The only constant in grief
If I pretend hard enough, this awful reality won’t be true.
Robert’s truck is in the driveway. He must be out in his shop working.
He isn’t in his chair. He must have gone to Braum’s to buy milk.
A delivery came to the door. No doubt more car parts he ordered!
He receives emails and text messages on his phone. He has to respond.
See? Proof he’s still with me.
All his medicine sits on the bathroom counter. I need to remind him to take it.
HIs rumpled, dirty clothes lie in the hamper. He had to be around to wear them.
Ads and bills arrive in the mailbox in his name. He has to be here to open them.
His wallet, keys, and glasses rest on the buffet. He will grab them up on his way out.
Then the stillness returns, dragging reality along. Robert is gone. Physically gone. Gone in all the tangible ways.
He died of a heart attack in the yard. Period.
Reality sticks his foot in the door and won’t budge.
Yet I hear Robert in my ear:
maintain the cars–tend to the oil changes and start them regularly;
be fully present and make the most of every day;
help someone and reach out if you need help;
change the filter in the heat pump when the season changes;
your students rely on you because teaching is your purpose;
check on our friends and welcome them into our home;
take care of our girls for me…
But the girls–daughters, granddaughters, sisters convulse into sobs, the primal moans and language of denial and grief ripping across the house.
I cannot shield them from this agony. We cling together until the wave subsides.
Reality invades.
Even the men–strong, protective, stalwart–cry, which leaves me totally undone.
Yet the memories bring laughter.
Remember when L surprised Papa, but he thought M had a boy in the house?
Did y’all know he and I nearly broke the recliner when we both sat on it?
Oh, yeah! And that night when you-know-who tried to get Robert to dance, and he retreated behind the car?
Or the day he lost the tool he needed, bought another one, and found the original immediately after he finished fixing the car.
So we all laughed and cried and remembered, over and over, until the sharpest pain eased.
But then reality roars back in.
Now it’s harder to hear Robert in my heart’s ear. What would he want me to do? How can I honor him? Will I have the strength to push through?
Reality has nothing to say.
Silence remains.
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We are trudging up a long, steep incline, but this is the Joyous Road, and we will find memories and experiences that restore us.
Please share with me how you traveled through grief and found your way back to joy.
We need each other to lean on sometimes, and a faith in better days ahead.
Thank you all for your sympathy, love, and kindness. It helps.
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