There are no words.

About ten years ago, I wrote this post: http://wanderingwag.blogspot.com/2009/01/coping-with-loss.html

Life has a way of slapping us around from time to time. Just when you think you understand a thing, life happens to you and you realize that you were naive at best. A fool, perhaps. Likely, a little of both.

When I was a kid, my father told me that the word "humble" means "teachable." I kinda like that. Somehow, just when I think I'm pretty smart or that I'm pretty good at something, I get a quick kick in the teeth that reminds me to calm down and focus on what I can learn from a given situation.

So, I write this post, far later than I should. You'll see why in a bit.

On August 8, 2016, my beautiful wife of 27 years passed away. She had suffered with illness for 31 years. Far too long. She died too young. But during her abbreviated life, she lived a lifetime that dreams are made of.

She and I were always well aware that she was very likely to pass away from her illnesses too early. When we married, we had the idea that we would be fortunate to have five years together. The fact that we got 27 years was nothing short of miraculous but I credit it to her outlook on life and her positive attitude about everything that happened to her.

We had what I like to call a fairy tale marriage. It was probably because of her more than me. Make no mistake, we had our ups and downs. I've written here on this blog about relationships and the bottom line is, sometimes, you have to learn from your mistakes and move forward. We definitely did that. The longer we were married, the more we realized that some of the crap we were allowing to compromise our relationship simply wasn't worth all the worry and concern. Or anger and fear. The longer we were married, the better we got at, well, at being married. Practice makes perfect, eh? Frankly, I think we finally figured it out about eight years into it and from there, we were good to go, more or less. As I said, it was a fairy tale marriage.

We were soul mates. We were better together than we were apart. Our lives worked better because we were together and we both knew it. First, we were friends. Not only that, we were best friends. She was my favorite friend and I loved being with her. I know from reading her diary that she loved to be with me. It was natural for us to want to be together and we got married, knowing that we couldn't really be apart. About two years in, we nearly allowed ourselves to be torn apart but we were able to move past it, learn from it and have a wonderful life together.

But what does that mean, "soul mates?" Words can't describe it, really. You don't always realize it right away. Or one of you does and the other takes a bit longer to figure it out. I think she always knew but it took me longer to realize it. That is to say that I finally had the epiphany that let me know that there was no way I could live without her close to me, within touching distance. Kissing distance, really! For the most part, there were very few times when we were physically apart for one kind of trip or another and our reunions were, shall we say, dramatic?!

With all of that preface, which is, in and of itself, somewhat less than sufficient, I have to say that when she passed away, it was indescribably tragic to me. If you read the link to my other writing from ten years ago, you'll see that back then, I thought I knew what it was like to lose a loved one. In truth, I did know. But in the months leading up to my beloved's passing, we talked at great length about her coming death. It's not a happy subject. Not a pleasant conversation. It includes a lot of tears and a lot of time spent resolving a few left over issues. Fortunately, we had some laughs, too! As a result of those conversations, though, she and I both really and truly believed I was ready to handle the coming tragedy.

We were truly naive.

There is something far more disastrous when losing your soul mate than when losing even the closest of your loved ones, a true friend or family member. Because of our prior experiences and the tragedies we had experienced, we really thought we had covered all the bases but we had really failed. I wasn't nearly as ready as we had both thought I was.

There's a reason for that. Assuming that I'm truly tuned in to the truth and the reality of it, I'll humbly submit what I believe to be right and recognize that more may be learned going forward.

The reason you can never be ready for it is that there are no words to describe the depth and breadth of the tragedy to another person. Even having experienced it myself, having had it tear me apart and make me feel that I was about to be crushed with more emotional blackness than life had ever pushed upon me before, I still can't put any of it into words.

Because there aren't any. No words. I can write and have written about this at length but I can't put this experience into words that will convey it clearly to you, dear reader. I've never said anything about it that adequately conveys it all to anyone in a conversation. Words simply don't exist. Add to that the fact that everyone experiences it differently and it's even easier to understand why nobody can prepare and be ready for such a death.

That's why we were naive to think I was ready. All of our conversations were moot. All of our experiences with the passing of other loved ones in our lives was irrelevant. All of the times we spoke to others who had suffered such losses were not nearly as meaningful before her passing as they were afterward. Nobody else had ever had any more success describing this to us than I have had describing it to anyone else. Just because there are no words available to do so.

The pain of her passing was physical. At one point, I could feel that my heart was physically being crushed. I nearly drove to the emergency room because I could feel symptoms of a coming heart attack. At that point, though, I didn't truly want to live so I ignored it. It took a day or so but it passed, more or less.

I felt like my soul had been ripped in two. I still feel that way. I'm not what I was when I was with her. With her by my side, I was able to get a lot of things done, to accomplish so much that I haven't been able to do since she passed.

So, what has helped since she died? Friends who listen to me talk about her. I love talking about her, more than anything. The friends who don't offer me any advice, who just let me ramble on about her are the ones who did the most good for me. I still love talking about her. The more casual aquaintences I have had get very uncomfortable and start to squirm and try to change the subject. Those people have since moved themselves out of my life, more or less. And I don't get to talk about her much any more.

As an aside, the only really offensive things that happened were when people tried to impose their beliefs on me. I don't believe in an afterlife but you'd be amazed at how many people insisted on trying to say that she was "on the other side" keeping an eye on me. Rest assured, if I believed that she was out there, I would also believe that she is hurting just as much as I am and I would put the gun to my head in an instant in order to be with her. So no, telling me about some imaginary afterlife is not useful. Just shut up and listen.

That's the real lesson here. Just listen. It's something I need to put into practice. Best to just listen. Maybe even encourage the conversation and ask to hear about their loved one. Ask for as story and then sit back and hear it.

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She was my world. She was my life. My angel, my inspiration to be everything. She made me want to be a better human being and because of her, I was better than I would have been without her. She told me over and over again that it was the same for her, that I made her better and want to be better. We held each other to a higher standard and together we reached greater heights and did better. So much better.

And without her, I feel lost, incomplete and without any real reason for anything. Before she passed away, she told me to find someone else to be with and to do so "right away." I'm not sure if she had a time frame in mind for "right away" but it's been nearly three years now and I don't think I'm ready to get into another relationship. Sometimes, I feel like I could but more often than not, I'd just rather continue with my memories of her and what we had.

On a couple of occasions, friends have tried to set me up with their single friends but I can't see anything of my beloved in them and my interest fades, very quickly. Was she perfect? No. Was she everything I wanted? Absolutely. And no, I'm not trying to say that nobody else is good enough or that I'm trying to find someone who is an exact replica of who she was. I believe I'm just saying that I don't know if I can deal with trying to rebuild another relationship.

After nearly three years my heart is still broken. My soul is not healed and I sill hurt. A lot. Mostly, I've just gotten used to it. I'm more able to move around at this point but I feel like I'll never again be what I was with her.

--Wag--

Grandma and Grandpa

Wrote this on another forum today:

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My first year of college my grandparents graciously allowed me to live with them rent free. I was their oldest grandchild and they were still fairly young. Also, they were probably a little over optimistic about what it takes to have a stranger in their house but I digress.

They had been married about 40 years at the time. Just guessing. They seemed to have a pretty tenuous relationship but they also seemed to love each other. I can't tell you how many times Grandma would trot out some offense that Grandpa had committed 30 years ago and start flogging him yet again. He didn't remember it but he just assumed that her memory of it was accurate. Probably very wise of him. More than once, he told me, "I sure don't recall any of that." And shake his head.

Grandpa used to grow stuff. By that I mean he had a garden that was worthy of the most spectacular write up in any gardening magazine. It never happened but I was endlessly amazed by a year of the best produce the good earth could provide. And given the somewhat small space he had available (3/4 acre, I believe), the quantities of that produce were nothing short of amazing. Far too much for the three of us to consume. Grandma made the best meals with it, too.

Every morning, for most of the year, even during the mild winters of Southern Arizona, Grandpa would bring in an armload of produce and leave it in the sink for Grandma to deal with. She complained about it every time. Grandma wasn't given to profanity but you could see it on her face. Seemingly grudgingly, she would put up the bulk of it and she would use it as much as possible. Much of it she put up for the freezer. She canned a LOT of it. (THAT is a ton of work!) Anything she couldn't use right away went to the neighbors who were always endlessly appreciative.

Over the year I spent with them, it was clear that they loved each other in their own way. I only saw them kiss a very few times and they weren't given to PDA's, even in front of me.

They stuck together through thick and thin. They were both depression era kids and married very soon after the worst of the depression. They were committed to each other, to their kids and to their religion. Well, Grandma was committed to their religion. Grandpa was an highly educated man and had an extensive background in philosophy and literature. I recall that he said quite a few things that make me question the depth of his belief. You could never really tell from the outside, though, except that he did all the right things that the church required of him. Somehow, I think he just didn't want to give Grandma any more ammo.

When Grandma died, Grandpa took it really hard. He lived about 10 more months and then his heart just finally decided it couldn't take life without his beloved any more. About a week before he passed, my wife and I were visiting him and he wasn't his usual conversational self. He had always had things to say which were always well thought out and very well-spoken, being the wordsmith that he was. But that day, he was just quiet and reflective. Then I said something about Grandma and his eyes lit up and for about two hours, he talked about her in the way he always spoke about anything he loved. He was genuinely happy to be thinking of her.

After a while, he ran out of steam as his illnesses began to sap his strength and he got quiet and reflective again. I told him, "You want to be with her, don't you?"

He replied, almost in a whisper, "Yes. Always."

I said, "Then you have everyone's permission to go to her."

He didn't say much more than that. The three of us made our farewells and we went home.

About a week later, he gathered his kids together, my father and my three aunts and uncles and he said goodbye to them. I don't remember now if he passed away in their presence but it was only a day later that he finally gave up the ghost, as they say.

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So, I went on much longer than I intended as I began to reminisce about them. There's so much more that could be said, of course. Somehow, it made me cry and I'm 53 years old. But I miss them both. I have nothing but fond memories of them.

--Wag--