Not moving on … moving forward

We should get comfortable with grief. We should get comfortable with grieving. I’d love it if we could have open and honest conversations about grief. Those conversations should include laughter, humour, smiles and remembrance if the conversation flows that way. It should including remembering a life well lived and sharing memories. And it should include tears, both of joy and sorrow. All the elements that make up life should be allowed space in death.

Different families, communities and cultures approach grief in different ways. 

If you’re like me, you grew up in a family in a community where your “sad” took place in private. You put on a stiff upper lip and “didn’t carry on” in public except for the day of the funeral. Even then, though, there were so many “eyes” that your backbone better be stiff.

You talked sparingly about your deceased loved one because God forbid you make anyone uncomfortable. So, for the most part, grief took place in private. The confusing feelings that a loss leaves behind — anger, guilt, remorse, hopelessness ‚— you dealt with those in private, too. You kept busy. You moved on. If you didn’t, you were accused of living in the past. 

Nowhere in my learned grieving process did I learn that I could take my past and present and blend them — out loud — into something that would work for me.

After years of losses, it’s taken the death of My Favourite Husband (MFH) for me to put boots to all I’ve ever known and go “this doesn’t work for me.”

Because here’s the thing: I love to laugh. I love to remember. I’ll cry both tears of joy and sorrow. MFH was a real person who was part of my life for almost half my life. Now that he’s dead, why do I have to stop talking about him when he fits in the conversation? Why can’t he be part of it? So, he is. I’ll admit that I generally don’t talk about his death any longer but I will tell funny stories about him if it’s appropriate. Or I’ll make a sassy comment about what his reaction to something might be — if it’s appropriate. If I’m comfortable sharing and laughing, I hope it makes others comfortable as well. If someone has a story, a memory, a photo —bring it! I want to see.I want to share. 

You see, I don’t believe in moving on. I believe in moving forward. We all have pasts that include loss: death, divorce, loss of a career, to name a few. It’s up to us to choose how we incorporate those losses into our future. I think it’s all part of who we will become as we move forward. 

It’s up to each of us to listen to the experiences of the people in our lives as they talk about their losses and not be threatened by those relationships and memories. Instead, we should be embracing them as part of the lives of the people we love.

MFH was born in April. He wasn’t here to celebrate physically this year but I wanted to “celebrate” with random acts of kindness, love and laughter. Full disclosure: I borrowed this idea from some strong, amazing women who also chose to live their grief differently. I have mad respect for them and, when I saw how they put love into the world in honour of their loved one’s memory, it resonated with me.

My first stop was to drop off cupcakes and McDonald’s gift cards (MFH was a McDonald’s fan) to the nurses and doctors on his dialysis ward. I am not going to lie — the walk to the ward and into the ward took every single ounce of strength that I had. And when I entered the ward, my head automatically swivelled to the chair he normally occupied. And I wept. And then … well then I was surrounded by his nurses who also know me. And we laughed and we cried. And the love there was powerful. And they were so excited to see me and so touched that I did something for them to celebrate his day. 

I dropped off birthday cakes for his sister and his brother and his Dad. I went through countless Starbucks and McDonald’s drive thrus paying for the vehicles behind me. 

And I stopped at the cemetery. I got out of my vehicle and stood for a moment at his grave. I said “I love you” out loud and I swear I heard “ditto” back…

As I got back into my vehicle to slowly leave the cemetery, I took a sip of my fifth venti Americano (1.5 pumps white mocha, 1.5 pumps peppermint, please), the lid came off and I not so elegantly wore some of my coffee down my sweater. I uttered the words that this blog is named for: WTF! (Sorry, God, but it’s not like you haven’t met me…)

And I gracelessly opened the door to my vehicle so I could pick up my coffee lid and serenaded the dearly departed with the soothing tones of Sir Elton John singing The Bitch is Back. (OK, God, I really am sorry about that but thanks for not letting there be a funeral happening.)

Laughter? Yes. I could hear MFH laughing his ass off at me because, well, that’s the way my life rolls sometimes and I laughed loud and long as well. 

I finished that day by having supper with two amazing friends and we recalled memories together.

I’m learning this chapter of my life can be whatever I want it to be and I can live it however I want to live it. I can mourn for what I can never have or celebrate and be grateful for what I did have. I can exist in dark or I can live in light. I choose light.

This. This is how I want to live. This. This is how I want to grieve. 

❤️