I found an excellent article on death of a child, and on grieving in Issue # 688 of Vanity Fair, beginning on page 113.  Joe Biden talks about the death of his son Beau, lost to cancer.

A brief quote - page 118:
"  . . the second year (after a death) is harder than the first. That's a fact. Anybody who's gone through serious tragedy, the first year, there are so many people around you propping you up. But after a year, your family, your close friends - I mean it's normal, they've got to get back to their lives. But then the reality of it sets in, in a profound way."

I am beginning my fourth year of grieving. Sometimes, I do well; sometimes I still tear up so much that I cannot see.

I wonder if I may have depended too much on her for my identity; moving to her home place; attending her home church; associating with her family, neighbors. acquaintances on a daily-weekly basis. When she was no longer around, the local folk quickly moved on. I have not. Still.

Grieving after Death, What to Expect after the death of a loved one

I found the best description of grieving I have read in a while in Michelle Obama's autobiography, "Becoming", beginning in Chapter 11.
"It hurts to live after someone has died. It just does. It can hurt to walk down a hallway or open the fridge. It hurst to put on a pair of socks, to brush your teeth. Food tastes like nothing. Colors go flat. Music hurts, and so do memories. You look at something you'd otherwise find beautiful - a purple sky at sunset or a playground full of kids - and it only somehow deepens the loss. Grief is so lonely this way."
  "(My brother and I argued over our father's casket choices.)  We were yelling for reasons that had nothing to do with the actual argument. Neither of us was invested in the outcome.
    We were having an absurd and inappropriate argument because in the wake of death every single thing on earth feels absurd and inappropriate."

After Shocks Still Reverberate over Death; Death of Mate; Breast Cancer Consequences; How We Cope with Cancer Death

       Over Eight Hundred Days have passed since Wife died - suddenly - without warning - though we had lived with stage-four cancer for two years by that time. Yet, she died too soon . . have I stated that before?  Just in case, I'll repeat; SHE died too soon.
     The song "Just when I needed you most" reaps tears; "Too Old To Die Young" spins in my song cradle, and chokes my breathing passages.
   I share a couple of messages that have been shared on Facebook recently, referring to those of us who still mourn.   I will share two.

I am still struggling along with the sentiments of the first one, but have not yet arrived at the place suggested by the first one.  But perhaps I could suppose that I am moving on past the pain. I at least, most days, manage to hold down the crying to once per day.

Two Years in Mourning; Rememberances of Loved One; Cancer Continues to Rob; Life After the Loss of a Mate

Sara Evans sings, “There’s no place that far”. She is incorrect, for there IS a place too far – for me, at least at this time. Wife died over two years ago, and I miss her every day.  For a year – no, more (this week?) - I found (find) myself contemplating ways to join her. Members of my family keet telling me that I need to stay. Perhaps they are starting to make sense; perhaps not.

What do I miss about Wife? Let me count. No, there are too many. I miss her. Period. I keep seeing pictures of her from her childhood; teen years, school years; professional career; as an aunt, sister, parent;  grandparent. Posing; just natural; smiling; solemn; in pain. Natural hair; wig; scarf; hat. (Seven years of chemotherapy will do that.)

Perhaps she had to go. I’ve been told so. But, somewhere, deep inside, I continue to believe that there had to be a way she could have stayed.

But, I plan to keep slogging through the days, the weeks, and now, the years, until I find that far place. Perhaps she will remember me, and will be the first to greet me when I cross that river.  I can hope, can I not?

A friend posted this. I cannot equal this post. Read, and enjoy, or weep.



https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/12/the-secret-life-of-grief/281992/?utm_source=atlfb

Dealing with Death After 500 Days

Though Wife has been dead and buried (remember, no euphemisms) for well over 500 days now, she is still claiming visiting rights.  (She rode with me the first time I returned home after she had died, and has visited me often since, both as a spirit that I could feel, and as a director of, and actor in my dreams.

Recently, she began bombarding me with pointed dreams – informing me that; no matter what path I choose, I will ultimately reach the same destination; explaining that I should be more cat-personality, rather than dog personality; telling me that I need to divorce myself from life-binding responsibilities and organizations that are no longer relevant to me; that I must  prepare to be reborn.

  NONE of those dreams seem relevant to me – yet. I cannot fathom such a sea-change. AND, I am not ready to release Wife, which, I fear, is her ultimate goal. Her leaving would devastate me, for I have nothing nor no one who can even remotely replace her.

Now, here I sit, contemplating whether to tackle implementing her suggestions and risk losing her in the process, or to continue to be imprisoned in the past. What is a person to do?

Why Do We Use Euphemisms For Death in Obituaries and Conversation?

Why Do We Use Euphemisms for Death in Obituaries and Conversation?

Crossing over; passed; passed away; passed over; gone to heaven; left us; lost his(her) life; resting in peace;  asleep in Jesus;  bit the dust; called home;  deceased; departed; expired; gathered to (his) her people;  gone to meet his (her) maker - reward;  joined the last roundup; in repose;  is resting six feet under; succumbed;  turned up his (her) toes;  yielded up the ghost:

The use of euphemisms is supposed to ease our pain. But, just for the absurd fun of it, let’s examine a few – at face value.

“lost his (her) life;”          can someone find it for him (her)?  We have finders.

 “Crossed over”;  crossed over what? A creek? A river? A lake? A cloud?  Can’t they just cross back? 

 “left us;”  doesn’t someone in the house do that at last once a day? Does that imply that the leaver

      will return? Hmm.

“resting in peace;”   How do we know that someone finds peace after dying? Have we talked to   

       someone to know?  Hmm some more.

“Called home;”    by someone via the telephone, cell phone, or land line? Or by facebook, skype, or

      email?  Did someone answer his (her) call, or did the person just hang up?  Interesting. 

“expired;”   Well, things generally get thrown out after they expire. Just saying.

“Passed over;”   That promotion just did not come through, I guess?  Is she (he) pouting?

““joined the last roundup;”    Did she (he) sell the herd? Or did he(she) keep a few cows around?

 “Succumbed;”     temptation is much too great?

Well, enough word play. Fancy word games, in my opinion, do nothing but confuse those who want to know  where is their mom-dad-brother-grandpa-grandma, only to look inside the box, and, after hearing  the explanation, ask, “Then, why is (he) she stuck in that box looking like he (she) is dead?”     What do we say then?

I believe in truth in advertising; saying what I mean. Wife is dead. She will not return to me. As she was dying, she told us that she would meet her parents and beloved grandmother four days later. She was adamant about the date. I believe she did just that – not by passing away, or resting in peace, or by being called home, but by dying.

Five-Hundred Day Postmortem

    Nearly five hundred days ago, Wife decided she’d had enough of pain. So, she died. What a blunt way to state her leaving, but, but I am tired of dancing under euphemisms.  She died. As I have previously stated, suddenly, without warning, after dealing with breast cancer for almost a decade - stage four cancer for three years. Still, she died SUDDENLY, without warning - me. 
   Of course, I was in denial – still am. I find myself wandering  through my halls, looking for Wife, and blubbering when I cannot track her down. 

      I have tried to stay busy, cleaning out closets and kitchens, and spare rooms, but never have I stayed busy enough to forget where her tombstone stands, or where her wedding ring sits; or where her favorite coat hangs because I cannot yet allow myself to give it away.

      I could say these last several weeks have been easier, and that the nights are going better, but I would be spreading falsehoods. In some ways, they are, but mostly they are not. Some days, I muddle through without once thinking of her, untiI I hear a song on the radio (( the Chi-lites “Have you Seen Her”   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xVYxKRXDT2I) or  (Without You) What Do I Do with Me”  Tanya Tucker      https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LOq6G41IewI )),

or have to face the BED alone. Many nights (mornings), I find myself staying awake as long as I physically can,  just to avoid the dark room, and her cold pillow.

     My children, grandchildren, and close friends come around often enough for me to remain coherent, and  loosely connected, and I am slowly rejoining the social circles Wife and I once haunted (and she still does). However, I cannot go anywhere without some hazard waddling along in my wake.  Since now I am a single, rather than a part of a couple, I appear to be a threat to some. I have lost the safety of claiming my wife as my companion. How do I deal with that? I am still struggling.

   What I MOST miss was her ability to make sense of what I had to say, and to help me funnel my many-tracked thoughts into some form of coherence. And then there was our time at the end of the day, when just she and I were alone in the dark, holding each other, and whispering, and laughing. And drifting off to sleep, content that we would have the privilege of doing that once more the next evening.  Then, one day, we didn’t. And, that is where I am currently stuck. For now. Maybe, there is hope.  I have been informed, by those whose footsteps I follow, that there is.

Since Wife's death, I feel as if I am running in place.  I thought I was ready to let her to go when she said she was ready to go home, but I am still not. Every evening I force my misty-eyed self into an empty bed. Every day, I waver between feeling guilty for not keeping her alive, sighing with relief that she no longer suffers, and warring between relief and regret that I am no longer charged with her health care.After a year. I. still. miss. her.

While I realize that I have adjusting somewhat, I often find myself wiping wet cheeks. I hear a song, I pick up a photo, I call one of my children or grands HER name in conversation.

I no longer feel normal, though the several grief books assure me that I am. Pperhaps. In a recent conversation with a mother whose son had died, was speaking as if he had died last week. She confessed eventually that he had been dead for over twenty three years. And she was still crying, and watching the door, and expecting him to walk in anytime, sing-songing "April Fool." Her story did not encourage my hope for easy return to normalcy.

Perhaps, some day, I will be willing to climb into bed - alone - at a normal time, keep the pillow dry, and slumber peacefully. I hope. Until then, I will keep tissue on my bedside table, and keep watching for her at every turn in my path, and behind every door I open.

I picked up an old edition of Reader's Digest - September 2009, page 79. The article is entitled "Perils of a Good Thing"
   To summarize: "Almost 60 percent of women reach for antioxidants, such as vitamins C or E, when notified of breast cancer .  . they may be doing themselves more harm than good.
  "Antioxidants sop up free radicals in the body, but that may interfere with . .  radiation and some forms of chemotherapy, which generate free radicals to damage cancer cells.
  "We don't know the effects at this point."  So, we are now warned.

Yet Another Month of Grieving for Wife, and of Survival after Death

   I have survived another month without Wife, though I am NOT relieved by that fact. I still "enjoy" my minutes - well, hours - actually, of overwhelming waves of grief. Songs on the radio continue to swamp the windshield as I drive.  Bobby Goldsboro's "Honey"; the Chi-lites' "Have You Seen Her?"; and strangely enough, Kenny Rogers' "The Gambler", as well as MANY others.
   Along the way, however, I seem to have developed a few coping skills. I have her side of the bed piled high and heavy so that when I climb into bed, or awake in the night, I can slide my arm or foot - or whole leg - under the heavy-ness of her surrogate, and gain some comfort in that.
   I still greet Her each time I walk into the house with, "Honey, I"m home" - hoping-against-hope that she will answer - just ONE more time. (Yes, I am, on occasion, STILL in denial).  I visit her grave at every opportunity, and talk to her there, though she does not respond. I still hope. (See, there again, I am in  . .  you know.) I have resolved to, on each visit, remove a bouquet and place it in the trash. I have kicked not a few rocks, and broken up innumerable clay clods. I have ordered her tombstone, and await its arrival. I leave the cemetery somewhat assuaged.  (Okay, THEN I move onto another stage of grieving - for the moment.)
      In the final analysis of each evening, I eventually conclude that while NOTHING will take Wife's place - in our house, my heart, our bed, our vehicle, or at the dinner table, I am improving. Each night when I begin to hear the music of a self-pity party tuning up, I reach for the switch-to-another-channel button which will  substitute one of my favorite memories of her.  (Yes, I stay- for a moment - in the final stage of mourning - acceptance.) Then, somewhere in the night, I wander once more onto the now-well-worn and familiar mourning path which, once more escorts me into and through another day's somehow-soothing sorrow swamp.

"Down Off the Cross" October 2016, Reader's Digest

Wife and I were constantly aware that cancer was walking with us, but she never seemed to address it as a threat or enemy. I don't recall her ever attending a 'cancer survivor' walk, nor an "I survived cancer" workshop, or joining a survivor group. We moved through each phase, living as normally as possible, and expecting others to treat us as normally as possible. To the bitter end.
  That leads into the Reader's Digest article. A series of quotes: ". .  I found that only a small part of the cancer experience is about medicine. Most of it is about feelings, faith, losing and finding your identy, and discovering strength and flexibility you never knew you had.
   "The other thing I learned is that I didn't have to take on "cancer survivor" as my identity, even though there were forces pushing me to do that.
   "I felt like being a cancer survivor was taking over my life. . . . We know that the way to cope with . .  (a) life changing experience(s) is to find meaning, (which) we have to decide. . . Perhaps we make one small decision that makes a big difference in our lives.
   "What if we lived in a world without survivors? What if people decided to claim their trauma as an experience, rather than taking it on as their identity? It could mean the end of being trapped by our wounds and the start of defining ourselves by what we are becoming."

The Rocky Sex Life of Cancer Patients

Sex,  intercourse, whoopee;  whatever pet name or signal couples agree to convey the message of the need to quell the urge, somehow, goes awry during sickness, and hospital, rehabilitation centers, or nursing home stays. Nerves become frayed, energy abates, and opportunities for guaranteed intimacy are rare and fleeting. Then (s)he DIES. And the REAL battle begins.

As Wife’s cancer battle "progressed", any sort of ‘normal’ life became increasingly impossible. Illness sapped her energy; routines were disrupted. Oxygen masks and tubes protruding from the chest became the norm. But, while were still at home, we at least enjoyed sleeping in the same bed, and somewhat-snuggling. 

 Intimacy became next-to-impossible, though, when we entered the realm of hospitals and rehab centers.  These institutions seem to have no incentive to accommodate, or even to acknowledge the existence of such a primal need.  Their rooms have no locks. I can understand that, to a degree, but not really. Couples can never, ever, EVER, enjoy quiet – or romping - guaranteed privacy. The “knock, before entering” policy is, in reality, a “knock as you open-the-door -WIDE” practice – for CNAs, nurses, and, yes, even doctors. More like tap, tap, swing open door, and announce the parade. One nurse recounted opening a door, only to find a couple locked in hot embrace. She reported fleeing the room screaming. 

I’d been under the impression that this primal urge would recede after the partner died. Wrong, wrong, WRONG. That urge still drives, MONTHS after Wife died.  If anything, during the first few weeks, the urge to relieve the pressure on the prostate gland overwhelmed me, as if the dammed river refused any more to be constrained.  In my younger days, I’d heard stories of wives pulling husbands out of the path of the recently-widowed, and of men hauling their women to the curb when newly-turned widowers were roving the streets. Now, I understand that urge, and sympathize – with both parties.

Now that the caring-for-the-patient mode had waned, and  the loneliness tsunami has somewhat abated, all remains is emptiness of heart, strung-out emotions, loss of purpose, and THAT urge -  Still. Plain. Simple. Strong. Primal.