Gravesite visits turn to gravesite conversations

The cemetery where MFH is buried.

I’m not a fan of cemeteries. 

Numerous people I know find peace and comfort visiting the graves of loved one. I am not one of those people. 

Cemetery visits wreck me. It’s an overwhelming rush of memories of funerals; of deathbed denials; of holding the lifeless hands that will never clasp back again; of kissing foreheads and cheeks that are cold. Memories of walking away alone. That’s what cemetery visits do to me. That’s why I don’t go, can’t go — especially with My Favourite Husband (MFH). I’ve worked too hard at making the memories I recall first about our life together and not ones that came with “until death do you part."

Full disclosure then: I had only been to MFH's grave three times before this last visit: the day I buried him, a day a few months later, and when our headstone went up. That’s it. That’s all. Each visit had me reliving every gut-wrenching moment of his death and it took me days to recover mentally and physically. Avoidance works for me.

Or it did.

A recent conversation with one of my heart sisters had me rethinking my avoidance tactic. We were talking about my visiting MFH's grave and why I don’t. After hearing me out, she said: “Why don’t you just go talk to him?" This may sound strange but that’s something I haven't done. I’ve cried. I’ve let memories flood over me. But I haven’t spoken, out loud, to him graveside.

I wasn’t completely convinced I like the idea but I didn’t hate it enough to dismiss it outright. So I mulled it over. Should I? Could I? And would I?

I did. Spur of the moment. With no preplanning, I jumped in my truck and, before I could give myself a million reasons to not go, I went. 

I stopped at Starbucks first and picked up a drink. And then I drove to a pretty little cemetery at the top of a hill behind a historic country church. 

When I stopped the truck at the curve on the top near his grave, I didn’t feel myself bracing mentally as hard as I usually do. I didn’t feel the sense of dread I normally do. It didn’t feel completely right but it didn’t feel wrong. 

And so, with a deep breath in and an exhale from the depths of my core, I left the truck, drink in  hand, and walked to his grave. I said, out loud, anything and everything that I was feeling and thinking. It was a choppy conversation at first but then I relaxed and said all the words I had. I talked about my day-to-day life, my job, my future plans. I talked about my flowers and my friends. I talked about how I could be who I am now, doing what I’m doing now because of our marriage. I know love. I know respect. I know my worth. I know all of this, and more, because of the life we had together.

The more I talked, the easier talking to him became. I cannot say I felt his presence but I felt peace. I felt calm. I felt good. Not once did I think about the last time I saw him, his body, at the hospital. Not once did I recall his funeral. Instead, as I talked, I recalled our wedding day, our honeymoon and other holidays. I recalled the one-anniversary we spent at Pick Your Part scavenging for a car part for a rebuild, followed by a Costco hot dog and pop as our anniversary supper. I thought about fights we had and the silly, goofy ways one of would crack and make the other laugh so we were no longer angry. I laughed, out loud, because I knew what his end of the conversation would be to the entire conversation I was having. 

While I was having my conversation, there was a bird that kept making fly-bys over MFH's grave and squawking. Not repeated squawking but chirping here and there. I didn’t think much of it as first but, as my conversation went on and the fly-bys became more frequent, I wondered if it was a sign of his presence, a real-life partner in my conversation. It could’ve been coincidence or it could’ve been him; either way, it felt like the bird had a temporary purpose and that was to continue my conversation with an occasional glance at the sky.

I finished my talk by making an agreement with MFH. I’d visit his grave more if he agreed to come visit me occasionally. I’m not sure if he’s in agreement or not — and the bird was gone by this point — but I’m hoping it’s something that can form a new and different bond between us.

As I drove back down that lane, I realized that I hadn’t cried once. I hadn’t been angry with God or MFH for dying. I realized part of my healing — the part that talked with a grief counsellor, talked with family, talked with friends — that part now included talking with MFH. 

It feels right.

❤️