Words that don't comfort

My grief is my own; I know from speaking with others and reading a fair amount about grief that the experience is deeply individual and personal. So I do not speak for all grievers. But I am not the only one who hasn't been comforted by the idea that the deceased is no longer in pain.

I know that those who say it mean well. And I have never wanted Sandy to be in pain. But there are many reasons that such a simple thought can get my back up so quickly.

First, it ignores my pain, which was particularly intense in the weeks that people tended to talk about Sandy no longer being in pain. Is it really okay that I'm in constant pain as long as she's not? My pain has lasted longer than her nerve pain did. Aren't we even now? And yet my pain continues.

Second, it implies that there were two options: pain or death. Our vision was never to keep Sandy alive and in pain. We weren't fighting some evil overlord who attempted to keep her alive and suffering. We fought cancer. The cancer caused the pain as it killed her. Saving her from the cancer would have saved her from the pain. They were one and the same evil.

She was miserable for much of our trip in May,
but the day we spent at Arches, she felt good.

Third, she wasn't in pain all the time. Her pain was nearly unbearable as the cancer moved into her central nervous system, and it was especially debilitating as it worsened and no one could identify its cause. But even then, there were days without pain. Days she enjoyed. The night of my birthday, June 3, she felt good enough to walk down Madison to have a wonderful dinner with me. The day she started radiation — the day our lives changed forever — she kept remarking about how good she felt, and she was ambitiously laying out plans. Sandy's life was more than pain. She was vocal about the pain, which I appreciated, because it meant I could help her resolve it. But it was not constant, and it was not her life.

I know there are things to be grateful for: that she didn't linger in the state of acute suffering for long, that she knew she was loved, that we had 15 and a half years together (and time before that as friends), that we had a chance to say goodbye and all the things we needed to say. And I am grateful for all the people who sent her cards, gifts, and flowers, and who made donations in her name — and for all those who have offered their support to me, as I took care of her and as I've tried to find my way without her.