An Ocean of Tears - Love and Loss

Grief. Despair. Loss. Loneliness. Depression. Strain. All those nouns don’t exactly add up to equal fun. Most of us avoid using these words if we can help it. They’re a tide we fight to stay afloat on.

Lately, those choice words are the direct result of having lost my parents within 11 months of each other. In the same span of time my husband started a new career, my daughter started high school, my faucet leaked under my laminate flooring precipitating its total ground floor replacement and I lost a job for all intents and purposes, adored. There’s more, but I mean, why announce to everyone your hair was falling out for a time. Enough is enough. If I didn’t know better I’d think that a lot.

Actually, reader, it is a lot. One generally could gloss over most of those events and say they’re just another rubber band on the rubber band ball of life and pat yourself on the back and goop yourself into believing it’s all ok. But quite frankly, it isn’t. There is no bandaid for grief, it’s an open wound; and the normal everyday occurrences that once were merely inconvenient happened to all take place while you were, you know, trying to privately just have a nervous breakdown. Can you ever take a break from it? Can we ever give each other a break if we know someone is going through it? I don’t know, I’ve only questions without answers these days. I’ve come to accept most of life is a question. The only answer is when the end comes.

The confusion around grief, of any kind, is it’s so often tied to joy. If you had any joy in life, in my case my parents, grief encroaches on that joy. It’s eating away at everything you knew to be true. You can go on loving but where do you exactly put that love now, who will give you that joy back. You’re left … that’s a whole sentence. You’re left. You, I, we, traverse the grief wave alone even if others share in the same. Some of us ride the wave quickly, some fall off, many many times, and some stay on the sandy beach much longer than they should before venturing out.

So. I’m out here, in grey skies, sunny skies, overcast skies, putting my swimming lessons to use, paddling until my arms ache. It’s not what I’d choose for any of us to go through. But if I know you’re out there, I hope you know I’m out here too. One way or another we can’t let anyone drown.

Some days are better than others. Some days the better is marginal. Some days I rue learning about metaphors. But you get up and if all that can be done is the bare minimum then, by all means, celebrate that. No one else can gauge success for us via their navigation.

One tidal wave merely whets the appetite, inures you to the storm. The only noun that gets us over is love.

Love grief. Love despair. Love loss. Love loneliness. Love depression. Love strain. Once the waters calm the rewards will be infinite. The storm may continue, it may bluster on but peace will live where once only an ache existed. At the very least one would hope my hair grows back.