I am watching Under the Tuscan Sun for perhaps the fifth
or sixth time, having purchased the DVD used, from VStock. There is something
about this story that is soothing at this time, the season of being out on my
own, having moved from my son and daughter-in-law's guest bedroom to a studio apartment a
couple of miles away.
I babysat the grandchildren this morning. It is Mother’s Day
and my son took his loving, adorable wife golfing. That’s important, spending time together as a
couple, without the kids. Returning to the apartment, my dog (Harley) and I took a nap,
and I did a batch of laundry. The pool—I walk by it on the way to the
laundry—is turning from dense green to an inviting clear. New patio furniture appeared
this past week on the terrace below the deck of the welcome center. I am
looking forward to swim days with the grandkids at grandma’s cool pool house.
Despite this, I remain lonely.
Recently the social worker who leads the grief support group
sent a link to an article on mourning. Following a couple of the links within
the article I read something I hadn’t thought of before: prolonged grief or sadness or depression may
alter how the brain works. The pathways of thought potentially become
ingrained, habitual. In the nearly two years since my husband died, is the time spent
in extended grief-sadness-depression day-after-day changing the pathways in the
brain from joy and a sense of belonging to sadness and a sense of hopelessness?
Yes. This feels true—a “new normal” if you will.
I find that I do not wish to love again, that “brick walls”
surround me and these walls are just high enough to keep distance between me
and possible new friends. These walls are not the 30-foot-high stone walls with
guillotine gates that I first discovered within myself after reading Allender’s
Wounded Heart and beginning to
explore the my own story, my strengths and weaknesses. Nor are my current walls the
sturdy fences with gates which let things pass through like sunlight, moonlight, breezes, rain and humanity.
If today I were to describe grief as it relates to the loss
of my lover, my husband, my friend, it is a hole within me that looks and feels
frighteningly like a brown recluse spider bite, the skin continuing to die and
pull away from the point the venom entered, forming a crater in the flesh. Yes it can and often
does heal, though healing takes a long, long time.
Meanwhile there is pain. Not every-moment-of-every-day pain,
but unexpected and often unwelcome occurrences, as though someone has snuck up
behind me and pushed me down a steep hill or a flight of stairs. Then, every so
often, there is the decent into the abyss, when whatever pushes me and its
timing, hurls me endlessly downward.
God meets me there, in the abyss. God is not surprised.
God
knows and rescues me.
R
