Another Friday

A friend of mine recently commiserated with me about how those of us who grieve encounter periods of time like the one I am currently in when the occasions to be sad and melancholy seem to multiply.  First there was Mother's Day, then my Birthday, then our wedding anniversary, and Sunday, June 12 will mark seven months since Gwen died. 

And then, of course, it's another Friday, bringing with it those complicated feelings of sadness as I recall Gwen's death on a Friday night along with sweet, loving memories of all those Friday night reunions with my perfect partner.  It was that way too when I played golf with a friend this morning; I so wanted Gwen to be there with me, yet find something like satisfaction in what feels like an almost forbidden longing for joyous times that are no more.  That probably doesn't make sense to anyone but me.

Today I came across a video of a camping trip we took with our friends the Gerichs twenty years ago.  We pitched our tents on a bluff overlooking Lake Arbutus No. 4  in northwestern Lower Michigan, and had the time of our lives.  I am always hesitant about reliving those old memories, but in this case I was so glad I did.  Seeing Gwen full of life, happy and clowning around once again validated the miracle of our love.  And, just hearing her voice. . .O. K., so I cried a little too. 

Tomorrow I have an all-day training session for my work as a volunteer at UM football games this fall.  Then, in the evening I get to attend Brooke's dance recital.  Should be a good day.   Then comes Sunday, the 12th. . .  We are expecting a full choir at the noon Mass, so that promises to  be joyful.

I miss you a lot tonight, Dear, and, you know what, tonight I'm missing your mom; I made one of her favorite meals, perogies and ham.  Wasn't much fun eating it without you here to enjoy it with me. 

Gone

I need to add something and re-post this.  Yesterday was another first for me; I went to the movies, by myself, at the theater where Gwen and I always went.  I thought about calling a friend, but this was something I had to do by myself.  It was difficult at first.  I went into the theater and sat in one of the seats where she and I used to sit, the ones for people in wheelchairs and the like.  Just before the movie began, a young woman pushing her mother in a wheelchair came in.  I offered them my seat.  It felt really good doing that.  It used to irk us when non-handicapped people sat in those seats.  The movie I saw was Black Swan, I cried at the end.  I would have so enjoyed seeing that movie with Gwen.

My friend, Dave, sent me this poem.  What can I say?  It says it all:

Gone

by Ronald Wallace

The sorrow one feels after the loss
of a father, a daughter, a wife, is so
intense it takes up residence in
the soul's house, shares its pain
with a dailiness that can seem un-
bearable as you go through the mundane
acts that keep you human,
the little rituals that keep complete

numbness at bay. God knows
you wish you hadn't had to
take in this unwelcome boarder,
wish you could send him away
and gain back your composure.
And then, the sorrow goes.

"Gone" by Ronald Wallace, from For a Limited Time Only. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 2008. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Those of us who mourn the loss of a great love, do not easily take in that unwelcome boarder.  If we hadn't loved so well when you were here, then I wouldn't miss you so much now.  Sounds simple, doesn't it?  We know better, don't we, dear.