Grief Again

A few days ago when I announced to people that four months had passed since my beloved died, the universal reaction was to say how quickly that time had passed.

Not for me.

The time has dragged on, with little hope.

People very kindly phone me or email me to find out how I'm going. There's no easy answer. How I'm going changes day by day, sometimes hour by hour.

I've read more than once that people describe grief as being like ocean waves. At first the waves come frequently, washing over me as I splutter and struggle for air, and just as I take a breath, another large wave pummels me. Eventually, the waves become less intense and further apart, but they keep coming, on anniversaries, birthdays and other significant events, and sometimes just randomly.

To some extent, this allegory applies. Sometimes I can see the wave coming, prepare for it, and still be pummelled and struggle for breath. Other times, the wave comes from behind and I don't even see it coming.

But the allegory that more accurately describes my grief was one that I wrote about fifteen years ago when I lost Julie, and it still applies for me today.

For me, grief is like having a stomach ache.

Most of the time I can get on with what I have to do, but the ache in my stomach is always there in the background, I am always aware of its presence, even though externally I'm looking okay.

At other times, the ache in my stomach is so severe, it's all-consuming - it's all I can think about, and I can't cope with normal life - it just hurts so much.

At no time does the stomach ache ever completely go away.

I want to make it clear that I don't actually have a stomach-ache; it's just an allegory.

But that is how grief feels for me.