Moving On…

I wrote this a year and a half after Rick died. I want to acknowledge that this term “moving on” gives some people a sense of hope and is not as triggering for some as it is for me. And that’s okay. This is simply my perspective; I mean no offense whatsoever.

I ran into a friend the other day that I hadn’t seen in a long while. The seemed genuinely happy to see me and they commented how it was so great to see me “finally moving on.” I smiled and politely nodded all the while fighting back the growing lump in my throat while simultaneously wondering, “is it really?” and “what the actual fuck does that mean?” As I walked away from her, my eyes filled with tears and spilled down my cheeks.  I wanted to understand why it troubled me so. After all, she was acknowledging that she knew it had been a long painful journey for me and she was happy that I was finding my new normal. If I believed that’s what she meant, then why did it feel like it was loaded with judgement?  In turn, that made me feel both a deep shame and doubt over my grieving out loud in Facebookland.  

After reflecting on those words for a few days, I finally came to realize why it upset me so. The word ”finally” implies it took way too long! This person has no idea what it means to lose their life partner, their soulmate, so I do have grace for them. But it still caused a crack in my shattered heart that I had worked so hard over the last year and a half to put back together. I was proud of my progress, no matter how slow it may seem to some. The next phrase caused me to bristle a bit. While I agree they are simply words with well meaning, words DO matter! I kept hearing “moving on” and those words began to make me feel angry as I quietly broke down and wept all the way home.

Moving on will  never be an option for me. To me, “moving on” means Rick died; I grieved for him and felt a loss so profound I wasn't sure I could live without him, let alone move on. Moving on means ever so slowly I healed and once I did that, I was able to leave the painful memory of his death and dying behind me as I moved on in my new life without him. With that, all of our memories and life together must be left behind, too. With him back there. Behind me. Not with me.

No. Moving on is impossible.  I am learning to carry the weight of the grief, though a year ago it was just too heavy. I am managing the hole in my life without him in it. I am repairing my shattered heart, but it is filled with the cracks that carry the trauma of that night intertwined with the beautiful memories of growing up together. They have stitched my heart back together like a beautiful old quilt. Since I was a twelve-year-old girl, we were a couple. Nearly every memory I have is somehow tangled up with Rick.

I continue to grow and learn through this pain. But I’m not “moving on” from it. I have been proud of how far I have come and yet seeing how far I must go strikes terror into my heart. I am tired. I want to feel true happiness and joy again, but I may have forgotten how. Somewhere along the way I figured out that grief and mourning are a necessary evil. To push it away into the deepest recess of my mind, moving quickly as I can is not only unhealthy, but it dishonors the man that demonstrated his love for his family every chance he got. By grieving authentically and not fighting this, no matter how difficult it is,  is the sweetest way I can honor him.  I still stand in awe of the fact that he chose me to love all those years ago.

This journey is about adjusting, not moving on. Moving on, my friends, is unthinkable for me. As I carry him with me though, it is another way I honor the boy with the sky-blue eyes that caught my attention that summer forty-two years ago who taught me so much about loving another person and living life to the fullest. No regrets, living out loud.

Honestly, sometimes I think moving on would be easier than this. I'm adjusting to making big decisions without his input, but it’s scary. I must constantly push away the doubt and fear that I'll do the wrong thing and trust that I really can-do hard things without him. I carry him with me in all that I do. It is his voice I hear reminding me that I am a strong, intelligent woman and I can do this!  

This story is not complete without talking about the love that he had for our kids, grandkids and me.

I'm learning to live with his absence. It's knowing at any moment, waves of grief will come, often with rivers of tears and embracing it. Grief doesn't  care what I'm doing at the moment or how inconvenient it is. It's fixing things on my own. He's no longer here to rescue me when I yell, “Oh shit Rick, I need help!” I take a deep breath, pull up my sleeves and watch a You-tube video and fix it myself like I know he would want me to do. I'm adjusting to finding and being responsible for my own happiness. Hearing myself really laugh again, is bittersweet, no longer sounding hollow and forced, has been healing too. It's adjusting to my new life as “just Dar.” No longer Rick and Dar. Or Nana and Papa. Always together, joined at the hip. A pair. A unit. For 41 years we were a couple. Growing up together. There is so much of who I am because we did life together, we raised each other. It may sound like a cliché but I am who I am because he loved me completely.

My latest challenge is learning to like my own company. Suck it up, Buttercup comes to mind often, but I’m learning it doesn’t apply to grief. People are well meaning. They don't utter what are intended to be helpful words with malicious intent. But that doesn't make those words sting any less. Words matter. They matter when a woman is in labor and reviewing her birth experience. They matter when someone is dying as you help them transition. And they matter when someone is in deep grief.  The tragic piece to this is that this is a cultural thing. People will say, ‘there is no timeline for grief” and in the next breath say, “it’s so great you are finally moving on.” People can’t see that their words do not match the sentiment and that is, “grief is uncomfortable, we don’t know what to say, so hurry up and move passed it so we can get back to normal. This is making me uncomfortable.”

By having hard conversations and keeping an open dialogue surrounding grief and healing we become more mindful.  With a little effort on everyone’s part our grief culture can and will improve. I also realize as I write these words that I may be oversimplifying this. I look at all the podcasts, books, articles, self-help books aimed at helping the grieving either directly or indirectly by educating people about the grief process. Yet, with all that is out there, the culture still feels pretty broken. I’ve asked myself over and over how we can help people understand it’s an inevitable part of life, so why are we avoiding the one thing that is an absolute guarantee? It will shake up your World, leaving you stunned, scared, and broken without your person. As people learn what's helpful and not helpful to say, it will get easier to lean into grief both as the griever and as a support person.

Unintentionally, much of what we say to our grieving friends only serves to create a space of shame and judgment and that is the last thing a grieving person needs while simply trying to survive. It's OK to carry those we lost with us once it doesn’t feel quite so heavy. No one really expects us to “move on” from them, right? I understand the intent behind those words. It was simply a poor use of well-meaning words of encouragement. I believe most of us want to create a space of love and acceptance for all the different ways grief presents in our lives. Acknowledging we might actually carry them with us until we take our last breath should not only be okay but be the  expectation. It’s a beautiful way to honor their legacy, to remind us that they lived and we will never, ever forget them. We are not stuck in our grief. Personally,  I am learning so much as I heal. One thing about carrying him with me is it confirms our love was real. It’s how I honor the man that chose to love me his entire life.