A Reflection on Year One: A Study in Four Acts

ACT 1: A LETTER TO CJ

Dear CJ,
Well, here we are. One whole year around the track, been there and back. You're still gone, and I'm still here. I guess that doesn't really surprise you; it doesn't really surprise me, either. But it is disappointing. I'd really kind of hoped one of those two things would have changed by now, but they haven't. I guess I've mostly gotten used to the changes: the sleeping by myself, the being alone in a crowd, the stiff upper lip, the roller coaster (baby, baby). I've tried to take care of your family and your friends as best I could. I've done the best I could to pick up the pieces you left behind and put things back together. I never was very good at fixing things that were broke (that was your job, remember?), but I guess we're limping along. I know I sound kind of angry, and I guess I am. I'm angry that you left me here to do this by myself. I'm angry that you left me just when things were getting better. I'm angry that you were supposed to be my best friend and my soul mate, but left anyway. I'm angry that you hurt your parents and your friends like this. I'm angry that you're not here so we can have a real fight about this.

Besides angry, I'm tired. I'm tired of being the exception to the rule. I'm tired of having nobody understand that it still hurts and it always will. I'm tired of reliving the same moments over and over, the one when Skate said "There was an accident, and CJ didn't make it." The one where the coroner gave me your wedding ring. The dinner last August when I gave you the key to the bike and saw your heart heal before my very eyes. The first time we... well you know. I'm tired of seeing all the happy couples and families. I'm tired of standing back up and leaning into the pain when I'd rather lay down and die. I'm tired of talking to you and having no replies. I'm tired of trying to make it better and tired of trying to comfort myself.

When I try to explain our relationship to people, I tell them that you were the soul and I was the heart and we shared a body. So it feels like my soul's been ripped out and my heart is all broken, and I've paid an arm and a leg. I guess duct tape doesn't fix everything. I think about you all the time. I feel so unprepared for this. I feel like I'm choking to death on my own loneliness. I feel like a broken puzzle piece, like I don't belong here anymore; I don't fit in anywhere. You were everything, and you still are.

I have good days, good weeks and bad ones. Eventually it will be ok again. That's what they say anyway. But there are times when I look at the pictures of us and I can't breathe. I will always love you, and the pain of your death will always be with me. I've learned that grief is not about learning to "let go" of the pain or "get over" the loss. Grief is about learning to live with the pain, how to find joy and peace and love despite the dark stains on our souls. You will always be one of my best friends, even if our conversations are pretty much one way now. I carry with me the memory of your smile, your touch and all the things you taught me. Those things are eternal, and live on in me. Small consolation, but I'll take what I can get. When you can do nothing else, you just do the best you can. And I'm proud to say that I have honestly done the best I could. I still don't really know what comes next, but I will do my very best to make the most of everything. I'll try my best to remember the lessons I've learned this year, and to live my life accordingly. I promise.

I want you to know that I'm not really angry at you. I believe in a grander plan, and I accept my small place in it with wonder, hope and faith. I thank you, for everything. I hope I haven't let you down. I hope you still remember me when next we meet. I hope you know how much you were loved, how much you meant. I hope this is a better year, for everyone. I hope... and maybe that's enough. For all that you were, with all that I had, I loved you.

Between now and then,
Until I see you again,
I'll Be loving you.
Love, Me.


ACT 2: A LETTER TO GOD
Dear Creator of all that is and is not, all that ever was and ever will be,

A very wise parent once told me that, "'Why not?' is a perfectly appropriate response to a child's constant question of 'why?'". So I suppose Your response to my constant question of 'why did this happen?' May very well be "why not?". In the book of Isaiah, in the Bible, there is an emphasized theme that we are doomed to failure if we ever try to comprehend Your world or Your intentions. Apparently, Your existence is so completely different from our own that it is completely incomprehensible, and actually an insult to You when we try to understand. This is because trying to understand You on our terms limits what You can be, because our own understandings are so limited. Not really sure where I was going with that. But that's ok... God's world is supposedly eternal, so I guess You have the time. I'm not angry at You, either - I want You to know that. I know I said I was... and that I kind of stopped talking to You for awhile. Really though, I was more confused and disappointed and hurt than angry. It seemed awful unfair that CJ died like that, when he did. But I guess you could say that I've cooled down a bit. But like all couples that go through a bad time and come out on the other side, I feel that we're closer now than ever before. I know I can lean on You when the going gets rough and You won't let me down. I've come to realize that faith in the system, in the method, in the madness will see me through almost any storm. Hard to keep the faith, sometimes, though. But I guess You know that too... do I at least get points for trying? Like I told Siege, I'm doing the best I can. I hope that we can become closer in the future. I'm still not sure what to think about you. You're kind of a mysterious guy, You know? I bet You get that a lot. I want to thank You for all the little signs, the little conincidences You sent me to keep me going. LOL, I guess coincidences are how You help when You wish to remain anonymous and miracles are how You help when You want to shine. So what are the tragedies, then, I wonder? When You want to be remembered, when You feel forgotten? Sorry... I guess that scorning the Grand Almighty is probably not a good idea. Especially since I really am trying to be positive here. I guess my point is that I came pretty close to checking out of this game a few times this year and that one of the things that kept me here was faith that things will turn out as they're meant. I believe in You, and I don't think it's even possible for You to create an imperfect system. As such, all things must end well. So, for now at least, I'll assume that if it's not well then it hasn't ended, and I'll play a little longer. It's a wonder-full, beauty-full world, My Lord. I have so many things to be ridiculously grateful for, that I'm sure it's baffled You to hear my laments over this one thing. But really, Dude? This one thing has pretty much sucked. However, this one thing has also helped me to appreciate so much more the things of this world, and how fleeting this world can be. So, anyways... sorry about all the bad feelings I've been putting out there. I really am grateful for this life, and all the good stuff and the color purple. I'll keep in touch. I look forward to meeting you in person.

Sincerly, in perfect love and perfect trust,
Tamsen



ACT 3: TO THE NEW WIDOW
As you know already, there are no words. No words to describe it. No words to heal it. No words to explain it. I wish I had some. But the trick of it all is that, even if I did have words for you, they would be words born from my own experience, and thus of little use to you. You have been wounded in the most horrible way a human can be, from the heart. They say that time will heal it, and to a certain extent that's true. But it will never heal completely... it will never not hurt to think of. It may hurt less someday than it does now, but it will never completely be ok. Some may find it cruel of me to say so, but I will not lie to you. I won't tell you lies, but I will tell you this. It does get better. There will come a day when light shines once again into that black hole where your heart used sit, beating out the moments of your before-life one by one. There will be moments when it doesn't hurt to laugh, when you remember how to be happy, even if it is just for moment. There will be days and even weeks when it hurts even more than it does now. But those times don't last forever, honest they don't. Eventually you will smile more and more, and cry less and less and your heart will heal. Having gone through so much this year, I know that I'm nowhere near the end of my grieving journey; I'm not sure I ever will be. But, I do know enough that I can give you some idea of what you're in for.

In the beginning is shock and denial. It's real, but it is not real. You may even feel early on that you are ok with things, that you're doing ok with the whole shebang. Or, you may worry that you're not grieving enough, feeling enough. Neither of these is true. It just hasn't hit you yet. How will you know when it sinks in? You'll know. This is the numb phase. You probably don't think of yourself as feeling numb, but compared to a few months from now... A few months from now is generally the hardest for most of us - months 4-6 were the hardest for me. Things always go up and down within these time frames, but those months in particular were horrific. The problem is that almost everyone else will have returned to their daily lives by this time, right when you are going to need them the most. Expect others to feel uncomfortable with you, your ghosts and your grief. They won't understand, and many of them will leave you. They don't mean any harm, they just don't know how to help or what to say. Be careful not to punish them for failing to make it better, they just Don't Get It. The sense of isolation, loss and physical pain wrought by the mental anguish are hardest here. But endure, lean into the pain and, I promise, you will come out on the other side. Month 7-8 was when things started to get a teensy bit better. Keep in mind that all time frames are generalities, some people will heal faster, some much, much slower and that however you heal is just right and fine for you. Don't let anyone tell you different. Don't let anyone tell you that what you're feeling isn't right, or that you should be doing better. How in the fuck would they know? Just take it one breath at a time (because, believe me, there will be times when it hurts so much that you forget to breathe). Take one step, one day at a time. Forget to take it one step at at time and you'll fall on your face, look too far ahead of one day and you'll start to panic. Baby steps. Things will be better someday... you will want to live again, you will find joy in the simple things, you will find peace at night, you will meet new people and make new friends, and it will be the hardest thing you've ever done in your life. But there are many of us that have gone before you, and many that will come after. And if we all made it through, so can you... I promise. You have a long road ahead of you, but it is not a road without end. Your life will never be the same. You will never be the same. But, to quote the remarkable Pentha, we are forever changed but not forever broken. Make it through the forest, and we'll see you on the other side.


ACT 4: TO THE UNINITIATED
I know it's hard, isn't it? To want to help so badly, to fix something so much and not be able to? We don't mean to alienate you, but there really is no way for you to understand. But here are some things you can do to help. Most of all, be there. Be there for the long haul. Our pain gets a lot worse before it gets better. So, you need to checking up on us just as much in month six (if not more) as you were the first couple of weeks. But, here are some other things, mostly compiled from various grief books and posts on the YWBB.

1. Please talk about my loved one, even though he is gone. It is more comforting to cry than to pretend that he never existed. I need to talk about him, and I need to do it over and over.

2. Be patient with my agitation. Nothing feels secure in my world. Get comfortable with my crying. Sadness hits me in waves, and I never know when my tears may flow. Just sit with me in silence and hold my hand.

3. Don't abandon me with the excuse that you don't want to upset me. You can't catch my grief. My world is painful, and when you are too afraid to call me or visit or say anything, you isolate me at a time when I most need to be cared about. If you don't know what to say, just come over, give me a hug or touch my arm, and gently say, "I'm sorry." You can even say, "I just don't know what to say, but I care, and want you to know that."

4. Just because I look good does not mean that I feel good. Ask me how I feel only if you really have time to find out.

5. I will not recover. This is not a cold or the flu. I'm not sick. I'm grieving and that's different. My grieving may only begin 6 months after my loved one's death. Don't think that I will be over it in a year. For I am not only grieving his death, but also the person I was when I was with him, the life that we shared, the plans we had for watching our children grow, the places we will never get to go together, and the hopes and dreams that will never come true. My whole world has crumbled and I will never be the same.

6. I will not always be grieving as intensely, but I will never forget my loved one and rather than recover, I want to incorporate his life and love into the rest of my life. He is a part of me and always will be, and sometimes I will remember him with joy and other times with a tear. Both are okay.

7. I don't have to accept the death. Yes, I have to understand that it has happened and it is real, but there are some things in life that are just not acceptable.

8. When you tell me what I should be doing, then I feel even more lost and alone. I feel badly enough that my loved one is dead, so please don't make it worse by telling me I'm not doing this right.

9. Please don't tell me I can find someone else or that I need to start dating again. I'm not ready. And maybe I don't want to. And besides, what makes you think people are replaceable? They aren't. Whoever comes after will always be someone different.

10. I don't even understand what you mean when you say, "You've got to get on with your life." My life is going on, I've been forced to take on many new responsibilities and roles. It may not look the way you think it should. This will take time and I will never be my old self again. So please, just love me as I am today, and know that with your love and support, the joy will slowly return to my life. But I will never forget and there will always be times that I cry.

11. I need to know that you care about me. I need to feel your touch, your hugs. I need you just to be with me, and I need to be with you. I need to know you believe in me and in my ability to get through my grief in my own way, and in my own time.

12. Please don't say, "Call me if you need anything." I'll never call you because I have no idea what I need. Trying to figure out what you could do for me takes more energy than I have. So, in advance, let me give you some ideas:
(a) Bring food or a movie over to watch together - avoid love stories.
(b) Send me a card on special holidays, his birthday, and the anniversary of his death, and be sure to mention his name. You can't make me cry. The tears are here and I will love you for giving me the opportunity to shed them because someone cared enough about me to reach out on this difficult day.
(c) Ask me more than once to join you at a movie or lunch or dinner. I may so no at first or even for a while, but please don't give up on me because somewhere down the line, I may be ready, and if you've given up then I really will be alone.
(d) Understand how difficult it is for me to be surrounded by couples, to walk into events alone, to go home alone, to feel out of place in the same situations where I used to feel so comfortable.
(e) If you're thinking of me, call me and let me know. I've lost my family and my best friend all in one, and when you don't call it makes me feel that I've lost everything. If you don't know what to say, simply say, "I was thinking of you, I still care, I'm still here." Believe me, that sentence will mean more to me than you know.
(f) In the beginning I may completely give up on life. If you come over, don't ask me how you can help, but look for something to do. Are there dirty dishes in the sink? Weeds that need to be pulled? If you really want to help, find ways that you can.

12. Please don't judge me now - or think that I'm behaving strangely. Remember I'm grieving. I may even be in shock. I am afraid. I may feel deep rage. I may even feel guilty. But above all, I hurt. I'm experiencing a pain unlike any I've ever felt before and one that can't be imagined by anyone who has not walked in my shoes.

13. Don't worry if you think I'm getting better and then suddenly I seem to slip backward. Grief makes me behave this way at times. And please don't tell me you know how I feel, or that it's time for me to get on with my life. What I need now is time to grieve.

14. Please don't call to complain about your husband, your wife, or your children. Please don't relate the loss of a pet, the estrangement of your children or a divorce to my grief. Right now, I'd be delighted to have my loved one here no matter what they were doing or how much we were fighting.

15. Don't tell me what your beliefs about the afterlife or God unless I ask, and don't criticize any beliefs I profess. I'm closer to dealing with God, death and life right now than you can possibly imagine, and I don't need to be criticized for what I'm feeling while I work through this pain. Whether I say something offensive or talk about experiences that you don't believe in (signs or psychics) you need to support me without doubt or criticism while I figure out what I believe. Sometimes, more than anything, we need these small signs to keep going, and it is wrong for you to rob us of that with your doubts. Conversely, chastising me for a loss of faith is not appropriate, and assuring me that it's all in God's plan will only piss me off.

15. Most of all thank you for being my friend. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for caring. Thank you for helping, for understanding. Thank you for praying for me.And remember in the days or years ahead, after your loss - when you need me as I have needed you - I will understand. And then I will come and be with you.