Dreams

It’s the dreams that kill me. I can manage the days so well, in complete control of my environment and my thoughts and then the night comes. My mind is no longer being directed by my consciousness and it ransacks my memories and creates illusions that, although pleasant at the time, remind me of the loss and loneliness. I am startled awake by the chimes of my alarm clock; and I have to take a moment to remember where I am, why I set my alarm, and what day it is. As consciousness awakens to reality, I remember that the security and comfort I was enveloped in only a few moments before as I wandered through the dream state is not real. That is not my reality anymore. Instead I am left with a longing—an aching really—for the only man whom I have ever loved.

Grief is a process and unfortunately, there is not a manual that can adequately guide anyone through it. It is not a “one size fits all” item. It cannot be analyzed, categorized, and placed neatly on a bookshelf ready to be perused at leisure. It is as unique as the individual who experiences it. There are no words which can minimize the effect, although people try in vain to do so. And unless you have been thrown into the gloomy, desolate pit that grief creates and have had to fight for every breath, you cannot fully comprehend or appreciate just how debilitating grief can be. The only glimmer of hope I have had through the whole process has been found in my faith. Although I have been absolutely crushed under the weight of despair, I have felt a peace that can only be explained through the existence of an omnipotent God. However, even faith cannot shelter one from the anguish of loss and horrific trauma. It merely keeps one moving in the face of an overwhelming desire to quit. Faith helps keep the process of healing moving forward.

I am hopeful that someday the dreams in which Woody is alive and well and doing life with me will be as pleasant visitations rather than sorrowful reminders. I am hopeful, too, that I will continue to find joy in the moment. On the tenth it will be one year and six months since that fateful day. Although I am still damaged, progress is being made. I need only look back through my blog posts to see that. I am moving in the right direction. There will just be days when it feels as if I am going nowhere, and today is one of those days because of a dream. But someday not even the dreams will slow me down. I’m just not there yet.

Survivor's Guilt?

“Who would like to go?” was the question that accompanied a dear friend's post on Facebook. She had attached a link with information about the “Taste of Georgia.” Impulsively I responded that I would love to go, and then before I could change my mind, I followed the link and purchased a ticket. Later while communicating via text with the same friend, I admitted that this future outing will be the first time that I have socialized with friends sans children since Woody died.

I am conflicted in my emotions. Part of me is excited at the prospect of grown-up interaction in a relaxed atmosphere with people I thoroughly enjoy; yet the other half of me feels guilty—guilty for allowing myself to live and laugh without Woody. It has been over a year, yet I still feel as if I will wake up one morning and find him lying next to me in bed with a mischievous grin on his face and explain how it was all a horrible hoax. I still struggle at the thought of allowing myself to engage in life, enjoy new experiences, and make new friends without him. I still miss him with every fiber of my being. Sometimes the feelings of loneliness and loss overwhelm me, until the pain is a physical ache deep within my chest. However, at the same time laughter comes quickly. Smiles grace my lips; and with every bit of joy I experience there is also a twinge of guilt for allowing myself to be happy.

Perhaps this too shall pass. I really don’t know. What I do know is that God has carried me through the worst season of my life, and He will somehow assist me as I navigate through this next phase of grief.

From "We" to "Me"

Today is a struggle. While out for my morning run, my mind drifted to us. I thought of how we had celebrated when the year 2014 was over. It had been a year of personal and professional challenges. You had lost your job of fifteen years with a company and people you loved. It took eight long, stressful months before you found a new position which offered the opportunity for a new career. We celebrated all that 2015 would bring, knowing that it would be a year of promise and peace.

Working in Raleigh was tough. You, a family man to the core, had to be away from home five to six nights every week. Yet, we tried to make the most of every minute we had together. The best weeks were the ones when the kids and I joined you in North Carolina. We explored the area we knew was to be our new home. We tried different restaurants and boutiques. We laughed. We were building the foundation for a new life in a new city. We were excited to join you full time. We researched the different suburbs until we settled on Chapel Hill. We had it all planned out. We were once again developing dreams of a new future, one that would see the kids moving out and into lives of their own. We thought of future marriages and grandchildren. We were excited to grow old together. And everything was centered on “we”.

There is no “we” anymore. It hit me like a brick smashing into my thoughts and fragmenting every hope I had for the future. How do I do this without you? How can I grow old when it will no longer be “we”? I can barely even get out of bed in the morning; so how do I walk into the future without the love of my life standing beside me, affectionately holding my hand? We were one, and now half of me has died. I left my sarcastic, jovial, gregarious half on the summit of Mt. Yonah. I am truly feeling lost without you. How is it possible that on one fateful day life was drastically altered and went from "we" to "me'?

I love you, Woody. Death cannot defeat love, nor can it steal the lifetime of memories you gave. I will, with God’s loving assistance, walk through this valley until I am once again standing in the light.  I know that eventually I will grow accustomed to the loneliness of “me,” but even then I will always miss the fulfillment of  “we.”