Number 189

 Grief, Part 666

How many of you would be surprised to know that I have created a playlist of songs that remind me of my late wife, and that I have imaginatively titled it "Rebecca"? Hmmmmm... Not a lot of raised hands out there. I guess when it comes to her and/or music, I'm a fairly open book. It's intentionally intended to provoke a 'case of the feels.' Not surprising really. What would be the point of such a playlist if it didn't elicit an emotional response? Anyway, I'm listening to it right now. Van Morrison is singing a song. I'll leave it up to you to decide which one - you only have a few hundred to choose from.

I miss her, you know. She's been gone almost six years, and there are still moments of pure grief that can lay me low. Moments when I feel like I'm still in the room, holding her hand while she struggles to take her last breaths. Sometimes these moments will inspire a cathartic, snot-producing cry. Sometimes not. Sometimes missing her will promote a wistful smile as I recall a few of the happy memories.

An emotion that is suspiciously absent when think about Rebecca is anger. In general, when grief and mourning are talked about in clinical, objective ways, it is often mentioned that it is natural for a person to feel anger at the loss of a loved one. Heck, the literature says, the anger can often be directed at the person who has died. Which begs the question (or else, why am I writing this blog entry in the first place), am I angry at Rebecca for dying.

Am I?

I don't think so. Or, if I was, I've forgotten that I was. I've found myself thinking about this a great deal lately. A delta variant of depression has been camped out in my head for the last little while, and has begun to take its toll on my sanity. When that happens, my thoughts often turn to festering thoughts of missing Rebecca.

But am I mad at her for dying? 

I'm mad at a lot of shit that happened in and around the circumstances of her dance with lymphoma. The fucking doctor that refused to take her seriously and delayed an official diagnosis for nine months. I'd spit in that prick's face if I had the opportunity. I'm mad at the fucking disease that cowardly snuck into her body without warning. I'm angry that fate decided our two daughters didn't need their mother anymore.  But mostly I'm tired of feeling overwhelmed by sadness. It mixes with my depression and saps my forward momentum, and that, in clinical terms, sucks.

No, I'm not angry at Rebecca for dying. She made a lot of lists of things that she wanted to accomplish, but I never saw a list that ever had "die unexpectedly," so I don't think it was exactly on her to-do list. I'm fairly certain she would prefer to be here, watching our children turn into the beautiful adults they have become (among many other things). I think she's on my mind, because, at the moment, I need a jolt of her grit and determination to get my ass into gear and begin moving forward again. Here's hoping.

(On the other hand, she did miss the twin disasters of #45 and COVID.)