The uses people make of an expression of condolences can be just fascinating, I'm discovering. Two stand out so far: the "we're going to donate to a cause we like, whether it has anything to do with Jerry or not, rather than inquiring as to what he would perhaps have wanted" approach. And the "as you know, we don't really like you, and we want you to remember that, so we're sending you a card, but we're not going to mention you by name anywhere on the envelope or in the card" approach.
Fascinating. I wish Jerry were here - I'm sure he'd have some choice words about it. Although, knowing Jerry, he might look for the good in it, try to see things from their point of view, think about their motivations. Or he'd just find it laughable. My zen husband.
Went to bed at 1 a.m. - for some reason I'm afraid to go to sleep. It's not that I've had bad dreams (yet?) - I don't remember what I've been dreaming. And it's not that I'm not tired. I just don't want to go to bed. But anyway, I lay there at 1 a.m. and began to think about some particularly horrific physical ordeals Jerry went through in these last weeks, and how helpless I was to protect him from them, and found myself crying uncontrollably for a while. Then this morning Erin had posted an album on Facebook of old photos, marking Father's Day, and that set me off again (although I didn't know that particular Jerry myself, having only met him 12 years ago - and my goodness, if I thought he was skinny when I knew him, he was even skinnier when he was younger!). Small breaks through the numbness. Painful.
As I read your posts, I keep finding myself thinking of your grief as existing in a set amount, and each tear represents movement toward the time when it will be exhausted. Like when a recipe tells you to add sugar gradually.
ReplyDeleteBut of course it's not at all like that. Not measurable or even finite. I do hope though that the numbness with occasional cracks is leaving you protected a bit, giving you the space to experience it at your own pace.