I got home
the other night from a get-together with some wonderful friends. These particular friends are members of a
bereavement group in which I participated.
We elected to stay a group after the formal group sessions ended in the
spring. We get together biweekly and
have periodic social events. The other
day was one of those events. At our
get-togethers, we always share what is going on with us.
I had been
going through a rough patch at our previous get together, and I was pleased to
report that I was feeling better, and head set some deadlines for myself to
accomplish some things that I felt would help me move forward with my
life. The get together ended and we all
went our separate ways. By the time I
got home, I had somehow transitioned from a hopeful and cheerful mood to a dark
and scary place. The confidence I had felt
and exuded at the get-together had evaporated, and I was left feeling hopeless,
abandoned and had no idea how to move forward.
It was a very rude awakening.
I spent a
good part of yesterday trying to figure out why my mood had changed so
radically in so short a time. Nothing
had happened at the get-together other than wonderful company, a few laughs
with people who really “get it” (i.e. what we have all been through).
My sense is
that there are many hidden impediments to moving forward from the grief
process. I can, of course, only speak
for myself, but I imagine that the process is somewhat similar for all of us
who have lost our spouse. Emotions come
and go and we may pass through a number of different emotional landscapes in
even a short period of time.
Imagine that
you build a life with your sweetheart over decades. You come to define yourself as part of the
marriage. You develop a certain way of
being. One day, everything changes in
the space of a moment. You lose your
loved one. You are in your sixties. Everything you know about your life is now
null and void. Like a ship steaming
along at 24 knots that has just been torpedoed you keep steaming ahead as you
take on millions of gallons of sea water through the massive hole in your
ship. Part of you just really would
prefer to lay down and die.
You are
surrounded by artifacts and reminders of the life that is no longer yours. You cannot imagine another life. Do you move from your home? Do you stay in your home and remake it so as
to feel less pain? Do you try at some
point to find a new relationship?
All of these
unknowns are profoundly frightening. You
are lonely and you feel the pain of loss, but it is hard to differentiate those
feelings.
How can we cope
with this? How can we eventually move
forward? These sorts of changes are
significantly harder for us who are older.
We have the benefit of knowing just how many things in life can go
wrong. Thus we are more resistant to
change. And often we are loathe to give
ourselves permission for change, perhaps because at some level we feel that
moving forward is somehow disrespectful to the memory of our lost love.
But as harsh
and unremitting as it is, we must face certain facts. Our life will never be the same. Our loved one is gone and will not be coming
back in this lifetime. We owe it to ourselves to (in our own good time – we cannot
force or hurry this process) to build a new life, whatever that life may
be. The answers are different for each
of us. But to sit, frozen with fear, in the midst of our sorrow, does a
disservice to ourselves and surely is not what our departed loved ones would
want for us.
MPC: 07-29-2015
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