Cored

I have recently started working with some very smart people who are helping me with my grief. The first thing I have learned is that It Must Be Gone Through.

But last night, I got triggered. I attended my first MoMondays event. The speakers told compelling stories of triumph over mental and physical challenges. We were warned on our tickets that these stories could be very emotional. Indeed they were. But the trigger for me came from an unexpected place. A recurrent theme throughout the evening was how Love Made It All Possible. The support of a loving spouse over many many decades was what enabled them to survive and thrive.

My trigger. But the wave didn't start right away. It was way, way out in the deep ocean, an unseen tsunami slowly picking up speed as it headed towards me.

I actually got through the evening beautifully, pleased that I had chosen to do this for myself. I spent quality time in conversation with the lovely Sheila, even put some markers down for future conversations. But as I drove home, I grew sadder and sadder. By the time I got in the door, I was just about undone. It was Time To Cry.

As I wept my guts out last night, breathing through it, letting the energy (and the water) flow, an image of what my grief felt like sprang to mind: I feel like an apple that has been cored. My skin is still shiny, and my flesh intact, but at the centre of my being, nothingness. The core of my identity - wife, daughter-in-law, best friend, musical partner, business partner - is just gone. With that image, I felt a depth to my grief I hadn't dared touch before. Deep, like that black-blue water of the deep ocean, it was and is terrifying to contemplate.

I know that I have to put myself into that hole - wholly. I have to jump in, even knowing that those Jagged Rocks Below I most feared when I first fell in love with Greg are down in that blackness, waiting for me. But I can do this. I know how, now. Breathe. Flow. Know that it will pass, that it is useful. I imagine literally shedding Greg from my cells as I weep.

And last night, even as I touched that black hole, magic happened. A parachute arrived in the form of a small voice in my head, saying all of those things I would say to my grandson Leiren were he the one sobbing in my arms. Comforting me, telling me everything will be ok, encouraging me to keep reaching out to my growing posse of people who are smart, kind, compassionate, supportive, and who have my back. A voice of love and compassion for myself slowly replaced those old, dark whispers of "I miss him, I am so lonely, I am so sad...".

That apple? It's a magical apple. That core will reform itself in time. I am still Lea. I am still Grandma. I am here, breathing, and It Will Be Ok.