It’s April.
April is upon us. I can tell my writing is different than it was in the early days after losing Jason. The desperation is mostly gone, not always, but mostly. My body is settling in, it is physically aware this is my life, even though I don’t want this to be my life. It is proof that grief evolves and that our physical bodies can adapt to even the most unfair of life’s changes. Our minds on the other hand, they don’t catch up in the same way our bodies do.
They say time heals all wounds, but I would disagree with that. Time only changes the wound. Maybe we grow around it, we get used to dealing with it, but the wound doesn’t heal. Maybe It is no longer gaping, bleeding all over the place, since we slowly learn to tend to it. There are days though where it does bleed, just because. Maybe we forgot to do the morning tending, or too much activity triggered it. But it also isn’t getting better.
I almost hate that my mind went to an analogy of a bed wound that Jason had at the end of his life, but it did. No matter how much I tended to it, it continued to get worse. Because what it needed to heal, was for Jason to stand, be healthy, get up, move around the way he used to. That was not possible, because stupid fucking cancer was killing him. Similar to this grief, the very thing I need for time to heal this, is for Jason to be here, for my mind to see him once again, for my heart to hold him, for real, not the type of hold we all talk about after death, the “hold him in your heart.”. No. I need to physically hold him. But I can’t. So the very thing my heart and mind need to heal this pain, is not possible. Even over time, with all the tending, the therapy, the self care, processing, the grief is still there. I believe that will hold true for forever.
Whoever said time heals all wounds clearly didn’t lose their husband at 31 years old. I don’t believe time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just teaches you slowly how to live with them. Time has passed, and I still don’t know that I know how to live without Jason. Most days I feel I am going through the motions, without a path or a track, simply just trying to make it through the day.
I do believe that grief evolves through time. I believe part of this evolution is letting go of our own expectations around healing, grief, how we expected life to go and how we expected others to show up for us.
You learn to fake smile when someone asks how are you, you start to realize who asks with intention and who asks without holding space for the real answer.
You learn that even though someone who knows your person died, they will still ask you how are you and when you say something like “oh just hanging in there” they still don’t understand and they offer the sad eyes and sigh, with nothing else to say.
You learn who is still showing up and who has moved on, and has not made space for your pain.
You learn who was actually there for you, and who showed up for themselves for check a box (this will surprise you).
You learn who forgets, or maybe a better word is moves on, because they are lucky enough to.
You learn who stops asking because they don’t want to face the reality that this still hurts.
You learn who is concerned more about their own grief than your own.
You also learn who surprises you in beautiful ways.
You learn that like grief, life also evolves.
You learn some of the most beautiful people you will meet due to the darkest circumstances.
You will learn that other grievers, strangers, may hold better space for you than your closest friends.
You learn that there are a lot of people who are lucky to never meet grief in the way that you have, at least not yet.
You also learn there are many people who have met grief, and know her too well. Both those things can surprise you.
You learn who is willing to hold on for dear life as you navigate this, and who was only there for the joy ride when life was good.
You will learn how distanced you feel from your peers because grief for you came early. Maybe you don’t relate to the people you used to, and that’s ok.
You learn to love big. With intention.
You learn to appreciate the little things.
You learn to cut the bull shit.
You learn about hard boundaries.
You learn that anyone trying to make your life harder in this already hard season is not worth your time.
You also learn it’s ok to be angry at the world for no apparent reason some days and see the beauty in a sunset the others.
You learn the world is actually a very cruel place and there is so much bad, that not letting those types of outside things consume you is critical. Most of us have enough in our plates anyways.
You learn that your circle is small, smaller than it once felt. You learn some people, somehow, still have expectations for you to show up for them, even when you are barely showing up for yourself.
Most of all, you learn that people simply don’t have a clue of what each day brings and everything you hold. You wouldn’t wish for them to understand, but sometimes being met with real perspective would be a refreshing reality. People will say things that hurt, and you will wonder if they even realize what they just said. You try to give grace some days, and others, well it is very easy to pick apart everything people say or do, even if they are with good intention.
You learn to live with it all, not because you want to, but because you have to.
It is April. The 8th month without Jason. There are days when I smile and I laugh and I mean it. There are days when the tears flow from my eyes just as fast and heavy as the day Jason left me on this earth to navigate this world without him. There are many days, somewhere in between.
I still cry in the car on a random Wednesday as a drive back from work. I still reach for his side of the bed in the middle of the night. I still sit on my couch and sob hysterically just because some “little” set me off. I also get up and I go to work. I get up and go to the gym. Once something I was unable to find the energy to do. I act “normal” to the outside world, and hold it together for work meetings. I mostly show up where I need to. I function. If you didn’t know, you might not know. Because grief doesn’t have a look. From the outside looking in, I don’t believe a stranger would ever be able to know that almost 8 months ago I lost my young husband to stupid cancer.
None of that means I am ok.
Grief evolves. Life evolves. The days pass whether I want them to or not.
Just like that, it’s been almost 8 months since Jason died and I still find myself asking, how did we get here. Grief might evolve, but there isn’t a day when I don’t miss Jason with everything in me.
