dave specifically, grief

grief stumblingstone: goodbye from space

“I know you feel like you’re aging too fast, but at least you know I’ll always be older than you.”

Today made a liar of Dave. Today I am older than him.

Today I caught up.

This has been a sinking space on my calendar for almost a year now. At therapy, I can’t quite explain what created the black hole, only that this event has swallowed me in.

When he was my age, he was dead.

And now, I walk where he hasn’t gone first. Now I walk where he can’t just reach behind and give me a hand to hold.

I’m not sure I want to see what he didn’t, but I’m already in the orbit of that, and can’t shift direction.

Gravity holds you in place even when you want to float free, and sometimes the hold is a hug, and sometimes the hold is a strangle.

I woke up choking.

But I woke up.

I keep waking up.

I keep waking up, even after the death of stars.

Today I’m wondering why.

(Last post about grief for awhile, I promise.)

41 thoughts on “grief stumblingstone: goodbye from space”

  1. That sounds like such a uniquely painful experience, wow.

    For what it is worth, I am of the opinion that you don’t have to promise to NOT write anything (like about grief) or TO write anything, grief is not linear, it will pop up, as will the joyful things… I really appreciate you sharing where your heart and mind are in the moment, in the day. You are a light through your dark, you are so generous to share your healing with us. I hope it feels less isolating because you did share. ❤

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    1. Thank you, Erin. I always feel a little lighter once I get my thoughts onto this blog. Grief is so non-linear. I always think of what Bill says (or really, what Bill’s dad used to say) about jello fitting between the cracks, and how I think about grief that way, too. It just slides in and makes itself cozy anywhere. There’s no such thing as too full for grief. ❤ Anyway, I appreciate you stopping by to read. Thank you. 🙂

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  2. I miss my buddy Ronnie every second of every day but I’m still here even though I don;t know why.
    But we don’t need to know why, my dear friend.
    Just carry on for your Dave and I’ll do the same.
    We’ll get our answers at the end of the road.

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  4. I have never been a widow, but I have been orphaned, and for the longest time, I’ve felt what you feel. My mother was 31 when she left us behind for something better and for the next two decades, I lived as if 31 was a death sentence. But it wasn’t. When I turned 32, I celebrated like there was no tomorrow, because I secretly worried that there wasn’t.

    In ten weeks (give or take), I’ll turn 36, an age my mom never saw. And while it’s been a quarter of a century since I last felt my mother’s arms around my shoulders, I can still feel her guiding me every day. I feel with my own kids a little of what I imagine she must have felt with me. And I am certain that, even though Dave has gone before you to somewhere better, he’ll still offer you that hand to hold. It might be a little tougher to grasp, and you might have to look a little harder to find it, but I’m sure it’s still there.

    This is your space. Post what you want to, what you need to, when you want to, when you need to. We love you. We support you. And when the black hole seems too dark, we’ll be the light for you to see your way out by.

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  6. I know it’s not the same, but all 4 of our parents died at age 75. We are 66 and 63 and I don’t think either one of us truly believes we will make it past 75. So I sort of understand that sinking date on the calendar. Hugs to you. Grief is hard. It’s ok to share it with us.

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    1. I’m sorry, it’s a beautiful thing to remember that humans are so pack animal that we build these narratives of lives based on what we see in our immediate circles– but it also can be such a sinkhole. I’m sorry for y’alls losses and I’m wishing you much healthy time after 75 to explore what that world looks like. ❤

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  7. Damn. Your grief, the pain of it ALL is so palpable. I want so much for you to not have to he strong when there is no choice (how I hate the praise heaped on survival when… what’s the alternative?). I have so few words in the face of grief. And those I have are jumbled, angsty and riddled with holes. I love that you can write it out. I have no better words than these to say I see you, I feel you, and I am sending love your way. ❤❤❤

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    1. Few of us have words in the face of another’s grief– I think it’s because we all know how tangled grief is. I know when my own friends are grieving hard, all I can think to do is be there, and hope it is enough. In this case, I am very grateful for everyone choosing to be here. It means the world.

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  8. Thud.
    If…. If one day your paths cross again, think of all the stories you’ll be able to share.
    And if that is not how things work, think of all the adventures you’ll have anyway.
    And maybe I should have left it at thud but I’m glad you keep waking up and I hope you continue to wake up.

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  11. Your grief is a part of you, and this is your blog, please don’t feel like you need to apologize for what you feel, in your own space! You write so eloquently of things I think many people feel, and I have no doubt your words help many. I know for me, they add a depth to my own feelings. I read what you write and I want to tell my heart, “Yes! What she said!” You weave the feelings into a beautiful tapestry of words.

    xoxox ❤

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  12. Definitely understand that feeling. My father was 31. I’m 34 now. It still messes with me sometimes. & I often ask myself what you just asked at the end of this. I think deep down we both know the answer, though.

    ‘Cause we’re not finished yet.

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  14. You’re strong. You’re loved. I hope you come through the black hole to find a new universe and many adventures on the other side. (That’s a vague “Interstellar” reference, FYI.) Hugs from me as well.

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  18. You never have to promise to skip posts on grief. Grief takes its own time, and nobody will fault you for needing to write your way through it.

    And I know the feels you’re talking about in this one. I was painfully aware of when I became older than V had ever been. Even now, this year, I spent a lot of time thinking about how I’m twice as old now as I was when she died. More than two decades later, I still think about her sometimes.

    Nobody sane would ever try to stop you from posting about grief when you want to.

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  19. Thank you for posting this – it is heartbreaking. I recently wrote a blog on my experience of grief having lost my aunty a year ago and it took a lot of courage to make sense of it – so huge respect for you. I would be honoured if you had time to read my blog too – lots of love to you and thank you for your bravery

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