It’s the stickiness of grief that I wasn’t prepared for. The shock of it, sure. Where the grief hits you in the guts like a runaway train, leaving you winded and gasping for air. But just like a runaway train eventually comes to a halt, the initial wave of grief also inevitably subsides.
What I wasn’t prepared for was the stickiness left in its wake.
While most days I’m able to stand upright, get dressed, care for my children and go about my day as if it were the same as any other—sometimes the stickiness of my grief bubbles up and roots my feet to the floor. It feels like my veins are filled with concrete, my eyes are gritty and ready to overflow at any moment, my throat constricted with fear. My stomach churns with despair. And what’s most unsettling, is that this grip of grief can appear without warning—tripping me up while I’m washing the dishes, driving the car or laying in bed at 2am, sobbing at the ceiling.
For the most part, I’ve tried to surrender to the unpredictability of grief. I ride its waves, knowing that just as quickly as it rises, the anguish it brings will fall again.
But that’s not to say that the timing of grief doesn’t still feel unjust. It can be cruel as it brandishes its pain. And the wounds it leaves behind are becoming more difficult to stitch up each time. The stickiness oozes and crusts and I pick at it—wanting to smooth away its edges, desperately searching for a moment of reprieve. But it never comes.
It’s always there. Humming like honey in the background. Sticky. Steadfast. Broken and bare.
This is a phenomenal read. You have the ability to put into words the closest thing I am experiencing as grief -the most recent being the loss of my 13-year-old bichon Shih Tzu
but there’s so many things that affect how we feel about all the losses
Losing the person I used to be. Losing a friend you thought you’d have forever. Losing your children to the pressures of the world, they live in. Losing your grandchildren to schedules that are way too busy even for them
losing your youth and strength and motivation to do what you’ve always done and the list goes on.
This morning we lifted our 70 pound retriever into the bathtub and gave him a shower. He loved it. It seemed like a small gesture to help ease our suffering in someway but in that moment, his eyes lit up with joy and his tail wagged and grief didn’t seem to feel so sticky.
Achingly beautiful words. Love to you xxx