I’ve managed five months without my late husband. I’m still weepy, but does moving on mean I need him less? 

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And then this happened. After having a couple of days feeling almost like myself, grief came roaring back like a tsunami, catching me with my back to the sea. 

Michael, my husband of 40 years, died five months ago. I have been trying to understand why, after doing so well, I just spent two days weeping. Two days hiding from the world. Two days lying on the couch staring out at the back yard and struggling to come up with a reason to get off of the couch. Failing to find one and really not caring.

It is a new couch so there is that. Comfy and filled with pillows. But still.

I tried reading, but realized soon that turning pages didn’t mean I had actually absorbed what I had been seeing. I was skimming, actually. 

Closing the book, I returned my gaze to the yard. The vast wall of ivy covering the back fence. The gopher holes in the dry grass. The dandelions sprouting as if refusing to accept that they have not gotten even the slightest drink of water for months. Determined little yellow faces bobbing in the slight breeze. 

Was it that in realizing there are things I didn’t think I could do, but have in fact accomplished, I felt further from Michael? That I needed him less than I thought I did? Could that possibly be it? 

Was I, in moving forward, moving away from my husband and best friend? 

There is logic to that notion. Time has continued to pass and with each day, hour, minute, I am distancing myself from what was once my life, a life I loved, and further into the future alone into a life I don’t recognize and never imagined having to navigate. 

Do I feel guilt? Is this all about accepting the fact that I may be able to live without him? Just writing that makes me catch my breath. 

All I know is that for the past two days I have been thinking about him constantly. I remember what it felt like to place my hand on his chest and feel his heartbeat and my heart shatters. Even in his last days, I would lie next to him, feel the rhythm of his chest rising, falling, rising again in complete denial that soon his heart would stop and I would be left with only the memory of our life together. And right now, those glorious memories of those decades are too triggering to contemplate. If I try to recall his voice, his laugh, his touch, I crack. It is still too fresh. Too raw. 

My eyes fill, my cheeks get wet, I have to close that door. Lock those memories away until they spark joy rather than unrelenting sadness. 

I wonder if that will ever be the case. 

I should be past this, I tell myself. Shouldn’t I? Or is that an unfair expectation? Am I expecting too much of myself?

Grief, it appears, is not linear. This is something I need to accept. 

After my two days on the couch avoiding everyone and everything, I decided I needed to get up. Accomplish even one small thing. Be a participating member of the human race. 

I took a shower. I washed my hair. I paid a bill and did some laundry. And then, back on the couch, I put down the novel I had been pretending to read and picked up a couple of the books I have been given by friends who are trying to help. “Healing After Loss” by Martha W. Hickman has been one of my go-to favorites with short meditations, and “The Cure for Sorrow” by Jan Richardson has given me comfort on sleepless nights and challenging afternoons. 

And I am going to explore grief groups. Perhaps being in a gathering of people who are experiencing loss like mine will be helpful. Perhaps one person may say one thing that will offer me a perspective which will trigger something in me. Something I can carry with me as I move forward. 

I’ll let you know how it goes. I am trying. I am determined to thrive no matter the challenges. 

Be like the dandelion, I tell myself. Be the dandelion.