People often tell me how well I look. I know it’s a compliment, so I smile and say “Thank you,” which is harder than it sounds. It may be shallow, but it is good to know that I’m looking good.
But as with any invisible illness, how I look is not the whole story. I smile, I laugh, I make jokes. I meet up with friends (not as often as I’d like to) and I post happy things on social media.
And my heart is still broken, and the tears are never far away.
I’m definitely not saying that it’s inappropriate or unhelpful to notice when people you know are looking well, especially if you know they’ve been having a hard time. It is helpful. But it’s not the whole story.
I am learning how to carry my load of grief. I am learning how to stretch the good times. I’m getting better and better at finding tiny nuggets of joy in the every day things.
(My daughter’s smile, and her chortles of pure delight… biting into a ripe nectarine… my cat’s soft fur and rumbling purr… music… the smell of the garden after rain… even the rain itself, if I am indoors… a really good cup of tea… there are lots of little things.)
But… the weight of grief never goes away. It doesn’t even get smaller. I mistakenly thought that as the physical recovery became a distant memory, emotional recovery would follow, although I was prepared for it to take a long time.
And maybe it will. Maybe it’s too soon. I don’t know.
Sometimes it’s easier to carry. Sometimes the little things are enough and the weight seems manageable. I get to the end of the day feeling tired, but not unreasonably so.
Sometimes, it’s just too much. Sometimes it’s a dead weight that gets heavier and heavier as the days go on, so that by three in the afternoon I’m so weary that I just want to curl up and cry. The little things are still there and they still bring some measure of joy, but it’s more of a temporary relief than a real respite.
And there isn’t anything I can do. I can’t curl up and sob, or go to bed, at three o’clock in the afternoon. So I keep on keeping on, one foot in front of the other, praying that it will get easier again. Tomorrow would be nice.
So if you tell me that I’m looking good and I hesitate before replying, or if you notice that my eyes fill with tears, it’s not you. It never is.
It’s just that it is all so heavy that it hurts.
Joy in the Mourning 