This is the first post after losing Trisha. Seeing those words still causes that now-familiar sting in the eyes and knot in my stomach. Three weeks on, I still don’t know whether and how much I should tell people. Do I get my disclosure in first, just ‘out with it’? Or should I keep quiet and wait for people to ask why I’ve a face like The World’s Most Slapped Arse Ever™? Do I wear my grief on my sleeve or not?
Is there such a thing as ‘good’ grief? I mean, is there a ‘proper’ way to grieve? I have no idea. Logic tells me there is no proper way to grieve, only a personal way that’s peculiar to each individual going through the process. (Is it just me or does ‘process’ seem like a very unseemly word to describe the sequence of emotions and experiences felt by the bereaved? It’s something that’s too human to have such a logic-driven, robotic word attached to it. Just thinking aloud.) So, why am I thrashing about, trying to figure it all out?
I’ve started to search out all things grief-related. Books, films, TV programmes, newspaper articles, websites, people on social media in similar circumstances….right now, I’d take runes and tea-leaf readings if I felt they’d help me find my way (I don’t, but as I get more desperate, watch this space). I’ve become a grief addict. Hell, I’m even watching Sleepless in Seattle as I write this. I daresay I’m looking for answers. The only answer I have for any aspect of life right now is “I don’t know”.
I don’t know where I want to live – as we live (live…lived, whatever…) in a rented bungalow specially adapted for people with disabilities; I can’t stay here, someone who’s been on a waiting list for goodness knows how long will need it. I don’t know about Christmas, I don’t know what I want to do in life, I don’t even know who I am (I’m the Bourne Widower!). For sixteen years, I was part of a whole. Now, I’m a part that’s adrift.
I don’t have any answers. I don’t even know what the right questions are.
A Husband For A Carer 