Well, tomorrow marks seven months, and I’m not sure what to say about that, except that it is what it is. Other people along the road are months and years ahead of me, but I can’t think too much about that because I’m not there yet. I’m at six months, thirty days and about fifteen minutes.
That’s the nature of grieving, as far as I can see it. It’s trying to be fully present, while simultaneously muddling along the best you can, if muddling is the fastest speed you have at the moment. It’s living with the memory of what once was and the reality of what now can’t be. It’s acknowledging the reality of loss while paying the bills, washing the car, forging new identity, experiencing activities that once would have included the loved one, and now can not.
It’s going towards what is next, as best you can. Often it’s an uneven, lurching process. You inch with all your strength. Small decisions need to be made deliberately, again and again, long after others might be surprised to learn you are still doing so.
There are no shortcuts. Michael Rosen and Helen Oxenbury’s 1992 Going On a Bear Hunt says it memorably for this kindergartener-at-heart. In the story, you see the family encounter one obstacle after another: long, wavy grass, a deep, cold river, thick, oozy mud, a big, dark forest, a whirling, swirling snowstorm. Over and over they recognize, “We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it. Oh, no! We have to go through it!”
There is something about being in the company of those “going through it.” The knowing looks, the shared stories, the camaraderie makes travel easier.