Grief

What does grief mean to me?

She caught my eye. We were introduced by Sam in February of 2001. We married in October 2002. In 2006 she gave birth to our first daughter. In early 2008 we found out we were going to have a second child. A few months later she was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer—terminal. She delivered our second child in late June and then she died in early August. I haven’t gone a day without thinking of her since I first met her in February 2001.

I have been journeying with grief since we found out she would die. It is a journey I wasn’t prepared for. It is a journey that is mostly taken alone. It is a journey that gets easier, never easy, and never ends.

My grief journey was benefited by the fact that Bridget’s death was without blame. When she was diagnosed with cancer the doctors simply said, “She won the wrong lottery.” She didn’t smoke, it wasn’t UV exposure, it wasn’t asbestos or some radical carcinogenic diet. Bridget didn’t ask for her death or leave me for some other man. There is comfort in knowing that I loved her to the end and that she loved me too.

Grief is a journey that gets easier, never easy, and never ends.

After learning Bridget had terminal cancer I did what I always do in crisis, I tried to rise-up. I wanted to be the best husband, the best parent, the best griever, the best son, and the best son-in-law. I didn’t know exactly what my future would bring, but I knew I was in for the biggest challenge of my life. When challenged, I want to overcome and I want people to be proud of me—whatever “overcome” really is when faced with such a tragedy. I wanted to do this for them, but I also wanted to do it for myself to prove that I wouldn’t deal with my pain by drinking from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag while living in a cardboard hut.

What is it that I was grieving? I was grieving the loss of my best friend, the loss of my girls’ mother, the loss of my sounding board, the loss of my cheerleader, the loss of someone that accepted me unconditionally, the loss of the womanly presence in our home and in our lives, the loss of someone to pour my love into without shame or concern, the loss of my helpmate, the loss of my spiritual partner, the loss of my social connector, the loss of my travel partner, the loss of our planner, the loss of my motivation to achieve to please her, and believe me I could go on.

Each of these is grieved. With grief there is no predictable timeline. Grief comes at you like a torrent when you least expect it, and can then change unexpectedly to a placid stream. What I experienced is that the torrents became less frequent over time and the placid waters of grief more frequent. However, they have not—I believe they will not—ever go away. I’ll be swimming in a stream of grief the rest of my life. When the torrents come they can still be as fierce as ever, or they can be relatively manageable. You can’t predict, you just don’t know what to expect—other than they will come at some point.

What I experienced is that the torrents of grief became less frequent over time and the placid waters of grief more frequent. However, the waters of grief have not—I believe they will not—ever go away.

My truisms about grief:

Death/Grief is Uncomfortable

Death and grief is a topic most people run from. Very few people in the past 6-years want to talk about Bridget’s death. I don’t know if they are uncomfortable because it removes the feeling that there is a natural order to death, or if the emotions of death keep them from the conversation. Whatever it is, people don’t want to talk about it and are extremely adept at switching the topic when I want to discuss Bridget’s death.

Same with grief. So much of life is about community. Grief, I feel, is a process that is largely done alone. I don’t know if that is unique to our American society, or if that is universal across the world. I think the griever would be better supported and comforted if the grief was done within the context of community and relationship. That support, that assistance, the listening ear can be so essential to the healing.

But, especially at my relatively young age, my friends simply can’t relate to grief let alone the grief of a dead spouse. So, I have gone about my grief journey largely alone.

Guilt and Grief

I believe that most people who are grieving the loss of a spouse feel guilt associated with the death. A wife says, “He must have committed suicide because of something I did.” A husband might say “If I would have talked to her a bit longer she wouldn’t have been in the intersection when that semi hit her car.” A widow’s guilt may be over her not taking her husband to the hospital soon enough after chest pains.

It is impossible to not entertain the would’ve, could’ve, should’ve, and the if only. My wife, Bridget, died of cancer. A cancer that none of the many doctors identified early on. Her symptoms: chest pains, consistent coughing, irregular heartbeat, blood clotting, and fatigue were all explained away as part of the pregnancy. She had an enlarged lymph node that couldn’t be biopsied due to being on blood thinners from the blood clotting. Riddled within these symptoms are moments in time, decision points, when I could’ve, should’ve, if only I would’ve.

Bridget was one to quickly go to the doctor if something was amiss. I recall laughing at her when we lived in Boston and she went to the hospital after feeling an enlarged lymph node under her jaw. The doctor agreed with me…nothing unusual, just part of her body’s reaction to her cold. Bridget was always quick to get stuff checked by the doctor. She didn’t for whatever reason when we moved to Portland and what we now know as symptoms of cancer began to accumulate. So, I feel guilt about whatever role I may have played in discouraging her from getting checked out.

I also feel guilt, tremendous guilt on occasion, when I think of some of the “major” sins in my life. Those things I have done that I shouldn’t have—I knew I shouldn’t—but went ahead with. Immediately after them I felt guilt. As is my nature, I wondered if God would punish me for my indiscretions. I never felt punished. Was I granted God’s grace? Have the consequences of my sin not fully reveal itself? Even with that belief in grace, I feel a burdensome guilt that overcomes me to the point that I consider that God allowed Bridget to die a horrific death as payment—the consequence—for the sins of her husband. The loss of my companion and the burden of grief and single-parenthood as retribution for my sins.

Grief’s Pain is Commensurate with Love’s Depth

I have been told that the pain from death is proportional to the amount of love we had for the deceased. This seems rational to me given that my homesickness when moving to Boston from Washington took a few months; breakups from girlfriends took weeks or months to recover from; grandparents that I didn’t know too well and lived far away took weeks to “get over”.

My love for Bridget—our love for each other—was all I hoped for. Sure, we had our struggles, but even struggles were not that bad with her. I had truly found a lifelong companion, friend, and confidant. While the relationship was work, it was restful, rewarding, and purposeful work. The kind that rejuvenates and satisfies.

When she died the pain of her loss of life disabled me equal to how the love I had for her presence in my life enabled me.

Grief Is a Vortex

When Bridget died, frankly even before that when we knew she was terminal, my journey with grief started. At the start the grief was overwhelming. Nothing other than the care for my sick wife and 2-year old daughter could distract me from it. It was constant torrential stream of anguish.

As time progressed, there were moments where I could set the weight of the grief aside and think clearly. These moments were brief, but refreshing. A recapturing of a feeling I hadn’t experienced in quite a while. But, then the grief would again weigh me down. The duration of these moments when the weight of grief was set aside elongated over time. But, the grief would always come back and the weight of grief felt just as toilsome when it returned.

I think of it like a vortex and I am journeying on the black line. Every time I cross what would be high-noon, if a clock were overlaid on the vortex, the grief would come back. I’d walk further along the line, the grief would be less frequent, but it is always in the future. I’m always walking toward a return of painful grief.

Grief over the Past, Present, and the Future

When Bridget was diagnosed terminal I knew that I would have a hellish journey with grief. I didn’t know how it would transpire completely—I still don’t—but I knew it would present the most challenging thing I have faced in life thus far.

As I have mentioned, grief for me is a vortex. You start in the center and circle out with overwhelming grief hitting you every time you cross 12:00. Over time the rest between overwhelming grief gets longer, but you know it will always come back at some point.

What I didn’t know or appreciate fully is that you grieve the past, the present and the future. And as a parent you grieve this for yourself, but also for your children.

I look at the past times I had with Bridget and grieve that I can not revisit those times by conversing with her. Our trip to Australia and the wonderful experiences we had there are now mine, not ours. I can’t revisit them with her. The joys of watching our daughter, Grace, blossom that first year are now joys I have alone and can’t share with Bridget. Friction points in our relationship can not be smoothed out now with Bridget, they remain only with me as a source of sorrow and guilt. You can’t wipe away the memories of such a deep love—you don’t want to.

When in the present I think about sharing it with Bridget. Sharing our daughter’s growth, their wise-cracks, their joy. But, those too are mine alone. When dating I could share with my girlfriend—which was wonderful—but there is still grieving that it can’t be shared with the girl’s mom. You can’t wipe away the memories of your past hopes for what is now the present—you don’t want to.

The plans and hope for a future with Bridget are grieved as well. I started thinking of our plans for our future. The girl’s starting school, going to summer camps, swimming, riding bikes for the first time, teaching them to read, their first dates, learning to drive, graduation, marriage, and starting a family. Bridget and I dreamt about such things for our daughters. I grieve separating those dreams from Bridget and making them my own dreams—and someday integrating those dreams with a new spouse. That doesn’t just happen—it is a painful, painful process of working through the losses. You can’t wipe away the dreams for the future—you don’t want to.

Events and Milestones Will Forever be Bittersweet

Birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, marriages, anniversaries, first days of school, graduations…we celebrate the meaning of these milestones. After a spouse dies, the mother of your children, these life events provide joy, satisfaction, and gratitude that the girls and I are able to celebrate together. At the same time they carry the weight and sorrow of the loved one missing.

This feeling, this longing for the presence of the person you love doesn’t stop when Bridget’s heart stopped. My love and appreciation for her won’t be lessened or removed if I find a new spouse.

Loneliness Whether Alone or Not

There is a deep unyielding loneliness in grief. In the days, weeks, and months after Bridget died I was lost. Every movement took either concentrated effort or was done completely mindlessly.

At nights I would sit alone in Bridget and my bedroom—well now that she died it was just my bedroom. I would have the TV on, would surf the internet, or would be in silence and darkness. I was so alone. The loneliness cut through me as it strapped me down to my bed.

A few days after she died my brother and sister-in-law had the entire family over; 13 to 15 close family members. Walking into their house felt like walking into a hospital room in a foreign country—antiseptic, unfamiliar, uncertain, and alone. I didn’t know if this would bring some healing or further hurt. Even when surrounded by loving family it felt foreign and alone. Nobody could relate to the grief. Nobody was alongside me in emotions.

No matter whom I was with or not with, no matter what they did or what they would say to me, the loneliness of grief overtook me.

Grief Strengthens Most People

When we found out that Bridget had cancer and was terminal with months to live, my mind raced. What did this mean for her? How would she feel knowing she was terminal? How would the cancer ravage her body to death? How would she die—would it be swift or a wasting away? How would I best support her? How would I care for our 2-year old daughter through this sickness and beyond? What would happen to the child Bridget was carrying? How would this impact my depression, my day-to-day, my job, my life?

My determination was to answer each of these questions with effort. I wanted others to answer these questions someday by thinking, Steve did an amazing job. I tried, but haven’t done an amazing job in addressing each of these questions. But, what has happened since Bridget got sick and died is I have grown stronger and more capable.

Through this journey I have walked alongside and supported the dying, something I never imagined doing until I was elderly. I cared for our 2-year old and the extreme preemie that Bridget was able to give birth to. My depression crept back, but didn’t overcome me. My day-to-day includes grocery shopping, breakfast and lunch preparation in the morning, getting the girls off to school, growing in my career, helping with homework, supporting the girls interests in different types of art, bathing, buying clothes, and getting them to sleep. What would have previously been an exhausting day for me is now routine. I have been strengthened even while I have grieved.

Emotionally I am far more fragile in areas—fear of loss, loneliness, rejection—and far stronger in areas—grief, empathy, perspective of life, priorities. Grief gets easier, but never is it easy. Communicating with others that have recently lost spouses has strengthened me and helped them. My priorities and perspective on life, while mostly the same things, have been ordered differently as a result of the loss of Bridget.

Must Face All Emotions…Eventually

As a mechanism to cope with the intense pain of grief, I believe that many people avoid and numb their emotions. The emotions so quickly come, they are so intense, they feel insurmountable. As time progresses, the emotions have to be faced, felt, and processed.

The emotions are like a lump of clay tossed onto the potters wheel. It is too heavy and thick to immediately mold the clay into a vase. The griever leans into the clay with their fingers and hands. The griever feels some of the emotions—some of the clay—and pushes and directs the emotions thereby making sense of them. It starts as a blunt and unrefined process. Over time, after many revolutions of the potters wheel the griever starts to manage the clay rather nimbly and with nuance. They are practiced now. The griever now is able to manipulate more of the clay as the vase begins to take a more discernible shape. Eventually, all of the clay of grief is touched, felt, processed, and managed into something that the potter is proud of and finds acceptable. A vase to hold and nurture the beauty of a flower.

Nothing Diminishes the Love

I don’t believe there is anything that will or can diminish my love for Bridget. It may shift in its nature, but the love for her is complete. Should I get remarried, have more children, watch my girls leave the home, I will still have complete love for Bridget.

As I think of continuing to live beyond Bridget’s death, I wonder if my love for Bridget will disable me from loving another wife. I don’t think that is of concern. I know when Grace, our first daughter, was born I experienced a new kind of love that was awesome. I wondered and worried as we contemplated a second child if I would be able to love the new child as much as Grace; and would Grace be okay as I spread my love across two children? As those with kids can attest, love is like air, it fills all the space that it is allowed to enter into. So it is for those that continue to love those that died and those new people that enter into their lives.

I have learned and am learning from the journey through grief. This is a learning I didn’t ask for or hope for. There is a knowledge, a wisdom, and a perspective that is gained. My life will be further blessed as a result.