different are gauges that we look for in each other after trauma or illness. They are signals, telling us that there is healing going on inside. That there is life, and it continues to propel us forward. That we’ve chosen to continue. That we haven’t given up.
I’m not sure that all of that is true. I think that it depends on which day, maybe on which hour, or even which minute. I can say for certain that grief is sneaky. It hides and surprises. Perhaps this is specific to grief after a shock, yet I don’t think so. Grief shows up with both arms raised, yelling “Surprise!” It is no quieter or weaker than it was at its first appearance. If it has been a while, it almost feels replenished. It surprises me with its insistence and its vigor.
We’ll find out together, (because I’ll most likely write about it) if other parts of this new life rise up to match the energy of this grief. I wouldn’t call it hope, yet there is an inkling of desire inside that such things jump into view as well. That would be awesome.
If you are doing your taxes this week, try dressing up. It won’t change the fact that your money is gone, but it will give you something to smile about.
I believe in you. I believe in us. I believe in love.
*Dreamhopper aka DH — a soul who “hops dreams”.
