Rough Notes from the Land of Grief
I haven’t had a parent die, or a child, I can’t compare – each an equal ripping, I imagine. You don’t measure grief against grief. But a partner-in-life you walk beside. That’s what you do.
A roll of paper towels on the sunroom table, the plastic half ripped off. When did I fetch it? Begin to open it? Get distracted? I am half on this planet and staying moored here exhausts me. The other half walks endlessly with him on his endless journey. Walking bedside him. That’s what partners do.
The lost art of cooking – one step and then the next. Burnt pots, boiled dry kettles.
I am the bucket on a bucket brigade passed hand to hand from friend to friend. Alone, I might drift away. Not desiring it, just from habit; decades of walking alongside, next to him.
He was my ground my standing place my starting place my earth.
Old people often die when their spouse dies. I understand why. Too much energy to stay put. When our parakeet Benny took a bad bounce onto Bill’s shoulder as he was opening the sunroom door and flew away, his partner (not his mate but his partner) Diego flew careening wheeling wildly around the house for four days then found the same open door – a door he’d never approached in years – and flew out after him.
The dogs go out in the rain and come trotting back wet. They force their noses against me, expectant. “Oh! You want your towel!” I say and get it and rub them and land in my body again, wet fur and terry cloth, bright eyes and gentle tongues. My friends call. My daughter needs a ride. “I’ll walk with you later,” I say to him inside my head.
I am so tired. My body refreshes but not my mind. So hard to stay on this planet, so hard to stay on this ground. Hold my foot like a balloon string, please, or I’ll fly away. Who knew gravity didn’t work when your partner’s in a grave.
I lie down with the sun. I wake every hour every night all night. I cling to the bed – his side – a life raft. My heart is above the tree line, granite and thin air. I walk with him sometimes into the wind, sometimes into the sunny fields, sometimes into the sky.
I walk from room to room forgetting things. “Why am I here?”
I walk with him and with myself wondering exactly where and when our paths diverge.
First it’s hard, and then it’s harder.
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About Ericka
Ericka Lutz writes fiction (short and long), non-fiction (creative and commercial), and performance pieces. She's the author of the novel, The Edge of Maybe (March 2012), many short stories, columns, personal essays, and advice books. With a B.A. in...
Connections
God bring you peace.
Ericka, I hope you have some religious faith. This is when it is so helpful.
Thank you
Amazing to read.
Best,
J
Jessica Barksdale Inclan
www.jessicabarksdaleinclan.com
A gift and a curse
Your brilliant facility with words is both a blessing and a curse to you now, Ericka. I don't think most people who have experienced such a loss could begin to articulate it all so beautifully and so brutally. It would be so much easier to have a simple mind during these times. I believe, however, that this gift of yours will make the dark times more intense, but shorter lived because you let yourself feel it so deeply, all the while finding such strong metaphors for it. It's hard to believe it now, I am sure, but these same thoughts and words you share will make you like the Six Million Dollar Man... "Stonger, faster." Your heart and mind are bionic, Ericka. You are doing exactly what you need to do and you will prevail, and then thrive again.
Shana
Shana McLean Moore
www.caffeinatedponderings.com
www.sunnysidecommunications.com
First it's hard, then it's
First it's hard, then it's harder. One day, some day, it might feel easier, the way a heart beats hard and fast at first, and then slows to a better rhythm. Sending love.
Thanks again for sharing...
I have been thinking of you. Thank you for this post. It will help us prepare for that day in our lives. I hope it lessens your pain some to write about it. Other grievers have said that time does help take away some of the pain. You have no choice but to keep walking until the pain lessens. May God give you strength and comfort until that happens.
Ericka, I was going to send
Ericka, I was going to send you a Valentine's Day e-card. . .because I was thinking of you. But I didn't because I thought maybe, with luck, you'd forget that day, and I didn't want to be one to remind you. Stupid me. . .how could you forget?
I don't know how to comfort you, Ericka, but I think of you and always send a little mental poof of goodwill your way. Just do your best. . .that is all anyone can do.
I hope the words are part of
I hope the words are part of what help keep you moored, Ericka. First it's hard, then it's harder...yes. Hold on to that string; you're still here.
Hold on to that string,
Hold on to that string, indeed; you're still here, and we're still here, thinking of you, sending you love, hoping we can help you hold on.
Sigh
Dear Ericka,
Such powerful words and such powerful feelings. I know that when my father died, I hated death and the system that has people die and the whole (still ongoing but different) experience of losing someone to death. And yet I understood in some way that my human desire was not the one that should rule the world, that I was connecting to something so grand and terrible and beautiful that I could not understand it; it was outside the reach of my mind and my heart. It still is. Maybe knowing and accepting the gap between human will and the way the actual world works is the closest to faith I will ever come. Keeping writing to us from where you are, between worlds. Write your way back until it is your turn and your time. Let him figure out how to walk beside you where you are. Let us comfort you and thank you and send you such love.
Oh Ericka
Thank you for sharing your experience and your pain. I am sending you love and adding my hand to the string that holds you here.
Hand over hand,
we're pulling you toward us.
Cheryl Snell
www.shivasarms.blogspot.com
Ericka, please know...
you and Annie have been in my thoughts these past weeks, and I'm sending healing thoughts your way.
Hello Ericka.
We're almost lost for words for you.
Our hearts break for you. We hope that whatever you believe, whether you are religious or not, that you find peace.
Wishing you the very best,
Ryoma and Gina
wow.
Ericka,
As a reader, I find this piece beautiful, amazing, and poetic. As a friend, I hate that you have to write it.
Katie Burke
He has" lifted" you higher...
I am so tired. My body refreshes but not my mind. So hard to stay on this planet, so hard to stay on this ground. Hold my foot like a balloon string, please, or I’ll fly away. Who knew gravity didn’t work when your partner’s in a grave. Dear Ericka...It's the beginning when we "are lifted" to our true realities. Gravity "doesn't" have that strong of a hold like before, "because you "are" still walking beside your partner in life", Nothing will ever be the same as before. But in due time , we begin to see clearly the path in front of us. Our loved ones are as close, "If not more now", As their hearts continue to live through ours, nothing will ever keep us down or separate this union. Your heart will lead you through the tears , "of promise." Stay fixed on those little things in front of you. They are the golden keys in getting through the most hardest times in your life, and staying here ( while walking with him). Meanwhile, you are "so" talented to put into the right words for us, and your purpose in life will lead to "new" possibilities. My heart feels every beautiful word you have written here Ericka,... "Still" after 32 years! God Bless! And thank you so much... for "Being You!"
Truly, Catherine
much love
Oh, Ericka! If only you knew how many times I've thought of you, wishing I could squeeze your hand (or hold onto your foot, as you float above the treeline!) and tell you I'm so sorry, and that I love you, and that I'm thinking of you. Multiply that by how many thousands, tens or hundreds of thousands, of thoughts of love that I know have gone up and out to you from those who love you and Bill and Annie, and I know it helps, and I also know that nothing could ever help enough to make it you feel okay again. Please just know that we're loving you through it all.
thank you for writing to us
Ericka--
From other times I know the feeling. You don't want to lose a minute with him, and moments in-between are a strange kind of time out, even when you forget, even when they're fun. To walk with him still feels like the coming home and so it *is* the coming home.
A flu and time away has made it not easy to give you dinners. But soon. And you can call me any time.
Love,
Thaisa
Better
A little sunshine, birdsong, good friends, great therapy. I'm feeling more grounded. Thanks for all your support, people. It's a rollercoaster - I'm just shouting out the occasional update as I ride the bumps.
and i thought Joan Didion..
.. couldn't be matched in her writing about grief.
But you're a poet. "First it’s hard, and then it’s harder. " Five words that call out to the gut.
I'm glad you're surrounded and wish I could be there.
too much love to try to write it.
C