Grief has many angles. Grieving takes place in different directions even in bipolar situations where a husband loses a wife. Remember that people don't only grieve for themselves; they also grieve in lieu of the departed. Substitute grief. I do, too. Especially when I look at photos of Lara in bad times (the Intensive Care Unit, her last weeks here at home, the days around her death) I feel this huge surge of pity and compassion. She didn't deserve to suffer like this (does anyone?); she was a good kid. I weep for her pain, discomfort and stress over so many months. Besides, she had her future stolen from her. She could have lived another twenty years (her mother died at 89) and planned to, in fact. She had projects and ambitions, travel plans, books to read, poetry to write. Having fun, enjoy, make love. Now all of them are snuffed out, along with her potential and her beauty. I weep for the amputated part of her being.
There is no monopoly on grief. It is not only about surviving partners and their loss. Even where one partner loses another, the grieving is not bipolar. Many people grieve over the same demise. Siblings, other family members, friends, anyone else dear. A bond between two friends of long standing can be every bit as strong as that of a marriage partner. The ensuing sense of loss will be commensurate. I learn that I shouldn't just wait to receive their sympathy for my loss, but that I should also reach out and commiserate with them for theirs. Both are real, both are authentic. There is benefit to both sides; for a burden shared is a burden lightened.
Your own grief is closest. You need to metabolize it, says Janis. You need to chew it up, says my mother, still remembering the death of my dad, twelve years ago. You need to eat the mask, says Lara in her last poem. That is ultimately a very personal endeavor. Nobody can do it for you. I understand many people never manage to, and agony is preserved for life's remainder. But it takes a long time in any event, even if it wears off.
Here, too, you grieve for different things in parallell. You grieve for the memories that have no sequel but should have. Yes, reminiscing has benefits, as you rejoice in reliving the good times. But the reckoning is in the realisation that the good times won't return. You remember her idiosyncracies with a smile on your face, even the quirks that used to irritate you perhaps. They are followed by a deep sense of emptiness, once you tell yourself she will never show them again. You engage in substitution here, too. (Lara used to spray a whiff of Chanel on her inner left wrist, then rub her wrists together. Her bottle is in the living room and sometimes, intensely, I find myself repeating the ritual.)
Retracing common footsteps, especially where happy times were poignant. Foreign travels. You retrace because you want to remember. You go there, even if you don't want to be reminded there will be no reprise. Still, you do want to go to those places, instead of shunning all of them at your own loss, adding injury to injury. (I will take my summer holiday in Vieste, Italy, where Lara and I have spent two vacations. I will even stay in the same hotel. It will be a mixture.)
Companionship. You may take it for granted, like I used to. You go through life together as if it will never end. You accept the other's presence as a matter of course. You do things the two of you (is there any other way?). You don't stop to think how precious it is. Togetherness falls away sharply. There is nobody at your side, or across from you. Here, again you may substitute some of the time, by seeking the company of others. It isn't the same, it isn't continuous and it certainly can't be permanent. You have become, in my case, a widower. You live by yourself. A void opens up as soon as a period of time has passed that is longer than any spell of separation you would normally accept.
No intimacy. We have had plenty. It is the ultimate form of self-affirmation through somebody else. It is mutual and habitual - and it can be wonderful. Regrets may surface once the other person vanishes. They did in my case. Why didn't we stay in each others' arms all of the time, instead of only some of the time? Here, enhanced by regrets, the sense of loss is most intense. And it won't go away until you've learned to love again.
Grief is self-pity. Or should I say self-compassion? At least in part. You grieve about yourself, too. You feel sorry for yourself. You are by far the most conflicted person, or so you would like to think. Poor me, a fresh widower with fresh grief. One partner from a strong couple, now left to his own devices. What am I to do?
The above description of my own experience is probably not complete. I am no expert. Experts have invented 'the wheel of grief' and other approaches to encompass all of grief's many facets. You can check them out. There are phases in grief, differently defined. I have no idea what phase I am in, or whether the progression is steady and irreversible. (Three steps forward, two steps back?) And I don't aspire to do it by the book. The only desire I have is that it be circumscribed, and finite. I will take it one day at a time, one bout of sobbing at a time, one lit candle at a time.
Grief is inevitable. Grief is hard work. It is also the only way of getting on with your life. Lara may have been robbed of twenty-odd years of her life, yet I may well have twenty ahead of me. Who's to say? Grief can get me to make something out of them - just as Lara would have wanted. Grief is good.
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