Grief: The Great Yearning | Bertram's Blog

The Unchanging Face of Grief

June 17, 2013 — Pat Bertram

Sometimes it amazes me how little things have changed over the course of the three years of grief since the death of my life mate/soul mate. The pain, of course, has dissipated significantly, and I seldom have the falling-elevator feeling of panic at the thought that he is gone. Even the thought of his being dead at the moment isn’t making my stomach churn (though I still don’t like it and never will).

In fact, right now, I’m not feeling much of anything — no great sadness, no inclination to tears, no inclination to anything, if the truth be told. Because of this, I’ve been procrastinating about writing today’s blogpost: upgrading a defunct blog, learning a bit more about some of the widgets wordpress offers. I finally procrastinated so much that I ran out of time and decided to do an excerpt from my grief book as a fill in. And guess what? Exactly three years ago today, I felt the same way as I do now. Just drifting. Marking time. Wandering in the desert. Hoping . . .

Excerpt from Grief: The Great Yearning

Day 83, Grief Journal

I’m not doing much. Just drifting. Getting through the days. Pretending to be real. I hope the rest of my life isn’t going to be just marking time like this. It sounds . . . feeble. Mostly I’m babying myself, as if I’m recovering from a long illness. And I am—a soul sickness.

I spend hours every day wandering in the desert. I’m as restless as Jeff was at the end, and walking seems to be the only thing that keeps me pacified. The past couple of weeks have felt like a perfect summer from childhood that was always warm and sunny, at least in memory. It’s been hot here, of course, and windy, but I’ve been roaming like a child newly freed from restrictions.

I hope I am going somewhere. I hope I’m growing, developing, doing something besides stagnating, which is how I feel.

Click here to find out more about Grief: The Great Yearning

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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.” Follow Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Posted in culture, grief, life, relationships. Tags: grief and loneliness, grief and marking time, grief journal, grief work, Grief: The Great Yearning. 9 Comments »

Three Years and 68 days of Grief

June 2, 2013 — Pat Bertram

Today is the three-year anniversary of the day I left our home behind to come look after my then 93-year-old father. I still yearn to go home at times, but not back to the house — back to Jeff, my life mate/soul mate. He was my home. Still, leaving that house was a physical wrench. It was where we had spend two decades together. It is where we were living when he died. It’s where I endured the worst day of my life.

Although I no longer have the gut-wrenching, breath-taking, soul-shattering pain of those first terrible months after Jeff’s dath, I am still amazed how many of the feelings are the same as at the beginning.

Exactly three years ago today, I wrote in my grief journal:

Sometimes I think I’m dramatizing this whole situation, making a big deal out of a natural occurrence, then grief swallows me and I know Jeff’s death and my reaction to it is real.

I’m almost ready to leave, to start the next phase of my life. Will I be happy as my sister suggested? Will things come together for me as Jeff said? Will I stagnate during this transitional phase or will I find a new creativity, a new focus?

I feel like a fledgling being pushed from the nest with no idea of how to use my wings. Whether I look forward to the change or look back in longing, whether I drag my feet or wing it, I’m leaving here. Alone.

I have many doubts and fears, but despite them, I hope I will run to meet my destiny. And if there is no destiny? If there is no happiness for me? Well, I’ll accept whatever comes, both good and bad, with courage.

Today, I still am dealing with doubts and fears, still wondering if there is a destiny to run to meet, still wondering if I will ever be happy, or if this is the way I will always feel. So far, I have not yet found a new focus, though I am trying to fish for life, trying to do new things, to go new places, to be spontaneous.

My life is bound by death, it seems. First my brother’s death, then my mother’s, then Jeff’s, and now . . . Well, my father isn’t near death, but he is declining. Death is not a good way to live. At least not for me. I don’t know how people deal with all this loss. Well, yes, I do — with courage.

Click here to find out more about Grief: The Great Yearning

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Posted in culture, grief, life, relationships. Tags: 68th day of grief, going home, grief and loneliness, grief journal, Grief: The Great Yearning, home and grief. 8 Comments »

Letter to the Dead

June 1, 2013 — Pat Bertram

I spent almost thirty-four years with my life mate/soul mate, and though we were seldom happy due to various matters (his illness, our business failures, assorted life issues), we were always connected by some mystical bond we couldn’t even begin to understand.

We never saw the movie Of Human Bondage, but a clip from that film showed up in a movie that we often watched, and we found that clip poignant. (She asks him, “Will we be happy?” And he responds, “No, but does it matter?” Or some such.) We’d always look at each other then, in acknowledgment of the truth. It didn’t matter that we weren’t happy. It ony mattered that we were together.

And then one day we no longer were together, and I realized we’d known the truth of it. Whether we were happy or unhappy, every minute we’d been together had been important

During the first terrible weeks and months of grief, I found comfort in writing letters to him. It helped bridge the chasm between being together and not being together. Because of our unhappiness and my relief that his suffering was over, I never expected to grieve, which seems naive of me now, especially considering that after more than three years, I still grieve for him — for us — and maybe always will.

It’s been three years today since the following piece was written, and though I don’t have the physical trauma and emotional agony, I’m still lost, still miss him, still need to be brave. How did I get through three years of such great yearning? I honestly don’t know other than by taking life one step at a time.

Excerpt from Grief: The Great Yearning

Day 67, Dear Jeff,

Did you have a good night? Are you sleeping? Do you sleep? Do you still exist somewhere as yourself or has your energy been reabsorbed into the universe? I think about you constantly—I hope it doesn’t bother you that I’m still clinging to you emotionally. I feel unsettled, and I’m having a hard time processing all this—our life together, your death, the end of our shared life.

I keep saying I don’t know how to live without you, but I do. The problem is I don’t know how to want to live without you. No one will ever take your place. No one will ever mean to me what you did, in the way you did.

It seems strange that I’m leaving here. The topic of where I should go caused our few disagreements last year. There were just a few, weren’t there? It was such a calamitous year, I no longer know the truth of it.

I look to you for how to be brave. Thank you for that day you talked to me about courage. You thought it was for you, a way of gathering your courage to face your painful dying, but it was for me—I need to be brave to get through the coming days, months, years.

Adios, compadre. I hope you no longer have need of bravery.

Click here to find out more about Grief: The Great Yearning

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Posted in culture, grief, life, relationships. Tags: 67th day of grief, grief and bravery, grief and loneliness, Grief: The Great Yearning, letter to the dead, quality time. 5 Comments »

Excerpt From “Grief: The Great Yearning” — Day 43

May 9, 2013 — Pat Bertram

Someone asked me today if I had any tips for writing a book about grief, but I have no such tips. I never actually set out to write a book about grief, never planned to make any of my writing public (except for the blog posts, of course), but I was so lost, so lonely, so sick with grief and bewildered by all I was experiencing, that the only way I could try to make sense of it all was to put my feelings into words. Whether I was writing letters to Jeff (my deceased life mate/soul mate) or simply pouring out my feelings in a journal, it helped me feel close to him, as if, once again, I was talking things over with him. The only problem was, I only heard my side of the story. He never told me how he felt about his dying and our separation. Did he feel as broken as I did? Did he feel amputated? Or was he simply glad to be shucked of his body, and perhaps even of me?

It’s been three years now since the following piece was written, and though I don’t have the physical trauma and emotional agony, I’m still lost, still miss him, still pinning my life mostly on “perhaps.” How did I get through three years of such great yearning? I honestly don’t know other than by taking life one step at a time.

Excerpt from Grief: The Great Yearning

Day 43, Grief Journal

On Wednesday I took my car to the mechanic to get it ready for the trip, on Thursday, I took Jeff’s car to get the brakes fixed, then yesterday I had the first day of the yard sale. Spent most of last evening crying and screaming. “Grief work” they call it. It’s sickening (literally) to be dismantling our lives. Sickening to think of leaving here, leaving Jeff behind.

My time with Jeff wasn’t always “quality” time in that we were out of sync the past couple of years (no wonder, what with his dying) but I have learned one thing. ALL time with a loved one is quality time. Time is the currency of love. It’s not so much what you feel as what you do. It’s having time for someone, being present for him.

I do okay while writing in this journal. I can write rationally about Jeff, our past and my future, but when I’m in the throes of anguish, I’m anything but rational. This whole experience makes me feel unbalanced. Well, I am un-balanced. When Jeff stepped off the world, he unbalanced it, unbalanced me. I have to find balance and do it on my own—I can’t expect anyone else to balance me and my world.

Well, gotta go get ready for another yard sale day. The worst part comes not from selling our stuff for pocket change, but from seeing all the couples picking over the shards of our life. If I’d known that the only ones stopping would be older couples, I might not have put myself through this. It’s too difficult. Reminds me that I am no longer half of a couple. That I have no one to grow old with. No one to be with.

I won’t cry.

At least not until I’m alone tonight.

Click here to find out more about Grief: The Great Yearning

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Posted in culture, grief, life, relationships. Tags: finding balance, fourty-third day of grief, grief and loneliness, grief journal, grief work, Grief: The Great Yearning, quality time. 1 Comment »

Grief Archives

April 30, 2013 — Pat Bertram

I’ve had so many people stopping by to read one of my grief posts and then staying to read more, that I’m making it easy for everyone. I set up a separate page for all the articles I posted about grief. You can find them here: Archives — Grief Posts.

These are not the only writing about grief that I did. As you can see from the list, I hardly posted anything at all those first few months, but I still wrote. I was so lost, so lonely, so sick with grief and bewildered by all I was experiencing, that the only way I could try to make sense of it all was to put my feelings into words. Whether I was writing letters to Jeff (my deceased life mate/soul mate) or simply pouring out my feelings in a journal, it helped me feel close to him, as if, once again, I was talking things over with him. Those were such private moments, meant only for me (and him) that I never intended making any of it public, but when I found out how much it helps the bereft to hear about someone else’s grief and understand that their anguish is normal, I published them in my book Grief: The Great Yearning.

If you know someone who is grieving for a husband or a mother or a child, I hope you will consider gifting them with a copy, or at least sending them the link to my grief posts. Thank you.

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Posted in books, culture, grief, writing. Tags: Grief archives, grief blog, Grief: The Great Yearning. 7 Comments »

Excerpt From “Grief: The Great Yearning” — Day 23

April 18, 2013 — Pat Bertram

So many people have told me lately that I should write a book about grief, that I realized somehow I’m not getting the point across — I did write a book about grief, and it’s been published now for over a year.

I never actually set out to write a book about grief, never planned to make any of my writing public (except for the blog posts, of course), but I was so lost, so lonely, so sick with grief and bewildered by all I was experiencing, that the only way I could try to make sense of it all was to put my feelings into words. Whether I was writing letters to Jeff (my deceased life mate/soul mate) or simply pouring out my feelings in a journal, it helped me feel close to him, as if, once again, I was talking things over with him. The only problem was, I only heard my side of the story. He never told me how he felt about his dying and our separation. Did he feel as broken as I did? Did he feel amputated? Or was he simply glad to be shucked of his body, and perhaps even of me?

Excerpt from Grief: The Great Yearning

Day 23, Grief Journal

I was lonely last year with Jeff spending so much time in bed, but now I am so lonely I feel bleak. And bereft. There seems to be little reason to live. No, I am not suicidal, but if I were to die today, I would not care.

I feel as if I am disappearing, fading from life, and all that is left is pain. How anyone gets through this, I do not know. And for what? Life didn’t seem foolish when Jeff was alive. I always knew we were meant for each other, but I never realized that he was my tie to life, to wanting to live. Finding that desire in myself right now is next to impossible. All I see are tenuous hopes and promises of pain. It’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

Do I need someone in order for my life to have meaning? Sounds weak. But isn’t love a major component of life? I know people survive quite nicely on their own, managing to find purpose, but I am so lost. So unhappy.

Perhaps the future holds something good for me, but that is such a silly word to pin my life on, yet that’s all I have—“perhaps”. Jeff no longer even has that. I’m trying to find comfort in knowing he is no longer suffering, and for a moment yesterday I even envied him. I wish my pain were over, too.

I’ve developed a terrible fear of dying. I could not handle dying the way Jeff did. It took him so long—years of getting sicker and weaker. Years of pain. I’m truly glad he isn’t suffering any more; I just wish he never had to suffer at all. Wish he were here, happy and healthy.

So many foolish wishes. Nothing I can say or do will change anything. The past is done. Finished. It scares me that I have no clear image of him in my mind, but my mind has never been a pictorial one—it’s more about feelings and impressions.

I miss him. Miss his fleeting sweet smiles. He had so little to smile about, yet he did smile at me. Did I return his smiles? I hope so. I loved him. Even when I could barely tolerate him (and there were such moments), I still loved him.

Click here to find out more about Grief: The Great Yearning

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Posted in culture, grief, life, relationships. Tags: bereft, do we need love?, grief and searching for meaning, grief as amputation, Grief: The Great Yearning, thwenty-third day of grief. 4 Comments »

It Takes Courage to Grieve

February 26, 2013 — Pat Bertram

People have often mentioned how courageous I’ve been by writing about my grief, but the truth is, for the most part, it didn’t take any courage. At the beginning, I was in such incredible pain and bewildered by all I was feeling, that I tried to make sense of all the emotions and physical symptoms the only way I knew how — by writing.

There were two times, though, where it did take courage. The first time was when my grief continued far beyond what I had expected, and I was afraid people would think I was weak or self-pitying or self-indulgent, unable to move beyond the tragedy. I am moving, but at my own pace.

The truth is, when you lose your mate, you lose not only the person who meant more to you than any other, the person who connected you to the world, you also lose your best friend, your confidante, your support, your sense of self, your hopes and dreams, your shared world, your faith in a universe that makes sense. The changes are so vast and so sudden, it can take years to process them all.

I’d been honest about everything I’d been feeling, so I continued telling the truth about my grief even when I thought it made me seem pathetic. No one wants to show a weak side to the world, but someone has to explain how grief works, to show the ramifications of a certain type of loss. We are steeped in a culture of couplehood. Many songs and movies extol the joys of meeting the one person who makes life worth living, yet when you lose that person, you are expected to continue as if it didn’t matter. Well, it does matter. And it matters more when you lose that person to death. It’s almost impossible to fathom the absence of a person who once breathed the same air you did, who was there through every crisis and triumph, and who now is simply . . . gone. (Well, if I’m going to tell the truth, then I should tell the truth. It’s not almost impossible. It’s totally impossible.)

I’m past worrying about how people see me and my grief, so I’m back to not needing courage to write about how I am doing. I’m just continuing to chronicle the journey of a woman who is trying to rebuild her life after an immeasurable loss, both the steps forward into hope and the steps backward into sorrow and tears.

The second time I needed courage was when I published Grief: The Great Yearning, the story of my first year of grief. It’s one thing to write about grief in the backwaters of the blogosphere, and a completely different thing to put my grief out there for the whole world to read. Well, the whole world isn’t reading the book, so that’s not an issue, but more importantly, those who do read my story find they are reading their own story. Although grief is unique to each person, the pain and angst and bitter losses are the same. And so is the way we make this unwanted and terrible journey . . . one step at a time.

And that takes courage.

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Posted in culture, grief, life, writing. Tags: grief and courage, grief and loss, Grief: The Great Yearning, loss of a soul mate, loss of a spouse, writing about grief. 4 Comments »

Sharp Writ Book Awards Winner!

January 20, 2013 — Pat Bertram

Last night I was notified that Grief: The Great Yearning has been awarded 2nd Place in the 2012 Sharp Writ Book Awards Memoirs / Biography category. They said I’ll be getting a Certificate of Achievement and gold foil ribbon labels stating “Sharp Writ Book Awards Winner” that can be affixed to book covers, but today I got an email telling me it was a mistake, and I’ve been awarded 3rd place, which leaves me feeling ambivalent about the whole thing.

To be honest, I was already feeling ambivalent about winning an award for a book that I wish I’d never had occasion to write in the first place. Still, it’s an important book, and I’m pleased to see it getting any sort of recognition. More than that, I hope the increased visibility for Grief: The Great Yearning will help people find it when they need it. Grief is such an isolating experience, we need to know that whatever we feel, others have felt. Whatever seemingly crazy thing we do to bring ourselves comfort, others have done. And, as impossible as it is to imagine at the beginning, we do survive.

A fellow author and sister in sadness wrote: “Grief: The Great Yearning by Pat Bertram is a book of empathic understanding. How many recently bereft have looked to society’s guidelines for grieving and found these “norms” did not correspond to what they were feeling? How many were left confused and even more depressed because they were not “progressing” like the experts said they should? Bertram’s book is a comfort to those of us tossed into the grief whirlwind of disbelief and agony. The entire book is raw and real. Grief: The Great Yearning is a companion guide from someone who has already been there. It is a forever love letter.” —J J Dare, author of False Positive and False World.

A staunch supporter who works with the bereft wrote: “The grief journey is one of unbelievable pain to the psyche, to every part of our being. It’s a journey of missing the individual; spewing at the injustice of death, our powerlessness over death, our absolute lack of knowing what exists beyond death (despite claims to the contrary); replaying over and over our relationship with the deceased. All the while trying desperately to function in a world forever changed.

“If people were to ask me for an example of how grief can be faced in order for the healthiest outcome I would refer them to Grief: The Great Yearning, which should be the grief process bible. Pat Bertram’s willingness to confront grief head on combined with her openness to change is the epitome of good mental health.” —Leesa Healy, Consultant in Emotional-Mental Health.

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Posted in books, culture, life, writing. Tags: Grief: The Great Yearning, memoir, Sharp Writ Book Awards Winner, the grief journey, the grief process bible. Leave a Comment »

30 Second Book Trailer For GRIEF: THE GREAT YEARNING

January 10, 2013 — Pat Bertram

Grief: The Great Yearning is a finalist in the memoir category for the Sharp Writ Book Awards, and they asked me for a 30 second introduction to the book for their “awards ceremony” video. A couple of days ago I posted a draft of this video and here’s the finished video blurb.

After I put this video together, I realized an interesting coincidence: All the photos were taken in August, around the 15th.

The first photo might look like the desert, but it’s a photo of him in Colorado at the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, a few months before he died. I didn’t even know I had the photo, but I found it in a computer file after he was gone, and it shattered what was left of my heart. It looked as if he’d already been moving away from me toward eternity. Oddly, though I didn’t plan it, the three photos I used in the video were all taken within a few minutes of each other on that excursion. The gnarled tree with the stormy clouds, the profound depth of the canyon, the photo of him looking to eternity all now seem to be signs of my unconscious grief.

The photo on the cover of the book is taken in the very same place, exactly a year earlier. The photo of the two of us together (the only photo ever taken of the two of us together) was taken exactly thirteen years earlier than the three photos. And we met exactly thirty-two years before that last trip to the Black Canyon. I had no idea August was such a significant month for me.

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Posted in books, grief, relationships, writing. Tags: August, Black Canyon of the Gunnison, Grief: The Great Yearning, Sharp Writ Book Awards, significant month. 15 Comments »

Grief and the Empty Timeline of Death

January 9, 2013 — Pat Bertram

My life mate/soul mate died 33 months ago. He was 63 at the time, a few months shy of his 64th birthday. Today, his mother called and during the conversation she mentioned that he would now be 66. This revelation stopped me in my mental tracks. 66?

During all these months, not once have I ever stopped to calculate what his age would have been had he lived. It felt as if time stopped when he died — not all time, just his time. And yet, his time continues. The timeline that began with his birth is still going on. When she mentioned his age, I got the mental image of a shadow of his ghost continuing to ride that timeline. Not him, not his spirit (because if he does still exist somewhere, he is outside of time) but simply the shadow of what might have been.

Normally such a thought would have swept me back into grief, but this image (at least for now) has me befuddled.

I’ve been thinking of him as 63 years old. As such, he is still older than I am, but I’ve been wondering how I will feel when I get to the age he was when he died, or later, when I grow older than he ever did. Will I feel foolish as a raddled 86-year-old, still yearning for such youthful-looking man? (The only photo I have of him was taken when he was not yet 50. And as my memories fade, that will be the only image I remember him by.)

And yet, there is his continuing timeline. What is growing older? Well, me, of course. I am aware that I will continue to age, but he will be forever a relatively young 63. Yet something — some shadow of him or his life — continues to grow older.

Or is his just an empty timeline now?

I spent most of last night learning how to use Microsoft Movie Maker and putting together a video blurb of Grief: The Great Yearning. The music piece was supposed to be thirty seconds, and it was, but there were also seven blank seconds on the end of the music clip, so that when the video finished playing, the timeline continued blankly for another seven seconds.

Perhaps it’s the coincidence of the two blank timelines that unsettles me, but I truly do not know how to grasp the concept of his empty timeline. He can’t continue to age, and yet his birthdays will come, year after year.

The emptiness of it all makes me want to weep; yet strangely, I am dry-eyed.

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