Grief is a Physical Hunger

 (In the early days and months, grief is a pervasive, physical reality.) 

The longing of grief comes in the evening, rising from its hidden place, and stays the night.

 

The house I built in grief shelters me. It protects me through the long days and nights. I am grateful, yet I hunger for more than this. When grief first came, everything shut down. Window curtains were pulled closed. Doors were shut, and the world went dark. My mind could not comprehend the suddenness of death, nor my heart the dissolution of someone I loved. My senses were numb, and my heart lost its footing. Every guideline and belief, everything I thought was solid, cracked under the weight of death’s relentless pressure. 

 

Alone, and yet her presence

 

(photo of Half Dome by Mark Liebenow)

 

One of the big realizations after my wife died was that I was now alone. There was loneliness, and longing, and something deeper that I couldn’t describe. Life felt dry, like a desert.

 

I missed Evelyn—her daily presence, her singing, the inquisitive look in her eyes, the gentle touch of her hands, the little things she would do, the scent of her perfume. I missed the life we had built up together over 18 years, and the dreams of where we wanted to go together, dreams that had now ended. Living by myself, cooking meals, washing dishes, even watching TV, were uninteresting chores. I missed the person I was when Evelyn was around because I smiled more, and felt confident and witty. She understood my jokes, and encouraged me to try things that I wasn’t sure I could do. I missed the person I was becoming because of her.

 

Living in a Time of Covid

We are anxious and fearful because we don’t know how the coronavirus will affect us or change our world. The normal pattern of our life has been disrupted, and we don’t know for how long. We feel unprepared to deal with something as large as this, and we’re tired, angry, and scared. 

 

We know that people are getting sick from the virus, and some are dying, and they are having to die alone because loved ones aren’t allowed to be with them to offer comfort. We worry about our health care workers who are putting their lives on the line to take care of the sick, working extra shifts until they're exhausted, and doing so without adequate protection.

 

The Longing of Saudade

Nine years after Evelyn’s death, I stood on the coast of Maine at dusk looking over the Atlantic Ocean, feeling what I have come to know as saudade, a Portuguese word for profound melancholic longing. I desperately yearned to see Ev again, knowing that I never would. She died suddenly, and I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye.

What We Grieve

Our Astonishing Light

We do not grieve the memories of our spouses who died. Surprised? Me, too. Sometimes we are so overwhelmed with a profound loneliness that we grieve everything. Meanwhile the rest of the world goes on without noticing.

Alone or Lonely?

After the death of a spouse, the absence of the other person is keenly felt. Half of the life we knew and cherished feels gone. And it probably is.

            Suddenly there is no one else in the house to talk to, cook for, or clean up after. No one to toss around ideas with for what to do this weekend. No one to cuddle in bed after a long, exhausting day. We yearn to fall asleep in the arms of someone who unconditionally loved us.

After People Return Home

After the shock of death wears off, after the rush of funeral details ends, after tears have slowed, after the people who have brought food have returned home and condolence cards have stopped arriving, after you have accepted that this death happened and all the rituals of bereavement have been observed, there is the first day when there are no expectations and nothing that you have to do.

What do you do?

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