Recognizing some peace

At the grocery store, the checker asked me, "How are you?" and tears came to my eyes. I haven't been having a hard day. I've felt Sandy's presence strongly for much of the past week. If anyone else had asked how I was, I'd have said something about my eyes hurting after a bike ride yesterday (I was in the store for eye drops) or I'd have chatted about my gardening goals for the day competing with my desire to putter around the house.

But a couple weeks after Sandy died, I'd been in this checker's lane at a slow time of day. I was clearly not doing well at that point, and in answer to her concern, I'd told her about Sandy's death. We talked then for several minutes and she came out from behind the counter and hugged me — a strong, nourishing embrace. Her empathy was strong and real and true. It touched me then and still means a great deal to me.

The next time I saw her, a week or two later, she asked how I was doing and said she'd been thinking about me. It was clear to me that she had. This was a woman who had truly felt my pain. She continued to be supportive in the weeks that followed. But then I didn't see her. I fell into a pattern of doing my weekly shopping on Friday afternoons, and I assume now that she doesn't work on Fridays. I hadn't even realized that I hadn't seen her until I was in her line today.

It's been over eight months since our first conversation about Sandy's death. I'm not in the same place emotionally that I was then. I've experienced pain, joy, despair, frustration, gratitude — the whole gamut — in relationship to Sandy's death, dying, and life. But when this caring woman (I don't even know her name) asked me today how I was doing, I felt both permission (welcome) and pressure (not so welcome) to grieve openly.

To her, I am the widow. Walking away, it was interesting to realize that, while I am still Sandy's widow, that is not how I primarily identify anymore. Grief and widowhood are a potent part of who I am, but more and more it is their reflection that I feel most strongly. That is, I can only be a widow because I was lucky enough to have Sandy for my partner. This grief is a result of love and a shared life.

This is another of the photos on that found roll of film. I think
it was probably 2000, because we'd put in the brick walkway
in the planting strip - I think that went in Christmas Day 1999.
It's very much Sandy, but she'd have been appalled by her hair!

As time passes, I'm gaining perspective on many things. First, and most satisfying, is that the period of her dying and the immediate aftermath of her death is fading in emphasis. It was just a tiny percentage of her life, and a small part of our time together. Of course it was an important time, and her death remains the most significant event of my life. But my thoughts of Sandy are now much more about other times, other Sandys, and not the time of suffering and fear and loss.

I've also made some progress on forgiving myself for my imperfections. With less regret, grief stabs less sharply. Sandy was (and remains) the most important person in my world, but she wasn't (and isn't) the most important person in the world. None of us get everything we want, and she wasn't entitled to have her every whim satisfied any more than anyone else is. So I can let go of feeling like I let her down if I didn't want to play catch in the park or had to get work done when she wanted me to garden with her, just as I certainly don't hold it against her that she worked long hours or double-booked her time or any number of other little things that she'd be kicking herself about if I'd died. And the big regrets? We talked about those before she died, and we've talked about them since. Sometimes I even think I've found my peace around them. Sometimes.

So next time I see that checker, I'll make a point to talk about something else in my life, to put the grief in a broader context. I appreciate her genuine concern, but I no longer need the extra attention from people I don't know well. (I still need it from friends.) I also find myself wondering whether there are people I freeze in time at one emotional state or another. Meanwhile, I appreciate the opportunity to see that I and my grief have grown and changed over time.