A Tiny Window Into Grief

This week brings back several poignant memories of loved ones who have departed. My dear sweet wonderful friend, Christine, the woman who forever embodies beauty and calmness and youth, would have been 38 years old yesterday. The last birthday she celebrated was her 36th. I remember the surprise party we had for her when she turned 30, how young she was, how radiant, how her whole life was ahead of her.

This week also would be the 76th birthday for my father-in-law, Dick, a man who shared his special day with Valentine's Day, such that the holiday is forever entwined with memories of him. His last birthday celebrated was when he turned 74. I remember when he turned 70, how joyous and vibrant and alive he was, how elated he was to be celebrating this milestone.

Both Christine and Dick died in 2018. This is the second year that these milestones are reached with their absence. I feel their loss less sharply than I did in the first year after their death. But when these special dates come around, that I will never, ever, ever see them again in this life on this earth hits me so intensely it as if all the wind is knocked out of me.

Others are suffering the loss of these people far more than I am. I am not one of their children, or a spouse, or a parent. I am experiencing grief as someone outside the inner circle. And yet, this whole experience has given me a tiny window into what it is like to love someone, to lose someone, and to mourn their absence forever.

One particularly strange sensation is how time continues to march on. I still turned 40 last year - even though both of them were gone. Dick's grandchildren and Christine's children continue to grow older, to mature, to transform - even in their absence. The leaves turn brown and fall off the trees until the budding cycle begins again. The sun rises and sets as the earth makes its way around.

Another odd feeling is how much of the mundane, ordinary, dull continue to demand attention even in the face of intense inhalations of grief. I still have to buy bananas for the week at the grocery story. My husband still has to grade his exams. We all have to wake up in the morning and get through the day. The sharp contrast between the surreal feelings of loss and the earthly demands of life is overwhelming.

If you have ever had a tiny window or a whole wall of windows into the world of grief, I wish you comfort on your journey. Time marches on, which is a blessing but can also be a curse. I wish you fond memories. I wish you companionship on the path ahead. I wish you love.