The Paradox of Grief

Grief sucks. And it is sacred. There is great pain and extraordinary beauty. It roars like a lion and is gentle as a lamb. It demands your attention, then holds you at a distance. It appears as a surprise, having its way until it becomes a friend. It is relentless and forgiving. It is definitely a paradox. I now relate strongly to the caterpillar who must shed itself before it becomes the butterfly.

The one thing I have learned during this dreadful, beautiful year of “firsts” is that two things can certainly be possible at the same time. I suppose that’s the real paradox of grief.

I just experienced another two weeks of despair. I was doing so well. Then, out of “nowhere” the lion roared its ugly head yet again.

I had just returned from a trip to Fort Myers, Florida. I had joined 40 strangers to assist in efforts to help rebuild homes of those impacted by Hurricane Ian 6 months ago. Side by side, we worked in hazmat suits and respirators for 6 days to bring some sense of “normalcy” for folks who still don’t have electricity or running water. Read that again. Six months – still no running water or electricity. Had I been transported to a third-world country? While the work was rewarding and the experience life changing, the circumstances were downright depressing. I didn’t realize it then, but the spiral was about to begin.

I fell through the floor of one of the houses my very first day on the job. It was a hard fall, but I relished in the fact that nothing was broken. I cleaned my wound, wrapped it, and got back to work. It would be 5 days later before I would be forced to seek medical treatment as the wound worsened and my leg formed bruises that looked as though someone had taken a hammer to my leg and I could barely put weight on it. The pain became unbearable.

I had intentionally planned this trip around mine and Jon’s birthdays, three days apart. I had decided I didn’t want to be at home when the “first” of our days around the sun would approach since his death. They say the “firsts” of everything is the worst. I’m not so sure. I think the days following the firsts of everything may be. If you survive the “firsts,” you are then forced to survive all the days following. I endured my birthday, as I was surrounded by the love of 40 strangers, working shoulder to shoulder helping others, and forging new, life-long friendships. I barely survived his, just 3 days later. The grief hit like a tsunami.

I was tired, in pain, needing to be alone and couldn’t get there. I’ve had a process of dealing with emotional pain for years. It’s always worked for me. It’s best for me to be alone. To be quiet. To be still. To be. This time, this first celebration of a “heavenly” birthday, I could not find space to be alone. And I was in physical pain. The plummet continued.

People tell me to “hold tight to the memories.” I find that painful at times, and glorious in others. Memories are all I have left. I think it’s the realization that no more memories will be created that really sets my soul on fire. There will be no more hand-holding – no intimate touch. No more belly laughs, or tears consoled by a bear hug. No more hearing myself referred to as, “Woman.” No more flowers delivered for no special occasion. No more date nights in a battered old Jeep that was towed off to a new home in Atlanta just weeks after his death. No more inside jokes. No more calls at precisely 7:30 am or 9:30 pm. It all just stops in one heartbeat. Yes, I cling to memories, but I want something more. Is that selfish? Or is it simply what grief truly is? Oh, the paradox. Finding true meaning and forging forward, all the while grieving what will never be. Not ever.

I returned home forever changed and totally exhausted, physically and emotionally. Yet another paradox. I spent the next week in agony. I was forced to rest my leg which resulted in time alone to process and observe. I was thankful for it.

I’ve spent the past year observing and learning about grief. While it isn’t my first rodeo, it is different. The love of my life died. Here one minute, gone the next. Along with all of our dreams, hopes and desires. Gone. Vanished. The ugly cry came – finally and forcefully. Unrelenting and yet freeing. It was uglier than the last ugly cry. I had thought that not possible.

Thankfully, and without doubt, just as the Phoenix rises, so shall the sun shine again!