I read an article in an online magazine a couple of weeks prior to Handsome Husband’s death that gave me a different perspective on grief, on falling apart, on standing back up, on how one stands back up. It recognized and gave permission and very strongly acknowledged the power in being a sobbing mess on the floor, curled into a fetal position, all power seemingly lost.
Those nights, those times, of being a mess on the floor, continue to happen to me. Out of the blue, pretty much, though I can say honestly that my body is constantly aware of where it is, so to speak, and communicates the information to my mind. Sometimes my response to the information is to get busier than I might have already been-take it up a notch, so to speak. And sometimes that works. But then, well, it doesn’t.
The sobs rip through me, seeming to rise up from my toes and the soles of my feet and throughout my body, which shakes as if said body is the epicenter of an earthquake.
Which is all, I suppose, a fairly accurate analysis of my life, without Handsome Husband. An earthquake did happen. One of those quakes that would go off-scale of the Richter scale. A quake such as happened to me and our kids cannot be measured on a scale. Anyone who has gone through the death of a loved one knows that such a thing cannot be weighed or measured or contained.
On April 21, 2013 a major quake struck our family structure. There has been damage and fallout. Around us lie the ruins of what our lives were. Inside me (I’ll speak for myself) are ruins that are more than what can possibly be visible to the eye. Those lines that veer wildly up and down on a Richter scale are still veering wildly up and down inside of me. The inside of me is what a city might look like after a massive quake. The aftershocks continue, with tears, with agonizing recognition that he’s gone. Buildings, or the equivalent of, lie in sharp, damaging, ruins throughout my body. The adrenalin is running at high-speed, keeping me going while exhausting me.
Yes, I’ve spoken to my doctor about medications. Not because I think they’re necessary but just so that I can say, yes, I spoke to a doctor. And my doctor said what I hoped a good doctor would say. This is normal. This is grief. Any medication would only mask what is there and when the medication is stopped the grief will still be there.
Happily Homeless, since we started it, has always been upbeat, exciting, adventurous. I enjoyed writing about our travels, about what we were doing, about our marriage gaining strength, about loving each other even more. Now? Yes, it’s still about travel, but of a very different kind. So many of you would say to us over the years that you were living vicariously through us, because you probably wouldn’t get the chance to do what we were doing. Well, here it is. Finally, a journey that each and every one of you will experience at some point. Or, if you don’t, then someone you love will, if you die first. It isn’t fun or comfortable, or pretty or exciting. In fact, it’s the anti of all of those words. But it is real and I suppose many of you are experiencing it vicariously through me. For those of you who knew Handsome Husband, it hits close to home, I know. Many of you are grieving with us, his family. Many of you who didn’t know him at all, or know me and him only through my blog, are grieving. It’s what happens.
I’m glad you’re traveling with me. We’ll find the rest stops when we need to, we’ll keep each other company along the way, we’ll story tell when we wish, and we’ll be silent when we need that.
Come with me. If you dare.