Life goes on. Unfortunately, this means that you’re alone now. You have your other friends and family around you, but you’ve lost your touchstone. You will go on, and will eventually thrive. I promise. However, there will be times when the smallest thing pulls through a memory which twists your heart again.
The other night I was watching This Is Us on Netflix. If you haven’t seen it, it’s a story about two parents and their three kids, in several different time frames. Each episode explores the family’s lore, centred around the father figure. It’s very clear at the first episode that he will die. The story follows two separate timelines: the present when the siblings are young adults; and when they were growing up. Their father is a central part of the narrative. You watch him raising his kids with love and tenderness, the dread of his eventual death looming over their happiness.
I watched and, as expected, it pulled my heartstrings. Really hard.
I think I was subconsciously looking for a release. Purposely picking out a tear breaker gave me permission to cry.
It’s been five years since my husband died. My time for mourning is done, so says society. Yet, there are moments when I’m thrown back into the past, and he’s alive again.
I mourn any time I’m near the waterfront. The sound of waves crashing against the sand reminds me of our newlywed beach date. We had picked a small inlet to picnic, sheltered by fallen trees. We named it Secret Beach. I could swim while he watched his beloved air show.
I mourn when his son shows me the maze he drew at daycare. He’s the image of his father who couldn’t pass a maze without having to solve it.
These small moments bombard you at the beginning of your widow life. The only way you can cope to keep going is to numb them out. Otherwise, you’re afraid of drowning under them. Over time, although still painful, their attacks are coming less frequently, and with less precision. You learn the delicate balance of walking forward, while being pulled backwards at the same time. It’s a skill you learn – a talent you will become adept at.
The night that Myke died, I was taking my first night off since giving birth to 2 1/2 year-old Knight. I felt mother’s guilt for taking off, but it was something I needed to do. I was invited to a woman’s seminar. The keynote speech was about a movement to help mistreated underage girls in Africa.
Throughout the night, there was a distinct pulling feeling that something about this night would change my life forever.
It was a powerful and distracting feeling. I was having trouble focusing on the speech because my instincts were ringing like crazy. I brainstormed different theories, trying to find a match to this feeling to let it quiet down. Maybe I was to join one of these movements to help these girls. Maybe I was to give up my job and travel the world. Maybe I was to start a women’s support group of my own. But nothing fit. Even after the lecture was over when I was back outside with fresh air, the feeling didn’t go away. I knew something about tonight was important – I wasn’t expecting to come home to find my my husband dead.
The lost my love died, and the force of that impact still re-vibrates into my soul every day. Every day the kids do something that I want to share with him. Every day I look at Tristan and see his dad. I see Alyx, and want to share with him how amazing she is. I miss him terribly – yet I know he’s still here.
We go forward, keeping memories of lost loved ones close. We find new memories which makes us laugh, while simultaneously regret that we couldn’t share this moment. You will walk that line between life and death forever now. But it won’t weigh you down anymore. It makes you more aware of the brightness around you. Of the gravity of the big moments, and the compassion for those in pain. Your loss actually will bring you closer to others, because you can truly relate to how they feel. You will become so adept at dancing this line the weight will transform into lightness. You will fly, with your beloved as your wings.