We started to see a grief counselor. When we settled into her office the first time, she opened by stating, “Grief is a marathon. It’s not a sprint. In most cases it’s an ultra-marathon that could last for 30 years. Don’t expect to race through it. You can’t.”

My world is grey. January grey. Winter grey. A foggy artistic black and white photograph. Leafless trees covered in snow fading into a soft mist. I miss John so much it hurts. There is a stone in my stomach. I’m not hungry. I’m disinterested in food. I’m disinterested in anything pleasurable. I want to pour myself a cocktail at three in the afternoon, knowing that it will dull my pain. I want to be alone. The tears flow freely and frequently. I self-diagnose my condition. I am depressed. My marathon route is currently coursing up a very steep hill, or a cold dark forest, or both.

Joan Didion said it beautifully and succinctly:
“A single person is missing for you and the whole world is empty”

Friends are worried. There is visible relief on their faces when I say, “We are seeing a grief counselor.” They want me to be fixed. They don’t want to me to be depressed, to hurt.

“What will cheer you up?” I’m asked.

Time. Time will fix it.

I intellectualize that the marathon route is particularly challenging right now. I have to keep jogging down the trail to get to the next section. The part where the view gets better and I can look back and see how far I’ve come.

I want to get over this, through this. I want to be freed from the weight of the grief. I want to be able to experience the remainder of my life without the burden of John’s loss. I want joy more than sorrow. I want John back.

I’m drawn to his music. Some songs remind me of a time he acted as DJ. “Mom, listen to this one! This is a great one!” Every note, each harmony are laced with intense emotion. Some have such poignant lyrics or melodies that I have no choice but to weep.

I look at photos of him. The recent ones particularly catch my attention. I find myself scrolling into him, to his arm. I reach out to touch him and can almost feel his skin. His arm, his shoulders were the last physical contact I had with him. The most recently familiar. Long ago, kisses and snuggles on my lap gave way to hair tussles, punches on the arm, and an occasional gratuitous hug. But in recent years, I still got his arm. A soft touch to his forearm over a sentimental conversation at the dinner table. A gentle pat to his shoulder to add comfort and meaning to my thoughts. Still almost hairless. Youthful beauty so soft to the touch, yet strong. Dense muscles ripple under the surface. The loss is incomprehensible, still unbelievable.

The imagining of my loss is so different from the reality of it. Unexpected is normal. Normal is gone forever. A piece of the chess game that is our family has gone missing and we can’t play the game the same way anymore.
Addendum: This was written in periods over the last two months. I appreciate that I have been able to sit with my depression, feel it, reflect on it, chronicle it. Allowing myself to wallow in my sorrow and respect the grieving process has helped. To those who read this now and worry about me, don’t. Because of this processing and writing, I’m coming out of it. I’m going to be OK. I thank you for your support as we travel life’s journey.