40 Days
Yesterday marks day 40 since Lindsey passed. The day marker means nothing to me except that it represents an historic, cultural marker of grief time, as if that can be prescribed: “grief time.” When Lindsey first passed, I googled all sorts of things about grief and one of the questions I asked was, “how long is a grieving period for a spouse?”. And, I got every answer under the sun based on cultures past and present, Eastern and Western, religious and secular. But, the most consistent answer was how most cultural acknowledgement of grief is private and not part of broader, current-day Western culture. Apparently, two hundred years ago there would be up to a year of mourning and a public ceremony to how people showed up in society, marked by garb or other signs. And, at the turn of the 20th century, 40 days became a period of time to mark grief in some societies. I don’t know. Putting time on any of this is silly and truly dependent per person, and per situation in as much as time can “heal” or allow for healing. However, I think there’s validity to allotting time, or measuring time and marking it somehow.
Anyway, on the night I googled my questions, I decided to mark Day 40 on my calendar so that I could check in with myself and see if the period of mourning was done. (Just kidding, I knew it can’t artificially end at some pre-determined time point). But, yesterday became a day for me to reflect and it’s led me to write, again if only for my own catharsis. Additionally, in light of all of the queries from friends and famliy of how I’m doing over the last eight weeks, I thought I’d share this response. I’ve been grateful for the checking in but have honestly been unsure of the rambling answers I’ve often given. Upon reflection on 40 days, I’ve come to conclude that my heart and life seem to be characterized by three verbs on an almost daily basis.
I miss. I hurt. And I wonder.
I find that amidst the requisite current of life that must go on for my family and for me personally, my brain and heart continually stir and wander into or between one of these three states of being in my thinking and pondering.
I miss. I miss her terribly. I grieve the loss of her presence. The permanence of her absence is staggering most days and the depth of loss feels abyssal. I know there will be future days when the acute waves of grief will subside, that grief will but lap mostly, and life will feel normal and manageable again. But, today, and these days, that’s not how it feels. I’m able to do life and, for the most part, drive forward with the commitments and things we have each day, and I’m even able to engage socially in normal-ish ways, but the sucker punch has yet to subside and I often still have to keel over, cry, and catch my breath. And I hate it. I hate the loss.
I miss doing life together. I miss socializing together. I miss raising our kids together. I miss laughing and talking together. I miss cooking together. I miss watching tv together. I miss picking up the house together. I miss getting ready for bed together and discussing the day. I miss her smell and the warmth of her embrace. I even miss fighting together and disappointing her because there was always reconciliation and coming together again. But we’ll never come together again. This side of heaven, we’ll never be together again. And I miss that. Her presence haunts me, but her absence haunts me even more…and she’s invariably gone.
I hurt. The pain of loss, the pain of what I miss is ever-present. It’s a fresh wound that doesn’t get enough time to heal as recent memories and fresh reminders of loss continue to collide with me on a daily basis. Knowing I don’t get to grow old with her and knowing I’ve lost the utter comfort of that relationship hurts deeply. The pain of knowing the boys will never see their mom again, will never grow up with her, will never know her physical love, warmth, and encouragement takes me down on a daily basis. I hurt for them, and with them, and hurt for what they don’t even know to grieve. It’s painful to have to start over, to change and now manage all of life’s logistics, to become the sole administrator of our family’s life.
And I wonder. I wonder what will become of my life now that she’s gone. I wonder what will become of the boys’ lives as well. What will we lack? What will we do? What will life end up looking like? Where will we struggle? In what ways will we succeed? I wish I could say that my wonder over the future was laden with optimism and hope. One day I’d expect to feel optimistic and hopeful, but today the future feels bleak and scary, and I’m fearful to face it. I don’t want to face it but I know I have to. I do find comfort in God, His promises to care for us, and His Word. And we have been carried by the community He has provided, through a myriad of ways. But, in the same way I don’t want to get out from under the covers each morning and face the day, I don’t want to face my new reality and wonder what it will be.
But, each day since her passing and by God’s grace, I have gotten out from under the covers and put my feet on the floor and marched forward into the day, into what it holds. And, I just walk forward because I have to, but these new realities follow and go with me. I walk forward missing my other half and companion. I walk forward wounded, still feeling acute pain and loss. And, I walk forward wondering what each day and the future connection of days will ultimately hold for us.
