Bleak Midwinter

The grief hit unexpectedly the afternoon of Christmas Eve - hit so hard it left me gasping. It came via, of all things, Facebook. I'd just finished my sermon and was noodling around with Facebook before going to up shower and get reading for the 4pm service. I've just changed to the new profile format and as soon as my homepage came up, there was a picture of Gerry - the picture he used on Facebook - from our 2004 trip to Ireland, sitting on a hillside overlooking the sea in County Clare, with a dandelion tucked behind each year. He looks sweet and silly and just like I that I was overwhelmed with longing for him.

I started to cry, like I haven't wept for weeks, those tears that come out of such a deep place in the heart, that place that's torn and doesn't feel as if it will ever be healed again. Mary heard me - she must have bat ears in our big old house - and came downstairs to be with me and we cried together for awhile, and it seemed to help. I knew grief was dammed up in me somewhere, I'd felt the pressure building, but with so much to do it never had a chance to come out.

But once the dam had broken, I felt like I was drowning. The whole evening felt strange and hard and I realized how much I'd depended on Gerry, for 25 years, to take care of everything on Christmas Eve so that I didn't have to do anything but church. I had never, ever noticed how quietly he'd taken over managing everything - from when we ate dinner, to getting everybody to church, to putting everything out under the tree and in the stockings. Without him, I felt like a spinning top - out of control and helpless - it was a relief to actually get back to church for the late service, because there at least, I knew what my job was.

But tears stood just behind my eyes all through the liturgy. Another new widow embraced me afterwards and we whispered together a moment - and that helped. This kind of bereavement is really like an alternative universe, and no one knows what it's like unless they are in that universe, too. And I think the really, really hard thing to accept, the bitter thing that everyone in that universe tells me, is that you can't ever get out of the universe. You can't ever go back to not knowing what this is like, there's never a moment that it's not part of the air you breathe. This doesn't mean I don't have moments of joy, moments of happiness and pleasure - I do - and I am thankful to God that I seem to be able to have more and more of those moments as the days go by. But I can't ever get back to the old universe - that universe is gone forever.

This morning, it was much better. It felt more like Thanksgiving did - like Gerry was here, just - not here. Like he was still part of things. We had a nice morning together, with blood orange mimosas, beautiful croissants that a parishioner gives me for Christmas every year, good strong coffee and finally presents. When we were all done, Mom turned to me and said quietly that she was proud of me. It's funny how much power that praise has, even at my age.

This is how selfish I am: I would have him back, even that last terrible week when he was so sick and fighting the inevitable so hard. I would have him back, because even beaten down and in pain, Gerry was always utterly and completely himself. He was funny and quick and smart, and he wanted so much to stay with us. He fought for life like a warrior - not because he was afraid to die, but because he loved us so much. If the only thing I can do for him now is be the best daughter and mother I can be, then I'll try my hardest.