Carrying The Constant Weight of Sadness

I had an unusual exchange last month.  Someone showed interest in purchasing Ken’s fishing boat, so I decided that was as good an impetus as any to finally transfer the various titles I have for that and some trailers.  After all, February 26 was the three year anniversary of Ken’s death.  It’s probably past time for me to be done with these tasks.

I headed to our local notary and tag service with a pile of relevant papers late on a Friday afternoon.  Maybe it was the end of a long week, maybe it was that I had four items to transfer, but there was a lot of confusion among the clerks on what had to be done, how it had to be done, even what it cost to get it done.  While I was there for over an hour, I was surprised to find that this was the first time that I’ve managed to get through a session of estate handling without shedding a single tear or even getting choked up.  Maybe this was because I didn’t get the seemingly automatic response of “First let me say I’m sorry for your loss” that typically comes from the staff.  Or perhaps after three years I am finally getting better at focusing solely on the business end of things during these encounters.

I was feeling pretty proud of my stoicism until the next morning, when I almost hyperventilated making myself over easy eggs for breakfast. Fried fish and dippy eggs were Ken’s two cooking specialties, and he is always close at hand whenever I break a yolk.  I guess it was merely my exasperation at the notary’s which kept my grief at bay the prior day, because I do miss Ken today as much as ever.  And it doesn’t take much to bring me to tears over his memory.

I can’t pinpoint why I haven’t been writing as much, and posting even less, over the last year.  I’d like to think that my day-to-day has become less about actively grieving and more about living a new normal, but I am still finding the loss cumbersome.  Part of me also worries that anyone reading will be thinking “more of this? Geez”.  Honestly, I’m a little irritated with myself over my inability to find peace with reality at this point.  Shouldn’t I have accepted this change in my life by now?  But we had plans!  I cannot stop aching for Ken and the life I thought we would share for many more years.

Three years is a fairly significant amount of time for a human.  I could’ve learned a new language in that duration, or finished an advanced degree.  I could’ve trained for and run a few  marathons.  I could’ve developed skills for sourdough baking or ballroom dancing or bonsai training.  Instead I’m still struggling with whether to sell this old house.  My tennis game is only marginally improved.  Even with my excursion to the notary, there are still a few minor accounts which continue to bear his name.  So much of my present life is entwined in our old existence.  Is this what is keeping me mired in my grief?

I became a grandmother four weeks earlier than expected on New Years Eve Day.  The joy of my grandson’s birth was tempered by some complications for the baby and my daughter, and I longed for Ken’s steady demeanor and quiet strength to prop me up during those first hard weeks of worry and uncertainty.  Now that the chaos has settled into the normal upheaval that comes with a major life change, I miss sharing this new love with him.  He adored babies and would’ve been an attentive and enthusiastic grandfather.    

My daughter made a crib mobile out of some of Ken’s fishing lures, removing the hooks and assembling the colorful baubles to catch baby’s eye.  I tell the baby about his Opa, and wonder if he inherited the fondness for this pursuit.  It doesn’t matter whether or not he does, because I know he carries some DNA from Ken.  This might translate into his deep voice, or his memory for numbers, or his soft curls.  Possibly his sense of humor.        

After sharing the pain and pleasure of life with someone else for so long, it is hard to experience it alone.  There is no one here in the evening to listen to me complain about the frustration of dealing with red tape, no one here to agree how perfect this little baby is, no one here to help me face whatever fresh hell the future has in store.  Some family and friends continue to be supportive, but an occasional meet up or phone call doesn’t replace the day-to-day rhythm of living in partnership with someone.         

A few people whose lives have progressed in a more predictable pattern have referred to the “circle of life” when they hear of the baby’s birth.  But the circle in my world has a chunk bitten out of it where Ken belongs.  A piece is missing for me and for my children and now for my grandson.  Ken isn’t here to someday take this child fishing, or read to him in that deep voice, or tell him jokes.   And maybe that is why three years, or five years, or decades won’t matter.  The love and familial knowledge that he would’ve passed on to both our children and now this grandson is lost and cannot be replaced.  That emptiness will never be filled.      

I am thankful for this beautiful new person in my life, and for the ability to be able to enjoy sharing in his growth.  Three years from now, he will be walking instead of rolling and talking instead of shrieking.  His parents and caregivers will help him navigate the pitfalls of an ever-expanding world.  I am mostly left alone to figure out my new sphere.  Will I let it continue to contract or help it to grow?  I have never been particularly speedy at decision making, and without my husband to weigh in on how to proceed I’m finding it difficult.

But what is the rush?  38 months to take care of some paperwork is not unreasonable when that paperwork was hardly critical to my needs at the time.  A few store bonus cards in Ken’s name are not preventing me from pursuing life without him.  Engaging in the world is complicated by the constant weight of sadness that I carry.  I see now that I have been busier than I realized in the last three years:  growing my ability to shoulder this burden I’ll never be able to put down.  Maybe I will never foxtrot, but I can move forward nonetheless.