Articulated tears
Tonight I have the rare occasion to be home alone - well, just me and our dog Berlioz. Both Xavier and Cyprian are sleeping over at their respective friend's houses. I had set myself a task this long weekend (Easter holidays) to try to lift myself up enough to finally face the torturous task of winding up Carolina's estate (which starts with a load of paperwork that necessarily requires my delving into her stuff - laptop, personal papers, office desk, etc - an emotional Everest - I haven't even touched her hospital bag or bedside table since she passed away almost 5 months ago). Having an evening without the kids should be the ideal opportunity to at least start this arduous trek. But I chose to go watch the sunset from our special spot, and now the tears are debilitating.
So instead of actually climbing that mountain I'll try to articulate what these tears mean, perhaps to help organise my own head a bit and prepare myself better for it, perhaps to help others understand grief or grieving people a bit better, perhaps because I know I have to force myself to at least write because all I want to do is sleep (in the hope that I sink into those painfully pleasurable dreams of her). Either way, here it is, some words from both me and Berlioz, because he grieves as much if not more than us, but has no physical tears like we do...
Crying is a physical overflow of emotion. But it feels like it has to literally flow. There’s something about a tear rolling down your face that helps to somehow conclude that particular bout of sadness. Wet eyes are not enough. A drippy nose is not enough. No lump in the throat or quivering lip will suffice. Tears must actually roll down your cheeks. You must feel the warm welling up of fluid in your eyes, and it must burst over that lower eyelid either at one of the corners of the eye or just straight down the middle, and it must roll down the cheek freely, setting a path for the subsequent tears that inevitably follow. You must feel it flowing. You don’t wipe it away and you don’t try to stop it. You must let it flow. Only then do you deserve to stop crying. Because only then, whatever triggered that specific episode of sadness can be set aside, and we can just carry on with life until the next one.
For those who experience a deep loss, those tears carry so much. It’s like we’re wringing the pain inside until it materialises into this concentrated liquid that flows out of our eyes and nose. And like with a wet cloth we pause after a few drops are wrung out, feeling a bit satisfied that the cloth is usable again. But the thing with grief is that the metaphorical cloth is never dry. It’s like it absorbs moisture from the air itself and no matter how much you squeeze out the tears, there’s always an endless supply. Triggers of pain are like moisture in the air. There’s no running away from it. No avoiding it. Life itself replenishes the tears endlessly.
I doubt that anyone will ever understand the love that Carolina and I shared. As I doubt that I will ever understand anyone else’s love stories. Each couple will have their own story, their own infinity, their own forever. And no story will be greater or lesser than another. So let me just say what one of those couples have. We have a love that exists because of the team. A love that each of us took meaning and energy from - a source of motivation and inspiration, because we were a team. We took on life together. We celebrated the good stuff, together. We worked through the bad stuff, together. We dealt with everything the universe threw at us, together. We raised our family, together. There was no issue we couldn’t talk about. No secret we couldn’t share. No shame between us, not emotionally and not physically. Complete trust and complete vulnerability. We were one. A team that could and did take on the world. And now it’s broken. I’m broken. And the tears keep flowing.
Many people choose to hide tears. And in certain contexts I do too. Do we hide it out of shame? Embarrassment? Avoidance? I think mainly we (or at least I) will choose to hide it because it’s too much hard work to look after the feelings of those who see you crying. Tears are magnets for sympathy - and I feel sorry for those who feel sorry for me, because it’s understandably hard for people close to you to see you cry. As much as it’s a physical manifestation of one’s own emotional pain, tears also tend to wring out pity from anyone in the vicinity. Sometimes the hug, or shoulder to cry on or hand to hold can be most welcome - we are only human after all. But sometimes (like in my situation now) there’s simply nothing anyone can do, because the only source of any comfort at all, for such deep low moments as these, is dead! (To be honest I don’t yearn for company, nor hugs, nor conversations, nor any of the gestures of comfort people may offer. I appreciate it but it’s futile, and I apologize to you for that). So all that happens when tears flow publicly is that the emitter of tears has to reassure the observer of tears that it’s ok and they’re fine and thank you for caring, etc etc. And so for a grieving person in such a situation, there is wisdom in that famous song that says "I’ll do my crying in the rain" - we push on with our days and smile at people around us, and answer the "how are you" questions with imaginative politeness if not an outright lie - but the truth is that the deep sadness that lives forever just below the surface only comes out when we are alone.
But what about the kids as a source of comfort? Our kids are very much a part of us. Carolina and I decided early on, and never regretted, that we would always be completely open with the kids. They learned about the cancer diagnosis on the day we found out. And almost 5 years later, they knew that hope was gone on the same day we knew. We cry together. We feel the pain together. We push on together. But I am still the adult and I do need to look after them. That is my main purpose, a no-brainer, my lifelong task, and of course my pact with Carolina. She always said that if people missed her then they should look at the boys, because that’s where she will live. And indeed one can easily see her in them - her kindness, her athleticism, her smile, her intellect, her skill, her humour, her joy. They are made from her. And she fought so hard for so long after the diagnosis, in order to be with them for as much time as she could, helping lay the foundations that will last them the rest of their lives. And what solid foundations they now have! Two days ago we celebrated Xavier’s 11th birthday, the first of their birthdays without her. In a month it will be Cyprian’s 9th. They’ve been handling the sadness like champions. We are so so proud of them. So proud of the amazing humans they have turned into. They are part of us. And we are part of them. And so rather than write down something too painful to even think, I will let you extrapolate on the paradoxical interplay between sources of comfort and triggers of pain.
A digression to elaborate on the incredible humans that are our boys, and who, like me, are still trying to find ways to deal with this loss: Recently Xavier was overcome with sadness and couldn’t sleep, stuck in a half crying half moaning state. I lay with them and assured him that we all felt the same. I said the sadness will be with us for a very, very long time. Cyprian said to us through sniffles that I’m wrong, that the sadness won’t be with us a long time, it will be with us forever! He is wise beyond his years. They both are. The reality is that when we lose someone so close the sadness never actually leaves. We just adapt and get used to it, and it becomes part of us as we push on with life. And our amazing boys are pushing on indeed, carrying the load of loss with the incredible strength that reflects that of their mother.
People say it will get better with time. It obviously will. We are humans and we adapt. It’s an evolutionary trait that put us on top of the planet. We are resilient by nature and loss is just another thing we learn to adapt to. Time doesn’t heal though (contrary to the statement many offer us, perhaps more as a comfort to them than to us). It just forces us to forget. We adapt. We swallow the sadness into our overwhelmingly instinctive drive to survive. We don’t heal. We just cover it up with other stuff. Life happens. Every day we experience new things. We have new conversations. New stresses and deadlines. We make new friends. Like coats of paint or makeup we cover up the scars with everyday things that occupy mindspace. And it works for just about everyone because we are all weak minded humans that simply go along with the trajectory of life, swept up with the winds of constant and inevitable change. But what do you do when you can see the futility of this whole process in actually addressing the pain? What do you do when you know that the pain is all that is left of her and that letting go of the pain fundamentally means letting go of her? Why would I want to feel less? Why would I want to "heal"? Why would I want to wait for time to do its thing and distract me enough to forget how raw and devastating this actually is? Why should I crave comfort when this is a fundamentally uncomfortable situation? Why should I try to evade the inevitable torture that comes as a result of having loved so deeply? Why should I yearn for freedom from pain when this pain represents a profound connection to her? So when people express a wish for things to get "better" with time, I do sincerely appreciate where it’s coming from - certainly a place of love - but I smile and nod only because the effort of rectifying their ignorance is far too great a burden on an already shattered heart and mind. Even writing this is a stressful exercise because of the fear of potential repercussions amongst friends and family.
But while I’m in this honesty zone, let’s also address this matter of her "watching over us". I appreciate where it’s coming from. I do. So much love and caring from people who say it. I respect them and the various religious and other belief systems that may lead them to say it to us. But in all honesty, I don’t really want her to be watching over us. I know her, and I know that it would be unimaginably painful for her to see us without being here with us. We were everything to her and it would be torture for her if she was actually consciously looking down on us or "watching over us". I would never wish for her to endure having to watch us without being able to be with us (like those torturous Covid, chemo and other hospital moments when she could see but not hug or kiss the boys due to her vulnerable immune system). She’s gone! She only exists in our memories. And as our memories fade so will she. Time will not "heal" - it will only tear her away from us (as Xavier so profoundly noted one night of sadness through tears "it feels like every day we are getting further away from mama")... so why should I ever want that? There is no "better place" for Carolina than with her boys. Anywhere away from her boys is abominable. Our love is here on earth with the boys and being anywhere else will just be, by my limited understanding, the definition of hell. I feel the urge to say that I really don’t mean to trigger or offend anyone by making these statements. We’ve always respected all belief systems and I am only expressing how this grief feels to me - I’m not trying to challenge anyone’s beliefs (and I haven’t missed the irony of posting this on a religious holiday - it’s just a coincidence). In fact we’ve even always said that our love seems to be infinite and more powerful than death itself - a rather "spiritual" perspective - but we certainly don’t claim any wisdom on these matters, we simply just express how we feel.
In the same vein as the healing nature of time, there’s also the "one day at a time". But one day at a time towards what end? For years we did take it one day at a time in order to stay alive (and sane) as we kept hoping for more time. Then she died. And every day thereafter is the same level of torture because she’s not with us. There’s no point waiting for something to get better, we just have to naturally adapt to living with pain and accept that there is no happiness on the horizon. Just a life with a permanent background of loneliness and sadness upon which we will build any smiles or moments of lonely joy. We have to redefine what happiness means. And that is inevitable because we are human. But it’s not something to look forward to because it’s far away from her.
By now I’ve probably said too much (sorry!). Which brings my mind to the point about having people to "talk to"... Unfortunately no one actually cares as much as they may think they do. They can’t. They have no idea because they are not us. And being human they have their own issues to take care of and there’s simply not enough available mindspace for them to care or be present as much as they may want to. It’s not their fault, we’re just human. And it’s pointless asking a grieving person to lean on people who are realistically not going to be available to serve as the metaphorical cheek that tears need to roll down in order to alleviate some pain. She was the only one always available. She was the only one close enough to me to share the burden of a loss as big as this one. When life kicks you in the teeth there’s always been only one person to go to - and now she’s gone. And there’s no point trying to fill that gap because it’s impossible. (I feel like acknowledging that some cultures have realised all this and have pragmatic mechanisms in place to address it, like a quick remarriage, which I have been kindly advised to consider. It’s very logical and sensible, since then you will in fact have someone to talk to at any time - and an efficient way to expedite the inevitable filling of mindspace. Although I sincerely appreciate the good place this advice is coming from, it is not an option for me at all).
Grief is as common as love, and just as complex. There are many things one can say about grief, as there are many things one can say about love. The only truth though is that there is no absolute truth. You will never fully understand the love nor the grief of another. With grief, we can try to be there to cheer someone on or hold their hand as they stumble on towards the inevitable numbing of passing time - and many will need and appreciate it - but we will never truly understand the depth of another person's grief. But for those who are close to the grieving, take comfort in the fact that life will go on, the tears will eventually subside, and as much as we may not want to, we will unavoidably adapt to living with the overwhelming sadness, and we will eventually find that new definition of joy, whether we like it or not.
(A note about this post: I had strong reservations about posting this so I took Berlioz for a walk on the island nearby to think - it’s one of Carolina’s favourite places and where we would always go for big chats while walking him. The weather was perfect and for the first time I saw butterflies everywhere - hundreds of them - something that would have excited Carolina so so much. A nice lady passing by saw my fascination with the butterflies and stopped to explain that it was a short term phenomenon which is often missed by regular visitors to the island, and she told me what they were called - the Cape Autumn Widow! Maybe this was the universe telling me to come to terms with that word - widow. The word I need to use when completing all the death paperwork. Maybe it’s time I lift myself up and accept that I am a widower, as horrible and unnatural as it feels to say it. And maybe posting this is necessary to make it more real.)
