It seems so wrong, sometimes, to wake up happy.
Of course, I have been through this before, so I know that’s how it works. And all the pop-psych stuff out there says chirpy things like, “Life must go on!” and “Find joy in spite of grief!”
We know that as humans, our emotions are complex and we can feel more than one at a time—even competing/contrasting emotions. And when I wake, and am happy—and I have a lot of reasons to be so!—I am still conflicted. When I talk to someone who is feeling their grief “harder” at the moment, I feel guilty.
When I think of all the “if onlies” and “should have beens” I squirm, and cry, and lose my happiness for a moment. When I think of all the things in my future that my father will never see—like the publication of my memoir, the birth of my grandchildren, another spring—I sob until my eyes are sore and my nose closes.
We tell ourselves platitudes. “He wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.” “He’s in a better place.” and the big one, “Life must go on!” They’re true, but they ring hollow.
I’m telling myself (and others) that grief is what you make it. It’s a fruit salad of emotions, and you can pick through at any point and concentrate on those you must. But they’re all there—the joy of memories of my Dad, the painful ones where things were not all they could have been. The misery of watching him suffer, and being helpless. That time I had a sore throat and couldn’t sing at his and Mom’s renewal of vows. The knowledge that she celebrated her 63rd anniversary alone.
The fear that one day, I will be alone. An even greater fear, that I will (although much younger) go first and leave my husband to feel these things.
And my children. The sure knowledge that my children will feel this, that our day will come. It may be utterly different in form, but we are close, and it will be hard. I hope I will have lived so that they may celebrate what they had with me.
One of my enduring pains concerns my disabled son. He cannot speak or express himself except for basic needs, but has proven that his receptive language and understanding are at least normal. Although his autism makes him relate to people differently, I know that he feels things deeply, and loves us greatly. I am careful to explain to him when we lose someone. I know he grieves. But I’m not sure how to talk to him, what he understands, what he’s thinking or feeling. It’s always hard with his autism as a barrier, but at times of grief and loss it’s much harder.
Even with all these things, though, even though the tears run and so does my damn nose, I notice things which make me joyful. I revel in the bright sunshine this morning. I think of memories of things past, and plans for things future, which give me joy. That’s not wrong. That’s as it should be.
And I pray. As I have mentioned before, I am a person of strong faith, with a very real relationship to my God. He sustains me. Our conversations these days involve a lot of messages for dear ones who are now with him. I know He understands. And that, also, makes me happy.
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