It’s been ten months since Tony, my stepdad (I prefer to think of him as my honorary dad) passed away.
In that time, I’ve watched my mum grieving his loss. I’ve witnessed her pain and heartache and lostness, (while carrying my own, but that’s possibly another post).
I’ve seen how some days she can’t drag herself out through the front door, because of the weight of her grief. I’ve watched as she gradually sorts through his stuff, chooses what to keep and what she can bear to let go of.
I’ve noticed how she’s been unable to fully attend to life around her, as though the aching absence, the emptiness he left, was so loud that she couldn’t hear anything else.
But then, as the days and weeks have ticked by, I’ve watched her gradually lift her head, and, in more and more small moments, choose life. Bit by bit, every day, I’ve seen her choosing to face towards the light.
And I’m so proud of her. I hope that if one day, loss brings me to my knees as it has her, I am strong enough to make the same choice. Every day. In each moment.
So (with her permission) I wanted to share her recent writing about this choice she has made, and is making, every day.
Betty’s blog post:
‘I feel as if half of me no longer exists. How do I carry on living when half of me is missing? Erratic heartbeat, shallow breath, painful body, eyes filled with tears, voice hoarse and soft. No-one can hear my silent scream.
Grief is inexplicable. Grief is a constant torment, an everlasting emptiness. An open wound that does not heal.
A missing of your half that is so strong you cannot see yourself carrying on. Your future has been wrenched from you, your dreams, your plans. There are no more decisions to be made together.
There is no together, no us, no we, no ours, just me, but half of me and sometimes less than half.
My muscles are weak, my bones ache, I want to wallow in self-pity, I want to stay in bed, eat, get drunk, cry and cry and cry. I want to die. I beg him night after night to come and get me where I can be with him once again.
But, I don’t die. He does not come and fetch me.
So, I take myself in hand. I ask myself: ‘Do I want to die? Or do I want to live?’
It’s a strong question. It frightens me. I know that I must make that decision and whichever one I choose I must see it through.
My thoughts drift towards my family, my few good friends. I want to see them all and be part of their future, I want time with them, I want to be here for them.
A timid answer begins to form itself in my worn out mind. Then I think of my home that Tony and I shared and that he loved. I think about all the beauty that surrounds me.
I hear the wind gusts in the trees, the soft rain on my roof, I feel the warm blanket around my shoulders, the soft silk scarf around my neck. I think about breakfasts out with my daughter, meals with the family, coffee with friends, visits to France, noodles on a Thursday with my grandson, so many things are now pouring into my head.
It’s as if the shy ‘yes’ in my head has suddenly developed capital letters. “YES” it shouts, “yes, I want to live.” But how, I ask myself, with this remaining half of me, how will I do this, how will I be able to, how can I manage? How can I live without you?
That little voice in my head makes itself heard: “Slowly, it says. Slowly!”
And so I begin saying yes, not only to life but to everything that presents itself to me. To talks and outings, writing retreats, writing groups, grief meetings, French conversation meetings, line dancing, gym, qigong, new people.
Saying yes to all of these is totally out of my comfort zone. Most of the time I want to run a mile before attempting anything, as I’ve never felt that I fit in anywhere, but I push on and I force myself and slowly, very slowly and surprisingly, I begin to find glimmers of peace in each activity and experience.
Each experience teaches me a little more about myself and others. Sometimes it feels good and sometimes just overwhelming.
And yes, that is how I begin to live, slowly. Crying and remembering, hurting and missing, but living. Some days feel like small victories and some days feel like full-on battles.
I hear Tony’s voice in my head. “Good girl, Elizabeth!” he says.
“Live!” he says.
And I do, and I will, ever so slowly!
Love and miss you, always.’
Thanks, mum. xxx
This brought me to tears - so raw and so real. So truly “life”. Thank you!
Touching.. I see my own Mother navigate being a half after my Dad passed. Thank you for sharing.