Friday, March 19, 2010

Seasons of Grief: Seven Months Later

Seven months ago today the date was August 19, 2009. That was the day my life changed forever. That was the day Marcus, my husband who was healthy, smart, funny, sexy, gorgeous, fit and, okay, yes, sometimes annoying (he wasn’t perfect, we’re not going to canonize him here), died of a ruptured aorta. One minute he was alive, the next he was gone. One minute I was napping in my Terlingua, Texas writer's cottage, the next I was woken by a call from the medical examiner who delivered the life-shattering news. At the time I didn't even know what a medical examiner was. (Obviously, I don't watch enough TV. Even so, all the medical dramas in the world can’t prepare you for when The Phone Call comes to your house in real life.)

That was more than half a year ago. My life is measured against this single date now. First I could measure in days. Then weeks. Then I started counting in months. Now I can count in half years. How strange to think so much time has passed. I still remember The Phone Call like it was yesterday.

My life is also measured in seasons.

FALL: letting go of Marcus, tears falling bigger and faster than maple leaves.

WINTER: a state of dormancy, lying in a vegetative state on my couch reading books on survival (my favorite: “I’m Grieving as Fast as I Can.”)
And now, miraculously, I have lived to see SPRING! Just look at those daffodils! And sun! No, really. It is kind of miraculous if you consider how just a few months ago I got kicked out of my grief support group because the counselor thought I might kill myself before the night was over. My friends howl with laughter when I tell them this. Why is that funny? (Because they’re so used to my crying they know it doesn't mean I'm a threat to myself? They also know I was offered private sessions instead, which I gratefully accepted.)
I am still standing, still living my life as a tree. My roots are digging ever deeper into the ground. My branches are reaching ever higher toward the light (I say light, but what I mean is toward Marcus.) And if you look closely, you might even see that I am sprouting buds.

In case you were wondering, the shrine remains prominently displayed. And when it comes to measuring time, not more than five minutes go by that I don't think of Marcus. He may be gone, but I'm keeping him very much alive in my memory.


4 comments:

living.boondockingmexico said...

Spring is here and with it comes new beginnings. It's getting better.

Judith said...

For me it's been almost seven months too. My husband had only been ill for a short while. When he died I thought my life was over. I still have days where I wish it were. I think I'm living in the present moment, looking to the future, and all of a sudden, wham! The memories overwhelm me and I want to be dead. Then when it passes it disintegrates into wishing I could die sooner rather than later. I miss him so much and still can't believe he's gone. You have my sympathy, my healing thoughts, my hope that you can blossom and be fruitful.

Pie Girl said...

Judith, thank you so much for your kind comment. And thank you even more so for your honesty. You probably know how hard it is to find friends who truly understand how it feels to lose someone you loved so much. Many people are fortunate enough to never have to experience that kind of loss. Please feel free to email me directly anytime. I would love to keep a conversation going with you. Sending you my heartfelt condolences and my best wishes for strength and grace as you grieve. -Beth (my contact info is on my website: www.theworldneedsmorepie.com)

bearswife said...

Oh I think I know how you feel. Although it wasn't my husband, it was a dear dear friend, who died (also of a ruptured aorta). For awhile I thought I was doing "well" to now find myself crying all the time, again. I understand the importance of your shrine, keeps the connection strong. I just wish my friends and family understood why I am still grieving. So sorry to hear of your loss and your pain. Best wishes to you, as you continue on your journey.