Yesterday was Saturday, my sadder day. The love of my life died one Saturday almost two and a half years ago, and I have not yet managed to get completely over it. You don’t ever get over such a grievous loss, of course, but you can come to an accommodation with the absence, develop a new focus, perhaps even find happiness. It just takes a very long time — three to five years, or so I’ve been told. I’m doing well, all things considered, but I still struggle to find my way.
I loved him with all my being, and I continue to love him. My love for him has no outlet — I can no longer do anything for him or with him — so his share of my love fills my heart like a pool of unshed tears. I try to use that love to propel me into my future, knowing he wouldn’t want me to be sad for him, but the truth is, he has no say in the matter. (I don’t always a have a say, either — grief comes and goes as it pleases, following a timetable I seldom understand.) He’s gone, and that goneness continues to shadow my life. I feel his absence like an itch deep in my soul. I feel it in the world around me, in the very air I breathe. I’m practicing being part of the world, planting my feet on the ground, feeling connected to my self and my surroundings. Still, the world feels alien with him not in it.
I’ve come a long way from the shattered woman who screamed her pain to the uncaring winds. I’ve made new friends, seen amazing sites, tried different activities, sampled exotic foods, wrote hundreds of blogs, walked more than a thousand miles. I’ve done the best I can to life fully, but the truth is, I’m tired. I’m tired of his being dead, tired of having to put a positive slant on a situation that has no upside, tired of trying to live whole-heartedly with half a heart. Just . . . tired.
I’m not young anymore, but I’m not old, either. Sometimes the future yawns before me like a bleak and empty landscape. Most times, of course, I can look to the future with hope, though I probably will always be saddened and bewildered by his goneness, especially on Saturday, my sadder day.
Bertram's Blog 
September 16, 2012 at 2:01 pm
Truly sorry for your loss Pat – are you still continuing to write books? Has it adjusted your writing style and subject area? These might be naive and possibly intrusive questions, but it’s certainly one of life’s most colossal challenges.
I live with a widow and her loss was at the age of 31. She is now 33 and has found the strength to continue…somehow.
Once again, my condolences.
http://stephen-leslie-france.blogspot.com/
September 16, 2012 at 8:05 pm
Stephen, your questions aren’t instrusive, in fact they are astute. I’ve been having a hard time writing fiction since his death — I don’t have the focus to get into writing a novel. Nor am I willing quite yet to immerse myself in a fictional world. When I do write fiction (a couple of short stories and an online collaboration http://rubiconranch.wordpress.com) my character is always a grieving woman. Mostly, though, I blog — I’ve been doing it every day for the past year. It helps me focus my thoughts, and keeps me writing. And yes, losing the love of one’s life is definitely a colossal challenge. That’s one of the reasons I write about it — before his death, I had no idea how such a traumatic loss could affect us in so many ways, and I wanted to do what I could to help others understand. Of course, no one ever truly understands unless it happens to them.
“Your” widow and I must have experienced our losses around the same time. Sending her my condolences.
September 16, 2012 at 2:58 pm
I’m sorry for your grief and that your heart remains heavy. But know that your posts truly inspire me to fully appreciate those I have in my life, knowing that one day, they could be gone.
September 16, 2012 at 8:07 pm
Thank you, Carrie. Then I have accomplished what I set out to do. He was sick so often, we didnt have an easy time of it, but after his death I learned the truth: good times and bad times are all good when spent with the one you love. It’s the togetherness that counts, even if you seem to be at odds with each other.
September 17, 2012 at 3:36 am
Maybe it is the change in seasons. I seem to be dealing with another round of tears and depression. Could be other outside factors too…All I know is that he is gone, and won’t be coming back. Not much to look forward to, can’t imagine ever being happy again. But I could be wrong. Hopefully.
September 17, 2012 at 6:51 pm
Holly, I don’t know what it is, probably change of season as you say, but everyone in our grief “class,” those who lost their mates around the same time, are all experiencing tears and depression. This third year is as bad in its own way, if not worse, than the first two. Their absence looms every larger.
September 17, 2012 at 4:25 am
You break my heart, Pat. There are no words that can make it better, you already know “he’s in a better place” and that you’ll meet again someday. But here’s a big old bear hug to give you support. ((hug))
September 17, 2012 at 6:49 pm
It broke my heart, too, Aaron. Thanks for the hug.
September 20, 2012 at 2:53 pm
Its so heart breaking Pat, a wound that never heals. Michael died 7 weeks ago tomorrow and i don’t expect to ever get over not seeing him again. The sadness wares you down and you just wonder whats it all about. My thoughts and prayers are with you, much love Claire xxx
September 20, 2012 at 3:29 pm
Oh, Claire, I am so very sorry. Yes, the sadness wears you down, and you never do get over not seeing him, but the intensity of the pain does diminish. I promise you. It just takes a long time. I am here if you ever need to pour out your heart. Sometimes writing about your pain makes it a bit more bearable. So does screaming. (I did both.) Try to take care of yourself, even if you don’t particularly want to. Sending you hugs and sharing your tears.
September 21, 2012 at 4:17 am
Thank you Pat, i have ordered your book Grief: the great yearning. Love Claire xxx
September 21, 2012 at 9:09 am
I hope it helps you during the next year, tracking your progress against mine. Grief is such an isolating experience, we need to know that others have felt the same way.