Three years later, I accept I'll live with this grief forever

My Favourite Husband and I ready to race.
I will always grieve his loss.

I’ve finally admitted to myself that the grief I have for My Favourite Husband (MFH) is a living entity and one that I’ll live with for the rest of my life.

That sounds naive, like something that I should know, that should be obvious. And it is. But it’s not. 

I’ve done a lot of work on healing myself. But really, what does that mean? I thought healing would mean my grief would soften, be less painful. More of a dull ache and less searingly raw. I thought it would show up as poignant memories and that I’d feel wistful as I reflected. I thought every crumb of work I’d done to move forward — both inches and feet — would be rewarded with walking hand in hand with grief and not still being gut-punched by it over three years later.

I thought, by now, that my grief would be sad. 

Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s sad in the fact that time stopped when MFH died. I should say time stopped for him, for us. But not for me. That’s the saddest part of sadness: the ability to make new memories stopped. This is what I thought all of my grief would look like.

Surprise, surprise. In addition to my sadness, over three years later, I still get many of the same emotions I had in the aftermath of his death. They may crest a bit differently, but they still form as waves to be ridden. 

Anger still arises from time to time to time. Anger that he died and didn’t get a chance to have a transplant and a better way of life. Anger that he died so young. Anger that he potentially took a risk with his health by not paying closer attention to the advice from his cardiologist (who recommended exploring the option of a pacemaker) but chose to place his focus on the fact that he was at the top of the transplant list. Would it have made a difference? I’ll never know. 

Guilt is a visitor, as well. Guilt that the money I have that lets me be semi-retired at a young age is money that we both earned and I’m the only one enjoying it. Guilt that I’m alive and he is not. Guilt that, at times, I inwardly was frustrated by his negativity as his health declined. Guilt that I’m creating a beautiful life. Guilt that I kissed another man (and perhaps a bit more) since he’s died. 

I thought I had come to terms with this stuff. Made my peace. And most days, I have. But the days that I get caught offguard, I fucking hate those days. 

The other part of grief that hits hard is the loneliness. I fill my days by seeing friends, exercising, household chores. Soon I’ll be heading back to work for a few months as a way to throw some extra money in my travel fund. But sometimes I still listen for the sound of footsteps coming from the basement up the stairs. I still listen for his breathing, for a gentle hand to smack my butt or wind around my waist and pull me close. I’ve made peace with the fact it’ll never be him again. But that doesn’t mean I won’t — can’t — ache for it. 

I know that as even more years pass, some of these feelings may change or dissipate. Or they may not. Maybe the sadness that I long for as my only expression of grief will be the only emotion I experience. Or it may not. 

But right now I just need to continually acknowledge that everything that I feel is valid. I just need to keep working through it.

Sometimes, though, it just sucks.