The loss of an invisible limb

“Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.” — Vicki Harrison

Grief is such a strange thing.

On the one hand, you want people to act normal. To treat you as if everything is fine, to not stare at you as if you're made of glass or if you might shatter. You want some sense of normalcy.

On the other, when you encounter people going about their lives as if nothing has changed, part of you wants to scream. You want to shout it from the rooftops: How? How are you able to go on as normal when nothing will remotely normal again? How are you not impacted by this loss, too? How do you not know this pain?

But, grief is internal. It's not visible like losing a limb, even if you feel part of you is lost. It feels sort of like you've lost a limb. And similarly, you have phantom moments where it feels they're still physically here.

You hear their laugh. You feel their hug.

Logically, you know it isn't true. But internally, you hold on to it, if only for a minute.

Some say they're sending you a message. I don't know if I believe all that. It's just me, coping. But I'm OK with that. I hope some part of my body always remembers the feel of his hand holding mine. Or how safe his hugs felt. How big his laugh was when it was something really funny.

How he knew just how to make me feel special with a look, with a touch.

How I'd catch him looking and my heart would just light up, because I would feel all of his love in that one look.

I've heard it already, that I'll learn to move on or something like that. I'll be honest, some of the platitudes are hard to keep up with. My brain simply doesn't compute some of them. I realize there's a very real possibility that I'll meet another one who makes my heart happy.

Right now, my heart doesn't want to consider anything like that. I never thought I'd meet him. And I find it unlikely that lightening would strike twice.

But more than that, I just don't even want to think about that. It seems so weird to consider. It seems weird to be meant as a comfort. I guess people are just trying to help in whatever way they can.

Mostly, I just smile and nod and say thank you. Because, how do you respond when someone says things like that? It seems crazy to me.

I'm OK if I never do. Because how can I be so selfish as to expect once in a lifetime love twice in one lifetime?

Death is so illogical. None of us can really wrap our brains around it. Yet, it is one of the few universal truths in all of life. Still, even with that, most of us really stink at it. We don't know how to cope, to speak, to be with people in their grief.

Comfort isn't required. Just existing and letting them exist is the best thing. Sometimes, existing is all they can accomplish. Sometimes, existing with them is the only thing you need to do.

I've never been what people would consider normal. I'm not great at reading a room's social cues sometimes. Sometimes, inappropriate things exit my mouth. I'm usually found in the corner, crocheting or giving attention to whatever pet resides in the home. Crowds make me uncertain.

Outside of my brother and my dad, most people would even say I'm rather quiet. It's a thing I've honed over the years, after I realized I talked too much as a kid. I got in trouble a lot in school those early years. 

It's more that I just tend to speak quickly and jump topics, because my brain sort of runs so fast. Sometimes erratically, like a hummingbird, never quite landing. 

That was one of those oddities that my husband found fascinating. I remember talking to him one evening, I don't even remember what I was talking about, and I realized he was staring. I asked him why. He was just amazed at how fast my brain went.

He wasn't being unkind either. He was genuinely just awed.

I used to think it was a bad thing. I always felt like it was annoying or I was too much. Most of the time, I still do. I sort of tamp it down and hide away, as to not let others see that real side of me.

But Jim never made me feel that way. Nine times out of 10, he would literally pause the TV to listen. He said I spoke too softly and he didn't want to miss it. He would give me his attention. No matter how tired he was or how bad the day had been. He always wanted to hear what I had to say.

I was always important to enough to listen to.

Trust me, I know how special that is. I've had 34 years to learn exactly how special it is when someone actually listens.

I've seen the posts around social media about the folks from Yellowstone and how the man always listens to his woman, even when she's being crazy. I never watched the show, it wasn't our cup of tea, but Jim was that guy for me. And I always tried to be that woman for him, the one willing to listen to his worries, his concerns, his stories about his day.

If you have someone to be that person for, don't take it for granted. Listen to their stories, their concerns, their good and bad.

If someone is that person for you, don't take that for granted either. Return the favor.

That's a special bond. Not everyone is so blessed as we were, as you might be.

If you aren't those people, you can always work on it. We certainly did. We were always trying to be better for each other. We were still learning new things about each other, even after 10 years.

Relationships take work. They're hard work. But for someone special, they're worth it.

It's never too late until it is.