By Patricia Miller
It is time to say thank you. My time of mourning grows shorter. I woke this morning and saw a place where I will flourish. Grief, you have been my constant companion as I strive toward a new life. You will always be part of my life, but your role will lessen as I ponder who and how I will be. Thank you for guiding me.
Five years ago I woke, but George did not. He died while I slept. Grief, that morning, you did not lie to me, nor did you force me to look at the whole of what happened. You introduced yourself, told me you were sent as a guide, counselor, and friend. I didn’t believe you. Hissed at you to go, get out of my life. You stayed, stroked my hair as I would a small child’s. Repeated words over and over until my soggy brain could hear, if not comprehend. You compressed a heart that forgot to beat, moved legs that did not walk, sent away people I could not meet. Assured me I would get through the next minute. Another truth I did not believe, did not want to believe.
When I was frightened, you pried my hands away from my eyes. Held my hands in yours. Turned me to look at what I did not want to see. Allowed me to lean against you, still compelled me to look, forced me to meet my fear.
George and I had prepared for his funeral, chosen the readings, the music, even talked about what I would wear. But, when Sue began, “Be not afraid…” my entire body trembled. My hands became so cold I could not hold George’s urn when the priest handed it to me. Grief, you pulled the red and gold shawl I wore over the shoulders of my black dress, held your warm, steady hands under mine. As George and I wished, I walked with him to the sanctuary. With your support, my love was stronger than my fear.
Grief, you watched when George and I went to find a final resting place. Under a giant oak in the woods with birds singing and daisies blooming seemed perfect but impossible. Instead, we chose a small, older cemetery near our home.
A typical ground plot seemed to negate the reasons for cremation. The mausoleum with stained glass and potted plants felt wrong. A columbarium was suggested: a wall nine feet tall, three feet wide, and twenty feet long. Its 124 identical etched niche-markers reminded us of our first apartment—rows of identical doors. We chose a sunny top-floor corner “apartment” near a shade tree.
Grief, you whispered, “No epitaph could say what you want said. Mount Rushmore is not large enough. All you need is ‘George and Trish.'”
The first time I returned to visit George’s grave, I saw horrifying ugliness. You described a place of love and beauty, a place with daisies and a log to sit on. When I stared at the marble columbarium, you told me to remember the kind monk who sanded and polished the rosewood urn, forming a space to hold the ashes of two lovers, to hear again the words he spoke when he handed the box to us: “The essence of your earthly bodies will rest here. It cannot hold your love, your true essence, but everyone will know you rest together in peace.” When I looked at the marble wall, I felt awe and sadness, not fear and anguish. No daisies bloomed, the sky remained dark, but I understood “May the perpetual light shine upon you…” for the first time.
Weeks passed. You listened while I screamed. “I can’t.” “I won’t.” “I hate.” You heard pain, anger, aloneness. When my throat spasmed, raw from screaming. When I could scream no more, Grief, you screamed for me. “I am strong. I can.” “I am faithful. I trust.” “I love. I hope.” Too tired to fight, I listened until I heard, heard until I believed. One night, I went to sleep without my throat throbbing. Eventually, I did not scream for weeks, then months at a time.
Grief, you cajoled me until I made an effort to visit my sister, attend a birthday party, stay for coffee and donuts after church. I sat chilled and silent in a far corner. You sat with me and helped count the minutes until I could leave.
Eventually, you got bored and started putting words in my mouth. “Good to see you.” “I’m okay, thank you.” “Isn’t the weather lovely?” I started to believe I cared. I spoke my own words, no longer needing yours.
A four-year-old boy told a knock-knock joke. I laughed. I swear you tickled me! I went to a concert and forgot to count the minutes. You left before me. I invited my neighbor for tea. You tricked me, having her ask to borrow a cup of sugar!
Months passed before I ran laughing through red and yellow maple leaves in our yard. I took teenage girls shopping. Together we ate hot fudge sundaes. I stood in front of my mirror, admiring how I looked twenty pounds thinner.
My son took me for my first pear pizza. We talked about motorcycles, career changes, yard work I needed done, and flavors of ice cream. I giggled. Grief, your slight smile said, “It’s okay to be happy.”
The month George and I would have celebrated our fiftieth wedding anniversary, I choked back tears seeing couples at Mass. I ran out of Target when a friend pointed to a T-shirt that read, “I’m married to a smart woman. She married me.”
Again, the cemetery was ugly. I stood in front of the columbarium shouting, “How dare you leave me alone? You are selfish and lazy and mean.” “Damn you, come home!” “You don’t get to be dead. I need you!” Grief, you held me, wrapped me with soothing reminiscence. “For fifty years your marriage gave others inspiration and hope. Feel George’s love begging you to live fully,” you said.
I wrapped my arms around myself. You opened them. You gave me time to mourn, space to experience pain for it was real. To find strength and happiness in memories, to make new memories—some of which caused new pain.
When I grew bored doing nothing, you demanded, “Do something.” You were my concierge, suggesting places, exploring hobbies, and new ways to use my skills.
I saw a child who needed help reading and began tutoring. A friend needed meals. I made applesauce-meatloaf and maple pork chops. Learned sugar-free recipes for chocolate pie from new computer apps. Grief, you showed me I still have value.
You listened when I said, “I can’t” because I couldn’t. You heard my fear, confusion, hopelessness.
You took me places where you were welcomed: to a counselor, a support group and poetry group, a hairstylist, to new friends who never knew Trish-and-George. Sometimes I thought you were trying to get rid of me, but you gave me a network of help.
It is still you that I turn to first. You are with me at two in the morning when I know George won’t be home, and a fire burns my brain, blinding me, leaving my heart ashes. Your compassion cools the flames, lifts the black smoke until terror falls defeated. You show me aloneness can be a healing salve.
When we met, I wanted to hate you but, Grief, you are of God as are love and joy. Knowing you will come when I need you, I will go forward without your hourly companionship. Your last task is releasing me to what God has planned for me.
Gratefully,
Trish