Grief Changes

Better and better I feel. It's slow, but it's happening. My energy notching up. My hopeful nature quietly, gradually, just re-emerging after the crush of death, an opening to possibilities, productivity, new promise. I feel more patient and calm, less anxious and harried. I am eight years older than I was when Ken first was diagnosed with cancer, but I feel about 30 years wiser. I keep wishing that Ken could know the me I've become. We would have been so great together, today. I know, it's wistful thinking.

In these four years since Ken died, and in the four years before that which held his illness and cancer treatment, everything had to be held close for fear it would all blow apart, fall apart, or explode. Protection became paramount: keep germs at bay, keep frightening thoughts from surfacing, keep schedules tight, keep track, keep researching, keep stress at bay, keep death away, keep everything the same, let nothing change.

Everything changed. Nothing is the same. Everything will keep changing. More will be lost. Eventually everything.

I find this freeing. Why fear the inevitable?

Meanwhile, and as I notice new energy and confidence beginning to reveal itself, grief accompanies me everywhere but in a different form. Instead of riding on my back, it follows now from a respectful distance. Instead of shouting, it echoes. In a crowded room, it's one of the many guests, not the honored speaker. It's not dragging me around anymore. I escort it.

Grief has been my partner for a long time. Like anything and everything else, our partnership is changing.

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Describe your relationship with grief. Who is this character that's been by your side? What does it give you? What does it take from you?