Beautiful piece of writing. My wife died three years ago of brain aneurysm. One day she got dizzy, sat down on a bench, and never got up again. Our three year old was with her. The other two were at kindergarten and second grade.
It's interesting that your friends think that you are even more of who you were before, even though certain parts of that person are gone forever. The parts that were from the before times, the parts that were in that relationship with that man that you loved, those parts have been shed. And the memories that you shared with those old people when you were in your 20s, that shared memory is gone forever.
There's a saying that when a person dies, a library burns. So much that I relied on her I needed to figure out. I call it being part of the unchosen single parent club. It's more than that because that shared identity that we had made together was abruptly cut off.
Figuring out who I had become, I actually found to be really life affirming. I was a new person and it was clear that I was a better person. I was a couple years older than you are, but it did feel like it would have been time to have a shedding and rebirth anyway that was triggered by this experience but somehow distinct from it.
Looking back, the experience was actually kind of fun. Fun like running a marathon is fun or like a long hike camping in the rain and eating terrible food, shivering around the fire is fun. Fun when you look back at it and fun in the sense that you're glad you had that experience but pretty miserable any given moment of the time when it was actually happening.
What really worked for me was to go deep into any of the feelings that were happening, not avoiding them, but really trying to inhabit them fully and learn whatever they were trying to teach me or witness whatever it was that I was seeing. Writing is super helpful, though I didn't publish anything. I just woke up at four o'clock in the morning and let out whatever was itching in my mind onto the page and just getting everything out. That was my process of mourning the person who I used to be, trying to discover the new and frankly better person that I had become.
Enjoy the little one. People always surprised that I was able to get up out of bed and do stuff. And I would reply that you pretty much have to get up out of bed when three little kids have crawled in and kick you in the head squirming around. New life. It's so fun to watch as they explore and discover the world and you get to do it again through their eyes.
I learned a tremendous amount and there's one bit of advice that I could pass on, it's always be kind to yourself.
Grief knows Grief, though no two Griefs are alike. All I can say is I commiserate. Thank you for writing so viscerally when it is impossible even to just *be*. 2021 through 24 have been a lesson in what Grief does to a person. You write truth. Sharing a bit from a post I wrote from one of the blackest of blacks that descended upon me...
> Maybe it's not too late for you. Maybe it's not too late for me.
> I hope it isn't.
> But if it is too late, then I hope we come back, you and I.
Oh Bess, so much of this rings true for me as well. My circumstance was different but I have felt and still feel so many of the same feelings. The year I turned 50, I lost my husband of 26 years to suicide. Shortly thereafter there was a worldwide pandemic. I am still grieving his loss while simultaneously the loss of my youth. Whose middle aged body is this? I am not the same person I was, physically, mentally or emotionally. Thank you for always sharing your beautifully expressed thoughts and feelings with us.
Damn. This hit hard. Bess, I hope this isn’t too cold comfort but you truly are a model of courage and fortitude for a lot of people, including me. More than once since your last post, I’ve thought of you and hoped you were doing as well as you could be. I’m sure I’m not the only one— there’s a lot of us rooting for you.
Bess, this was a stunning piece of writing and it twisted my heart so, for the terrible loss you’ve endured; your daughter is a beauty; her light is palpable, as is yours.
My heart hurts for you (I am also forty-one, & my husband is recovering from cancer complications a room away from me), & yet—how perfect it is that in your recording, we can hear Athena fussing throughout, growing only a bit louder at the end. To life. And to love.
I absolutely love your writing. Thank you.
Beautiful piece of writing. My wife died three years ago of brain aneurysm. One day she got dizzy, sat down on a bench, and never got up again. Our three year old was with her. The other two were at kindergarten and second grade.
It's interesting that your friends think that you are even more of who you were before, even though certain parts of that person are gone forever. The parts that were from the before times, the parts that were in that relationship with that man that you loved, those parts have been shed. And the memories that you shared with those old people when you were in your 20s, that shared memory is gone forever.
There's a saying that when a person dies, a library burns. So much that I relied on her I needed to figure out. I call it being part of the unchosen single parent club. It's more than that because that shared identity that we had made together was abruptly cut off.
Figuring out who I had become, I actually found to be really life affirming. I was a new person and it was clear that I was a better person. I was a couple years older than you are, but it did feel like it would have been time to have a shedding and rebirth anyway that was triggered by this experience but somehow distinct from it.
Looking back, the experience was actually kind of fun. Fun like running a marathon is fun or like a long hike camping in the rain and eating terrible food, shivering around the fire is fun. Fun when you look back at it and fun in the sense that you're glad you had that experience but pretty miserable any given moment of the time when it was actually happening.
What really worked for me was to go deep into any of the feelings that were happening, not avoiding them, but really trying to inhabit them fully and learn whatever they were trying to teach me or witness whatever it was that I was seeing. Writing is super helpful, though I didn't publish anything. I just woke up at four o'clock in the morning and let out whatever was itching in my mind onto the page and just getting everything out. That was my process of mourning the person who I used to be, trying to discover the new and frankly better person that I had become.
Enjoy the little one. People always surprised that I was able to get up out of bed and do stuff. And I would reply that you pretty much have to get up out of bed when three little kids have crawled in and kick you in the head squirming around. New life. It's so fun to watch as they explore and discover the world and you get to do it again through their eyes.
I learned a tremendous amount and there's one bit of advice that I could pass on, it's always be kind to yourself.
Grief knows Grief, though no two Griefs are alike. All I can say is I commiserate. Thank you for writing so viscerally when it is impossible even to just *be*. 2021 through 24 have been a lesson in what Grief does to a person. You write truth. Sharing a bit from a post I wrote from one of the blackest of blacks that descended upon me...
> Maybe it's not too late for you. Maybe it's not too late for me.
> I hope it isn't.
> But if it is too late, then I hope we come back, you and I.
> For a rebirth requires a death.
May you be reborn.
May you find peace, love, and equanimity amidst the full catastrophe of life. Perhaps Zen might help take the sting out, even if a little.
Thank you for sharing.
I’m not sure what to say and I keep deleting what I start to say. But, thank you for writing this. 💜
Oh Bess, so much of this rings true for me as well. My circumstance was different but I have felt and still feel so many of the same feelings. The year I turned 50, I lost my husband of 26 years to suicide. Shortly thereafter there was a worldwide pandemic. I am still grieving his loss while simultaneously the loss of my youth. Whose middle aged body is this? I am not the same person I was, physically, mentally or emotionally. Thank you for always sharing your beautifully expressed thoughts and feelings with us.
Damn. This hit hard. Bess, I hope this isn’t too cold comfort but you truly are a model of courage and fortitude for a lot of people, including me. More than once since your last post, I’ve thought of you and hoped you were doing as well as you could be. I’m sure I’m not the only one— there’s a lot of us rooting for you.
Bess, this was a stunning piece of writing and it twisted my heart so, for the terrible loss you’ve endured; your daughter is a beauty; her light is palpable, as is yours.
The cruel beauty of your words is just shattering. May sweetness and peace find you with the same singularity of purpose.
Thank you, Emily
My heart hurts for you (I am also forty-one, & my husband is recovering from cancer complications a room away from me), & yet—how perfect it is that in your recording, we can hear Athena fussing throughout, growing only a bit louder at the end. To life. And to love.
So beautiful and heart wrenching at the same time. Thank you for sharing. Sending love!
And so beautifully read.
♥️♥️
Just…. profound. Saved off for later.
Sending love to you and Athena. Thank you for sharing your story, Bess.