I remember my high school English teacher introduced me to the idea that in the end we are alone … together. Strange concept to consider in 16. The title of my blog, my ministry so to speak, is false. We all cry alone … we do. Hopefully, we are in the presence of others, but when it comes down to it, our pain is ours and we own our pain.
I am a happily married woman. Widowed for 5 and a half years. I write and talk about pain. I train widows on how to handle grief. I know my stuff. I know the riff of the widow. First question, “How long does this pain last?” Simplistic answer, “until I’m done.” I will feel like this forever, “no, it comes and goes, first of all is the hardest, it comes in waves” blah blah blah. How can I make the pain go away, “you can’t”? You can try like I did with alcohol, pain relievers, anxiolytics, but damn it didn’t go away. It just came back in spades. And he was still alone. And the pain was still there. And then I had to stop using the substances that the medical profession thought would ease my pain (translate: keep me sleepy, quiet, and appropriate).
We widows secretly hope that one day we will wake up, a bit like sleeping beauty and … no more pain! We put in our grieving work and one day we will go to a funeral or memorial service and watch and participate with a sense of detachment. Yes, we have paid our fair share. We have rearranged our life. We are experts in this matter of pain. We’ve been there, we’ve done it, and we’ve got the jersey to prove it.
I don’t do funerals. I don’t do memorials. No, I just haven’t done it for 5 1/2 years. I find ways to reach out, but avoid getting into the collective grief (euphemistically called celebration of life / memorial service / funeral). The service designed as a beautiful celebration of life. Pictures, slideshows, everything to make this passage easier to take. Easier to absorb. It is not “really” death. They are in a better place. All devices to keep us appropriate and under control. However, collective tension and pain pervades the room. But, like the proverbial elephant in the living room, we collectively pretend that it is “not” there.
I long to live in a culture where we cry in pain. Where we fall to the ground, or to the bench, or to the coffin and give voice to our incredible anguish. We regret our pain. Our old grievance, our current grievance, our anticipated grievance. But no, we are all so fucking appropriate. Yes, we are composed. We smile at each other hard. We avoid tears at all costs. We crush the primitive desire to “let go and let go, so that vice will diminish.” Our culture thrives and abides by these rules. And I also participate in that social farce.
In our culture, the “good sufferer” is one who is strong. The “good widow” is one who is serene, graceful, and elegant. My biggest fear at Rob’s memorial service would be any of us creating a scene (translate by showing and sharing our grief). I encouraged my girls not to show a feeling to the 400 people at Rob’s memorial. The 4 of us don’t shed ONE tear in public. I asked them to think of Jackie Kennedy. I was proud. We were “good”. We were strong. We were … we were … unreal.
Why don’t we wail and cry and cry out our anguish to the heavens? Why didn’t we allow the tears and snot to flow? I mean really flow? Instead, for everyone’s comfort, we remain stylish and the image of grace. We cry alone. We saved the ugly screams, the red noses, the snot rags for a time when no one could see. We were good all American mourners.
This weekend I did. I broke my rule. I went to a memorial service. And now, today, I understand why I am not going to these events. Be more. Today that all too familiar target takes hold of my chest once more. Only this time, it’s not my loss, it’s not my show, it’s not my pain. But the grief of any widow is palpable and universal. The widow’s connection is there … pure and simple. (It’s about widows, we can certainly fill in the blanks with any grieving parent, spouse, friend, but for this … it’s about widows) I attended a memorial service for the first time in five and a half years. It was a beautiful tribute to a man and a family. A family with whom I have a wonderful history. A family that matters a lot to me.
The slideshow was perfectly synced with perfect music. The family was great as always. The speakers shared stories. But as he sat there witnessing the pain, he was not “alone.” I was sitting and spending the weekend with one of my oldest and best friends. He was NOT alone, but he was alone. I was alone together. My friend and I talked for hours and hours, but nevertheless our pain was ours, but we shared the pain together. What a gift!
I looked around at all the beautiful people. None had a red nose, runny tears, or runny nose. Not even a single one. We all use tissues to keep our faces relatively dry. One young man held back tears, another wiped away tears with his suit jacket. We all seemed aware that we should not show others our pain (by that I mean “raw, messy pain”). We were alone together. A strange subtext persisted. A wonderful man has died, but collectively we “stood together” with strong Americans. The vice around my heart clenched.
I looked the widow in the eye and we exchanged a look that I have only shared with other widows … that in the depths of your soul, grabs you by the neck, pain. I have been there. I will walk with her. But, we also maintained our proper demeanor, until I couldn’t take it anymore. My tears wouldn’t stop, but instead of being exposed, I walked out into the rain … thinking, “Isn’t my pain over yet? 5 and a half years is enough. I love my current life, why? I feel like If I could lay down in the cement parking lot and scream or lament? My tears, the “vice” felt primitive and universal. I didn’t want to see the pain of another widow, another widow who must walk down the road … alone, but together.
I returned home. I am alone. I have a lot to do. All I want to do is moan and cry. Only.
I dropped off Wilson at the puppy hotel. I am alone.
I am giving myself the luxury of feeling the feelings. I will be alone and I will cry for my friend, I will cry for myself, I will cry for my friends who have not experienced this yet.
All I want is to be alone with my tears. I want to cry. And I want to cry just … for me … for her … for all of us. And I know I have to cry alone, but in a strange way together.
