Four years ago, my wife of 32 years died after battling end-stage kidney disease. Her courage and determination never wavered, and she fought until her last breath. In a few days, we would have celebrated our thirty-second wedding anniversary. Usually, we would travel to Rhode Island and spend a few days by the ocean and enjoy wonderful dinners and quiet time away from everyone and everything that makes life difficult at times. All that changed four years ago as she went home to her eternal reward.
After the first year, I decided to cook one of her favorite meals; surf and turf. Given my limited culinary skills, I cooked some large shrimp, grilled a filet mignon, and added a nice bottle of red wine. I was trying to capture a taste of the past and holding on to something that brought me comfort and solace. I remember shedding many tears that night, and the food, although good, did not have the savor I sought. I repeated it the second year, and again, it fell short of what I was looking for.
In my third year, I began to realize that I could not replace what I had. I could not go back to a time that was filled with joy and fun and somehow capture what I had. Unfortunately, I was trying to relive a memory that now has taken on a new meaning. The memory is just that—a memory—something that was so wonderful and rich and rewarding, but like the passage of time, it is no longer something I can have again.
In my third and fourth years, I realized that I needed to find new ways to enrich what I loved. My wife was my world, and for a long time, I felt so alone and broken and hurt that I did not think I could ever heal. Sure, I stood tall for my children and grandchildren, but when I was alone, I felt the pain and sadness overwhelm me. It took time for me to realize it’s ok that I am not ok. As Megan Devine, the author of Its OK Not to Be OK, said, “We need a new way to understand and experience grief. My grief is different from your grief, and it is not a problem to be solved. Rather, it is something to be embraced and reflected on and worked through; I can’t correct it and make it. Grief is not a problem to be fixed, nor is it something I can make better. What I can do is accept it in my life as something that I journey with. It does not mean I don’t leave the couch, stay tuned to cable TV, and lament that I will never get better.
To our brothers who are in those early horrible, ‘this sucks” stages of grief, I can tell you that it will get better. I would be dishonest if I did not tell you it is something you must work through with the support of friends, a therapist, or people in a support group who understand you.
Someone said you don’t understand grief until you are in it. I remember walking into the funeral home and seeing my wife’s name on the chapel door. I remember approaching her casket and seeing her body. I remember at the crematory, the funeral director telling me that in a few days, I could pick up my wife’s remains. Those images told me what grief was and that I was right in the middle of it. I was, at times, crippled by my grief. Yet, with help from my brothers in this group, Herb Knoll, my support group, and my grief counselor, I found a path and a new way to deal with grief.
As I approach this fourth anniversary of our wedding without my bride, I think of the ceremony officiated by our minister in our backyard on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I think of the family and friends who shared in our celebration. I think of the delicious food, music, dancing and singing, and the laughs and fun we had on that great day. It is forever etched in my mind. That’s when I remember the great philosopher Dr. Suess, who wrote, “Don’t cry because it is over; smile because it occurred.
