Grief: The Great Learning, Day 432

Raining Deer It’s Christmas, Not Santamas

Grief: The Great Learning, Day 432

I��ve saved the letters I wrote to my life mate/soul mate after he died, thinking that one day I would write a sequel to Grief: The Great Yearning, the story of my first year of grief. I��d planned to call the sequel Grief: The Great Learning, and detail the lessons gleaned from the second and third years of my grief. Because I no longer want to keep revisiting such angst, there will be no sequel, so I��m publishing the letters here on this blog as a way of safeguarding (and sharing) them.

Although��this letter was written��three and a half years ago, it reflects so much of what I am feeling now. My father recently died, and I am packing in preparation for . . . I know not what. ��I wish I could talk to Jeff, see how he is doing, feel his hug, bask in his smile. I don’t think I will ever lose that desire, ever stop yearning for what I cannot have. His goneness shapes my days somewhat the same way his presence used to. Everything I do is because he is no longer here.

I am more used to the idea of living alone than I was when I wrote this letter, though sometimes��it still��scares me.��But one of the��lessons grief taught me is that��I��can get used to anything, even loneliness and aloneness.��I’m now going to lunch with women I like, so that helps.

Coincidentally, just a couple of days ago, I tossed that route beer bottle into the recycle bin, but as you can see, I still have the photo. Unfortunately, dealing with his ashes isn’t quite so easy. I still don’t know what to do with��them. I’m thinking of waiting for a windstorm, opening the box, and letting Jeff take care of them himself.

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Day 432, Hi, Jeff.

Just in case you really are somewhere, I wanted you to know I haven��t forgotten you, still miss you, still wish there could have been a better resolution to your health problems than death. But what do I know? Maybe death was the best resolution. I��m not sure I see much hope of things working out for me, but I am trying. I��m getting out and doing things. It still seems as if the only way I can make sense of your death (from my perspective) is to do things I wouldn��t have done if you were alive.

I took a trip along Route 66 with some friends, which was fun. I kept a soda bottle for a souvenir. ��Route Beer.�� Tasted like plain old root beer, but I thought the name was cute. I��ve been going to lunch about once a week, sometimes after the grief group, sometimes with a couple of women I met there. I��m not sure I like the women, but for now, it��s enough that they like me. Yep. I��m that starved for affection.

In a couple of days, I��ll have been here a year looking after my dad. Who knows how much longer it will be. Maybe years. And then after? I truly don��t know.

I feel so hypocritical with all this grief — I wanted the horror of our life to be over, but I didn��t want you dead. Ironically, if you hadn��t been dying, I wouldn��t have wanted our life to be over, but the truth is, I wanted your dying done with. The stress was incredible for me, so I can only imagine how much worse it was for you.

My dying is still to come. It scares me to think of having to deal with infirmities alone, though I think it will be easier knowing that my death will not grieve anyone the way yours did me.

Did I tell you? I finally and forever understand what you mean by the pilot light of anger. I don��t want to be consumed by anger, but a quiet pilot light to keep me going, that is important. I can��t simply accept what life did to us — it��s not right. Maybe the universe is unfolding as it should, as people tell me, but from my standpoint, here and now, I need that pilot light. Maybe it will be a ��pilot�� taking me where I need to go, though I don��t know where that would be.

Part of me wants to find someone so I don��t feel so alone, but I��m not ready for that. It��s a matter of learning to deal with the loneliness. I lived with it before I met you, and I imagine I��ll learn to live with it now that you��re gone. I hope wherever you are that you aren��t lonely. I hope you��re not in pain. I hope you��re delighting in being free of that diseased body. I still have your ashes. I wish we could talk about what I should do with them. I wish we could talk about what I should do with my life. I wish . . . oh, so many impossible things.

I love you. Take care of yourself. I��ll try to take better care of me.

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Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, ��an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.�� Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.