Grief Is A Process
Grief is a long journey. Some might say it never ends. More than anything, it’s a process.
Not a day goes by that I don’t reflect on something related to my 52 years of living with Mike. I still look over at the chair he sat in when we ate dinner. Last night I fixed a delightful dinner of baked salmon and asparagus pasta. Mike would have liked the salmon; not so much the pasta dish. But I really enjoyed it. It was from a cookbook I just purchased—Cooking for One. It’s a process — learning to cook for one.
So is traveling alone. Mike and I did some traveling but I think he was more content to stay home or have a staycation at the cabin. I’m poised to make a trip to Europe next week, and I’ve wondered if Mike would have wanted to go. Actually, I’m still figuring out my travel preferences. In our life together, Mike helped me slow down. He didn’t feel the need to always go at a break neck speed or have a long to-do list. Now, in his absence, I find that I, too, can be comfortable with a slow pace at home. (I still have the to-do list.) It’s a process.
A process of letting go of some aspects of life I had with Mike and moving on to new experiences and a lifestyle of living alone.
It’s been nearly three years since Mike passed, and I still get an occasional question: “How ARE you doing?” As if to say, are you getting used to living alone. Still feeling sad? How is it going — really? I do appreciate their concern. It serves as a reminder that others know and understand that grieving can be a long and tedious process.
My daughters have also given me a perspective that I hadn’t thought about. They are shouldering a responsibility of helping their one remaining uncle, Mike’s brother, navigate his failing health and living situation. They’ve really been amazing, especially since they’ve had to do most of it from afar — halfway across the country no less. They’ve grown closer to him even though he’s been cantankerous in some decisions. But as he’s settled into reality, both girls have mentioned that some of his remarks and mannerisms remind them so much of their father. Jill commented: “It’s like Uncle Paul is the last real live feature of Dad, and I don’t want to lose it.” I’m so very proud of my daughters and I know Mike is , too.
No matter how resilient I feel, there are times that bring me up short. Simple things, like the death of a pet. My daughter and her son said goodbye to their beloved cat they’d had for nearly 20 years. They sent photos of their goodbyes when the veterinarian gave the final shot. I cried.
Then there are other times when I find myself looking at death quite objectively. A Lenten study session at our local parish has focused on death and the church’s belief of the afterlife. Theologians, priests and others discussed different aspects of death, what happens immediately after it occurs and their thoughts on heaven, hell and the Catholic belief in purgatory. There was no mention of grief. Rather it was more a discussion of a lifelong “process” of preparing onesself for eternal life.
It’s been quite a while since I’ve been able to look at death from a rather unemotional state. Certainly, death is a fact of life. We can’t ignore it. And some, like Anderson Cooper, have spent a great deal of time looking at it and hearing how other people have processed it in his podcast, All There Is. If I’ve gained nothing else from watching his interviews, it’s that I’m not alone in this process. Everyone approaches it differently. There is no timeline, and no one way to grieve. I take some comfort in that.
And so I continue on the process.