Monday, November 3, 2014

Flight From Grief



How can I describe the strange set of circumstances that brought me here, from North America to Northern England, to this wild and expansive place, with its sloping, green hills, its mossy, stone walls, to this terrace house, built in 1889, to live the life that my husband gave to me? Over the weeks and months, you will come to know these things. But today, on my first visit to these pages, the most I can muster is a summary of events.

I came from Florida to work in London, in a sort of flight from grief. I had lost my sister and then my mother, there, within eleven months of each other, both through lingering illnesses, and the pain of those losses sent me in search of a different life. I responded to an international recruitment of Social Workers to live and work in the UK, and, six months after my mother’s death, in May of 2009, I arrived at Gatwick Airport, with two suitcases and a broken heart.

For months I covered over my grief, hiding it behind the flurry of concentration it took to negotiate living in a foreign land. I was intrigued by this new place, dazzled by its theatre, overwhelmed by its transport system, excited by the art museums and history museums, enamoured with the wealth of talent and the breadth of history in this country I now call home. I had much to do and see and learn. But I was not good at reaching out to others, and making connections in such a polite and formal society was not an easy task. It was a busy but lonely life.

The man that became my husband attended a Buddhist Centre in Manchester, from the same tradition as the South London Centre that I attended, and we came to know each other through our practice, there. We traded emails and phone calls for a couple of months. He shared his life story with me, and I was impressed by his ability to express his sorrows so openly, and that he seemed able to forgive those in his past who had caused him harm. He called it ‘shaking hands’ with his childhood.

Once, about a month after we had been communicating, I awakened in the morning to an email that contained a poem by Rumi and a picture of a sunflower.

How many 60 year old men read poetry and admire flowers?

I wanted to know this man.

We met. I held his hand at the Manchester train station, and looked into his clear, blue eyes. At 5 foot 4 inches, he was almost the same height as me, a rarity. Already we seemed a perfect fit.  On our first date, he drove me through the bustling streets, past the red buildings of Manchester’s inner city, to the Buddhist Centre, a beautiful building of wood and brick. Everyone knew him there, and greeted him warmly. We sat in silence, for awhile, before the shrine, the sweet smell of incense smoke twirling toward the ceiling.

He cooked me a meal, we drank some wine, and spent the entire weekend together. And the one after that. And the one after that—until our weekends became weeks and vacation times and grabbing every precious moment together that was possible for two people living and working 200 miles apart.

He shared his vibrant, colourful world with me—Sunday dinners in country pubs tucked into quiet corners at the end of winding roads, long drives throughout this vast and stunning landscape he cherished, a large and robust family—six children, four sisters, three grandchildren, a host of lifelong friends. Music and dance. Humour and joy. He was comfortable with who he was. He was grateful for his life. He was peaceful and content.




We married on the 17th of November, 2012, and set about building a life. I moved into his home, found work, made a place for myself, and settled into my plan to grow old with the man I loved.

We overcame anxieties and conflicts and sadness, too. Merging the lives of two people who had traversed through many years and been hurt in other relationships had its challenges. He had some health problems, as did I. In April, he spent five days in hospital with an infection, and his recovery was slow and arduous. He lost a good friend, earlier in the year, and another good friend had had a heart attack.  He was beginning to feel his age.

I had ties in America, a son I needed to visit, and this, too, put a strain on our relationship. We both could not afford a trip to America each year, so I went, on my own, in the summers, to visit my boy. In May, he graduated from university in upstate New York, and performed a senior recital, and I felt I needed to be there. My separation from Stan at this tender time was difficult, and far too long. We missed each other, terribly. I vowed not to be away from him for so long, again.

Five days after I returned from America, the police came to our door to tell us that one of Stan’s sons had been found dead. He was 39. We spent the next two weeks swimming in grief and shock. We made funeral arrangements, notified his brothers and sisters and other relatives, cleaned out his flat. Stan was tired, and distant. I chalked it up to the exhaustion that comes with such a deep and tragic loss. I tried to console him, and give him space. I didn't know how to make it better. We were intent on getting through the day of his ceremony, hoping, then, to begin to heal.  Gavin’s funeral was set for the 9th of June.

On that day, after Stan had said goodbye to his son in a moving tribute that left everyone in tears, he walked hand in hand with me outside the chapel, looked into my eyes, and collapsed to the ground.

CPR, defibrillator, paramedics, rescue attempts.

Ambulance, A&E, more defibrillation, more CPR.

Flat line.

Shock, sorrow, wailing, disbelief.

My beloved husband was dead. 

He brought me into his vibrant, colourful world, and left me in it.

Nearly five months later, I am still in shock. Except when I’m not. Except when the reality of his absence sends me to my knees. Each night that I arrive home and there is no one to pick me up from the train station. When I put my key into a darkened door. When I reach for him in our bed and find an empty place, instead. When I chase away the silence with television and internet.

These hills carry his spirit. I feel him everywhere. Sometimes they bring me comfort. Sometimes I want to run away from them, move to a different part of the world, like I did before, to make another flight from grief.

But I won’t. It doesn’t work, anyway, this running. I love these quiet, windy places, surrounded by stone, dotted with sheep. This is where he is. And I don’t want to leave him behind.

This time, I’ll face my loss. Lean into it. Shake hands with it, as he would say.

 I have no other choice.



21 comments:

  1. I'm so sorry for your loss, and that you are a part of this "club" that none of us wanted to join. Thank you for sharing your story and I hope that it helps. You are very wise to already know that you need to face the loss and truly feel the grief. It is a lesson that many of us need to learn over and over again.

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    1. I hate being part of this 'club', too. But the women I have come to know through these online connections are so brave and wise. You bring me comfort and also the hope things will not always feel so raw and dark.

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  2. Tricia - Your loss is expressed in your powerful, heartfelt words. I'm sorry to say I'm looking forward to reading and feeling more of what you have to share. I can feel the depths of the more. I'm so sorry for your losses yet I know we are suppose to learn and walk through this journey with you..

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    1. Thank you, Becky. I feel blessed to be a part of this community.

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  3. I am so sorry he died, that you are going through this. The depth of your pain and loneliness is palpable. I am glad the hills carry his spirit and you feel connected. You will get through this. Thank you for sharing your story, and please keep us posted. I, too, find solace in the hills that carry my late husband's spirit, even nine years out.

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    1. Thanks for your comments. I find the landscape so healing. He couldn't walk long distances and now that he is gone I like to think he is able to hike the hills with me--I talk to him when I walk.

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  4. Tricia..my heart aches for you. Your writing is so painfully beautiful I felt my heart skip a beat when you described what it is like to come home to the dark house. Life has been so cruel, in differing degrees, to all of us. We all understand and support you.

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    1. Thank you so much for your kind words. I am honoured to be a part of this blog and to share with this community. Thank you for your support.

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  5. Tricia,
    Welcome to our writing team. I write on Wednesdays and want to tell you that your words are pure poetry to read. My heart goes out to you as you grieve your husband-there is just no easy way through this, is there?

    May the hills echo his love for you~
    alison

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  6. Dear Tricia,

    my heart aches for you for the loss of your dear husband and for all the pain and grief of losing your mother, your sister, and your husband's son. your writing is so lyrical and moving, it makes your deep and painful sorrow palpable. I hope that being a writer in this community where we all "get it" helps make you feel enfolded in empathy and compassion, and that you feel you have a soft place to land when grief brings you to your knees.

    Karen

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  7. I am so very sorry for your losses, Tricia. Your writing is beautiful and powerful and I will look forward to your Monday posts. Leaning with you.

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  8. Tricia, I am so profoundly moved by your story and the beautiful words you use to tell it. I am so deeply sorry for your loss. I write on Thursdays here and will look forward to sharing more together. Hugs to you.

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  9. Thanks to all of you for your kind words. I am fortunate to be able to write for such an important blog.

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  10. Thank you for sharing this. The spirit of your Stan reminds me of my Jim. We also had past relationships and I so loved finding my life partner and looking forward to spending together time after raising our daughter. Then my husband died six months ago right before my daughter graduated from high school, and very suddenly like your Stan. Now I am lost too, but don't want to leave this place where I feel he still is. God bless and I look forward to your writings each week.

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    1. Thank you, Marty. We felt so fortunate to have found each other late in life. He used to say 'I'm a lucky man' when talking about us. I feel cheated out of the opportunity to grow old with this man. I am thinking you probably feel that, too. May the place that you shared with him bring you solace and comfort.

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  11. Wow. I am the Friday writer here, and your words made me cry instantly. You have been through a TON of loss, dear one, and you express your emotions so vividly. My husband's death was also sudden and massive heart-attack, although I was home asleep when he collapsed at work, an hour after leaving our apartment. I wish I could hug you somehow. I just feel so much empathy and power in reading your story. Welcome , welcome, welcome ........

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    1. Thanks, Kelley Lynn. I love reading your posts and feel that I am coming to know your husband, a little bit, through them. This sudden loss stuff is so hard. There is no time to make peace with the death. It just happens. It is so unfair that our time with our mates was so short. Thinking of you.

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  12. Beautiful! So sorry you had to join us in this painful journey!

    Dewey in Montana

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    1. Thanks, Dewey. I lived in Montana at one time--near Boulder, (between Butte and Helena) and in Kalispell. I loved that country. I am sorry, too, to be a part of this club! But I feel honoured to be a part of this blog and this particular community. I am glad that you are part of the community, too, and hope it helps you on your journey, however it can.

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