SOL15: Bereavement

            I am still going to the VNS bereavement group, three-plus years after Jack died. I’m fine, but there is something about being in a group of people who share the same experience—in this case, grief at losing a spouse, partner, or close family member—that is unlike any other relationship.

            The group met this morning, and afterwards I went to lunch with two other members, A., whose husband had Parkinson’s and died after complications after a fall, and C., whose father, mother, and sister (her entire family) all died within the past few years, the mother and sister within four months of each other. A. is close to my age, mid-70s, while C. is around 50.

            During our long lunch and conversation, I related the circumstances around Jack’s death: his fall, complications, hospitalization after edema for unknown reasons, multiple myeloma diagnosis, more complications, and his ultimate decision to stop treatment and go into hospice, dying just five days later.

            As I related the sequence of events, especially my extremely mixed feelings about Jack’s decision, my great reluctance to lose him, yet my understanding that the decision was his to make and that I shouldn’t, couldn’t force him to continue living in a way he couldn’t accept, I started crying. This was such a terrible moment for both of us, and I’ve gone over it so many times since, while Jack, of course, is unable to second-guess himself.

            A. and C. were so comforting and so reassuring, and I knew that they understood my feelings in a way that someone who hasn’t been through this experience can only imagine. This is why I keep going to the bereavement group.

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I’m participating in the 12th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 1 of the 31-day challenge.  It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about.  Join in!

Blogging A-Z: B Is for Bereavement

            Merriam-Webster defines “bereave” as “to deprive of something,” as “bereavement” as “the state of being bereaved or deprived.” These are rather bloodless definitions for what is often meant by “bereavement,” which is the loss of a loved person to death.

            I’ve been going to a bereavement group for two years, since the death of my husband. We

were together for 52 years, pretty much all of our adult lives. Jack was six weeks older than me, but since June 4, 2016, I will always be older than he will ever be. I am still learning how to be an adult on my own.

            The bereavement group consists of a group of women and men who have all recently lost a spouse, partner, or, in my group, a parent. Even though our circumstances vary, sometimes dramatically, we all share this one experience of loss. It’s an experience you don’t really understand unless or until you find yourself in it.

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April’s writing challenge is to blog every day, with each post beginning with a letter of the alphabet from beginning to end. We skip Sundays, except for April 1, so as to have 26 days in the month.

#AtoZChallenge: G Is for Grief

Empty

Disoriented

Unmoored

Lost

Found

Alone

Free

Open

Wandering

Wondering

Remembering

Forgetting

Floating

Silent

Shifting

Shuddering

Shiftless

Unwound

Mixed-up

Exploring

Foundering

Touching

Locked in

Tentative

Tears

Joy

Catching Up

Saturday was my husband’s memorial. I knew I would have no time to write anything that day, so I thought I would catch up yesterday and post two Slices for the day. But that didn’t happen either. So here is it, March 7, and I will definitely post three times today. I promise.

            So here’s what I could have posted for Saturday’s slice.

            I barely had enough time to pack up everything — the large picture board, the two notebooks of J.’s newspaper clips, the notebook of the letters he wrote his oldest friend from 1963 to 1970, more memorabilia — when my cousin, driving up from Virginia, called to ask about parking 10 blocks away. Seems she neglected to look up my address, thinking she remembered it, and she was 10 blocks off. So I had time for a few stretches before she arrived at my door.

           
            We set off in her car to the church downtown. (I’m a New Yorker; I don’t own a car.) It’s a 40-minute subway ride and brief walk, but we had too much to carry to take the train. But New York City traffic can be horrendous. In trying to detour around construction, my casual driving knowledge led us into a longer detour than expected. I had to call the church to give updates on our progress.

            The memorial was scheduled to start at 2 p.m. We arrived about five minutes past. My friend who was  coordinating the logistics assured me they couldn’t start without me. And I was amazingly calm. I know J. would have been having a fit; he would have been sure to be there at least two hours in advance. But I’m not like him; I’d wanted to be there by 1 p.m., but if it didn’t happen, it didn’t happen.

            The assembly room was bustling with people. I quickly delegated my daughter to put programs on all the chairs, and I put up the picture board and laid out the books and ephemera. The a capella Art Mob sang, and it was a wonderful and warm couple of hours of remembrances. If it wasn’t exactly as I had envisioned, it was still a supportive and thankful experience.

Here is the cover for the program. 

 

Memorial Time

            I’ve finished writing up my comments about J. and now I’m getting feedback from my writing groups and friends. Now I am gathering together other comments from friends who aren’t able to come to the memorial this week, and also putting together what librarians call “ephemera,” materials like the newspaper clips my husband wrote as a reporter, letters he wrote to friends that they saved, family memorabilia, as well as a large matteboard of photographs.

            While doing all of this work, I felt myself slipping into a relationship with time rather like that I felt when I was pregnant with my daughter, 44 years ago. It feels like this period of time is outside the usual stream of minutes-hours-days passing always in one direction. This “memorial time” feels static, not moving, containing within it all the time J. and I were together but all lumped together.  One moment of time holding all of our moments, which I could bury myself in if I chose.

            I want to be there... yet I don’t, I can’t. I can’t stop living, I have to keep moving forward along with everyone else. Yet somehow I want to keep a connection to that parallel memorial time. Just to touch it, touch him, now and then. 

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It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge, hosted by the wonderful people over at Two Writing Teachers! Every day this month, hundreds of writers will be posting their stories. Head on over and check out the other slices!