When someone you love dies, there is an immediate shock that takes over everything. After the initial shock, a deep sadness took over my entire system, leaving me numb and angry. My heart began to race and I soon got tired, but I could not close my eyes to sleep. I was unable to sleep that first night. I laid awake in bed, staring at her side of the bed, trying to wish her back into existence.
As I lay there in bed, I noticed her pillow becoming brighter and brighter as the room filled with light from the morning sunrise. The night had passed, yet every emotion was still burning the lining of my soul. I wanted to continue staring at her pillow, but I knew that loved ones were on their way. I thought I needed to prepare myself for grieving in front of people, yet I couldn’t even tell that I was still in shock. So I put my best smile on for everyone and did the best I could.
Within twelve hours of her passing, our friends and family came to our aid. I was still telling everyone I was okay, with a smile on my face and eyes that were obviously red from lack of sleep and crying. I was able to tell the story of what happened and how it was affecting me while deflecting as much as I could to deal with later. there has been plenty to deal with later. But the communication with my friends and family was very healing. I didn’t realize it at the time, but simply having people around who were willing to listen, cry, hug, sit in silence, or just be there was doing something for me that I couldn’t do for myself yet.
We, as a family, spent the next few weeks in the kitchen. We talked, cried, ate, talked some more, cried some more, and worked through our feelings better than we had in a long time. Friends and family had filled our freezer and refrigerator with food, so we didn’t even have to think about that. Having that comfort was also very healing. There was something strangely comforting about not having to worry about what was for dinner while we were trying to figure out what the hell had just happened to our lives.
For a while, I think I believed that this was what healing looked like. People showed up, we talked about Mel, we cried when we needed to, and eventually the days became a little easier. I thought maybe healing was something that happened gradually, like a wound closing up over time.
I was wrong.
About two months later, as I started to write thank-you notes to everyone, another wave finally hit me. I was thanking people for jumping to our aid so quickly, but writing those notes also forced me to remember what had happened and how many people had been there for us. Feelings that I had pushed aside because there simply hadn’t been time to deal with them started coming back. It felt much like a belly flop to the soul, or like someone had come up behind me and sucker punched me right in the feels.
I managed to get about ten thank-you notes written and mailed before I had to stop. I still have plenty left to write, but I’ve learned that I have to pace myself. What I thought was going to be a simple act of gratitude turned into another part of grieving.
Oddly enough, it also became another part of healing.
Those notes forced me to slow down and think about what people had done for us. They reminded me that while I had lost someone incredibly important, I had not been left alone. There were people who showed up without being asked. People who brought food. People who listened. People who cried with us. People who checked in weeks later when the initial rush of support had started to fade. Some people simply sat there and didn’t try to make anything better because they understood that there wasn’t anything they could fix.
That mattered.
I’ve started to realize that healing isn’t necessarily about feeling better. At least, that’s not how it has worked for me. Sometimes healing has meant allowing myself to feel something that I didn’t have the capacity to feel before. Sometimes it has meant talking about something I’ve been avoiding. Sometimes it has meant writing about it. Sometimes it has meant laughing at a memory of Mel and feeling good about the laugh instead of guilty that I was happy for a moment.
And sometimes healing has meant realizing that I’m not done.
There are still things I haven’t worked through. There are memories that catch me off guard. There are moments when something completely ordinary will remind me that she isn’t here anymore, and for a brief moment I still expect her to be in the other room. I don’t think healing means those moments eventually disappear. Maybe it means they become easier to carry.
Somewhere along the way, something else happened that I didn’t expect. I met someone.
I was not looking for someone to replace Mel, and I don’t think that is even possible. Thirty-one years of marriage, a family, a lifetime of memories, and everything we experienced together cannot simply be replaced by another person. Nor would I want it to be. Melanee is part of who I am, and anyone who becomes part of my future will have to understand that.
What I found instead was a woman who was willing to meet me where I am. She knows that I’m still grieving. She knows there are going to be good days and bad days, and that sometimes a memory will hit me unexpectedly. She isn’t trying to rush me through any of it. Instead, she’s willing to walk alongside me while I figure out what this next part of my life looks like.
We’re taking things slowly, which I think is exactly what I need. There is no need to force a destination onto something that is still growing. What has surprised me most is that she doesn’t seem to see my grief as something she has to compete with or fix. She isn’t healing me. She’s making it possible for me to heal while still being loved.
There is a difference between someone rescuing you from your pain and someone being willing to sit beside you while you work through it yourself. I’m learning to appreciate the difference.
I don’t know exactly where this relationship will lead, and I’m okay with that. For once, I’m not trying to keep all the plates spinning or figure out every possible outcome before taking the next step. I’m simply allowing something good to develop while continuing to do the work of healing myself.
There is still a strange feeling attached to all of this. Part of me sometimes wonders whether being happy again means I’m healing too quickly, or whether enjoying something new somehow takes something away from what Mel and I had. I’ve had to remind myself that happiness isn’t a limited resource. Feeling good today doesn’t erase what hurt yesterday, and loving someone new doesn’t reduce the love I had for someone who is gone.
The conversations I’ve had with my family, my friends, and with myself have helped me understand that grief isn’t something I can simply think my way out of. I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to solve problems, and I think part of me initially approached grief the same way. Identify the problem, understand the problem, find a solution, and move on.
It doesn’t work that way.
There isn’t a solution to losing someone you love. There is only learning how to live with the space they left behind.
Writing these posts has become part of that process for me. Every time I sit down and try to put an experience into words, I discover something I didn’t realize I was thinking about. Sometimes I start writing about one thing and end up somewhere completely different. The words don’t necessarily fix anything, but they give the feelings somewhere to go.
Maybe that’s what healing is for me right now.
Not forgetting. Not moving on. Not pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. It’s learning how to carry what happened without allowing it to prevent me from living.
I don’t know how long that process will take, and I’m beginning to understand that I don’t really need to know. Some things probably aren’t meant to be rushed. There are still thank-you notes sitting on my desk, still memories that need to be remembered, still conversations that need to happen, and still parts of myself that I’m getting to know again.
But now there is something else, too. There is someone willing to walk beside me while I figure some of this out. She isn’t asking me to forget where I’ve been or who I’ve loved. She’s simply willing to see where I go from here.
I’m healing. I’m still becoming. And I’m beginning to understand that neither of those things has an expiration date.
I’m just not finished yet.