Today marks 500 days since Suse died.
I suspect I’m the only one who would take note of that. I only know it because I have an app which counts the days. Why? I don’t know. I don’t know why the number of days matter. Maybe getting through each one is still my biggest goal. Maybe I’m hoping I’ll one day look on the number and be persuaded to thinking “it’s time to move on”.
That day is not today.
Because what is grief like at day 500? I wish I could say it’s 500 times better than day 1, or two times better than day 250. But it just doesn’t work that way. At some points, it feels like the sense of loss just grows with each passing day. The missed experiences continue to accumulate. 500 days means 500 mornings without waking up with her by my side. It means close to 2000 cups of tea which haven’t been made. It means many thousands of conversations which haven’t been shared. It means so much light which has not shone.
After 500 days, it’s true to say my grief has changed shape. And it’s true to say that grief has changed me. It’s easier to carry now than it was in the first 100 days. Things are different at day 500. I can function. I can do my work. I feel I am getting by. But only barely. Nothing is really done with any sense of enthusiasm at the moment. I am volatile emotionally. At then end of the day, I feel I have very little left to love my kids well. I don’t feel like I’m giving them the kindness and support they need. They lost a very tender hearted and beautiful mother. And they’ve gained an empty shell of a father.
Suse regularly asked me “how much happiness do you have in your heart?” The mere act of her asking used to make me smile. I’d dread for her to ask me now, because I know how much it would pain her to hear of the devastation her death has brought to my daily existence. Because I am always sad and always so very alone. I don’t have any happiness in my heart at the moment. The emptiness leaves no room for happiness.
But I do try to put on a happy face, and can usually muster a convincing performance for a while. But it is a mask. Why the act? Why be inauthentic? Some would say (and I would have probably said) it’s because our culture doesn’t deal well with grief and doesn’t easily permit people to be sad. Because of this grievers are forced to put on a show just to fit in. Now there may be truth to that. But to be driven by a pure cynicism of culture is not ideal. I see no value in continually being angry with the world because of its “failure” to be considerate to my every emotional need. Yes, consideration is important. And the world would be a better place if people were more considerate. But how much would be enough for me? I doubt my selfishness would ever allow me to be content even if highest levels of consideration were being shown.
But there’s more to it than that. Because the fact is, I hate feeling like people are always assessing me to determine how I’m going. I hate feeling like people are forming conclusions about me if/when they observe something in me. And I hate the sense of being treated differently. I just want to be normal, and to be treated normally. I want to fit…
But I know I don’t. Because there is nothing “normal” about me. A 41 year old, widowed father of 4? I’m a statistical outlier. Granted, I’m not the only person with that resume, but there’s not many of us. We’re outliers. We lie outside the norm. That is objectively true. And as a statistical outlier, it is very difficult to integrate into the “common unity” of community when you’re not very common.
So is grief better or worse at 500 days? For me, it’s both. My sense of loss accumulates, but I’m more used to carrying it. The fog has lifted, so I function better, but the reality has evolved into a high definition clarity bringing with it an ever more entrenched sadness. I just don’t have much enthusiasm for life. My ability to have fun and genuinely enjoy things is very limited. I’m more optimistic that a day will come when that’s no longer the case. But that’s not today.
Is grief better or worse at day 500? It’s both. It’s different. It’s strange. It’s confusing. What’s important to realise is that it still is. And it always will be in this life.
