Same Place, Different Grief

3 years ago I arrived at a conference with my heart pounding. I was about to see people who knew me and Greg and who I hadn’t seen since he was alive. I dreaded those first conversations and wondered what they would say. Would they address his death- the proverbial elephant in the room? Would they be afraid to say Greg’s name? Would they ignore me, or I them- too unsure of how to interact to even try?

It was a hard and heavy week. Covid-19 was discussed and painful memories flooded back. dramaticized scenes with ambulances taking sick people to the hospital were played and I had a panic attack in a crowded theater. I made it out by the skin of my teeth. I was proud and oh so relieved when we boarded the plane to go home. I’d made it through, but grief nearly took me out along the way. 

This time was different. I’ve seen those people who knew Greg many times since the conference and met many others. I’ve navigated how to bring up Greg without making people uncomfortable and how to change the subject when strangers start to pry. this time I came in with the confidence of someone who has learned to stand alone, enter rooms alone and face years of firsts, all alone. 

But I still walked in with grief.

I missed Greg when my flight was delayed… and canceled… and delayed again. I wished we could take turns keeping morale up instead of having to do it by myself.

I felt pangs of loneliness when couples gathered with other couples for meals or sat beside me holding hands with the comfort of having done so 1000s of times. 

I was excited to see the Blue Angles fly overhead, knowing how much Greg would love the thunderous roar that nearly shook the building and our chests. I smiled at the pleasure of my son when people commented that he looks just like his dad (with a little of me mixed in too) and wished his dad could see him now.

Grief used to feel like a tidal wave that swept in causing destruction and disarray on every nook and cranny of life. It was unpredictable, terrifying and overwhelming. It’s pain was constant.

Now it’s like the shallow end of the ocean that I stand in. Sometimes it surfaces treasures long forgotten. It can be warm and gentle or frigid and shocking. At times a big wave unexpectedly comes and I must steady myself, widen my stance and brace for impact. It won’t drown me, but occasionally I get knocked down and stand up with new scrapes and bruises.

Grief, like an ocean, changes over time.