The Unbearable Weight of Grief

Perhaps other post have been leading to this one, perhaps not.  I have not wanted to write it, but it's been a weight, a pressure, heavy on my chest.  And maybe by writing it I can move forward, allow it to release.

My reservations about writing are numerous.  Mostly I don't want sympathy or sad words.   I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings or make them uncomfortable.  I also have a fear of opening up so deeply about something I am trying so desperately hard to work through.

One of my last semi-coherent conversations with my grandma went along the lines of her asking who I was.  My precious grandma, who I saw almost everyday of my life for the first 18 years of my being, did not know who I was.  She hadn't known for a long time, but this time she asked because she couldn't remember that two sentences ago I had introduced myself.   That's what we did.  We'd see her and tell her who we were, it was easier that way and we could save her the embarrassment and sadness of not knowing who we were.  So she asked, and I told her.  She looked at me for several seconds and shook her head, no dear, I don't know who you are, and the sadness was there in her eyes.  I looked at her and said to her, ”You might not remember my name or who I am gramma, but your heart knows who I am.”  She reached up and patted my face with her soft little hand and her eyes got kind of misty.   I will not, in this lifetime, get to hug her, or kiss her cheek, or hold her hand again.  And it hurts, so incredibly bad.   Physically hurts.

I attend church services and certain songs have me rupturing into tears.  The fight or flight response kicks in and I need to escape, to hide somewhere away from this overwhelming grief.  She used to hum.  All the time, humming.  In her garden.  At the kitchen sink.  Folding laundry.  All the old hymns and I can't breathe, let alone sing, past the painful knot that made it's way into my throat every time one of her songs starts.

We've crossed the two month mark.  I count the days, I do.  I don't know why, but I do.  I look at my calendar and I dread the day of her birthday.  It's this month.  And every bit of information scheduled on my calendar is leading up to her birthday.  And then the three month mark.  And four.  And life goes on.  Without her.  Sure, there's the cliché, as long as I remember her, she's in my heart.  And it's better that she's not suffering anymore.  I've used those words on myself.  And they don't really help make the hurt go away.

So I write it down.  Let it out.  Release it.   Maybe in some small way this can help.  I'm hopeful.  I'm eternally grateful that I had my gramma for the time I did.  I just want more of it.  One more hug and kiss on the cheek and having her know who I am.

I will wait.  For the pansies to bloom.  And I will smile when I remember her.  I will probably also cry some.  And because my gramma hated, loathed with every fibre of her being, frogs, I am going to get one.   A big, smiling, cement one.  It will sit guard over my garden.  Maybe I'll talk to it when I talk to my plants.  And I will remember her and her gentle ways.  Her soft smile.  Her humming.  And I can find the song in my heart.  And the pain will lessen.