Not our picnic, but one nearby.
Last Saturday, we had a picnic for Greg’s Should Have Been 50th birthday.
In a miracle of the Climate Gods, the weather was perfect even though it had rained solidly for the weeks beforehand and every day since (and up to 150mm / 6 inches last night alone).
I am glad we did it.
I’d forgotten who I’d invited, so as more and more people turned up, I was genuinely surprised and glad to see them. Old friends and workmates gathered and remembered in just the sort of relaxed chat-fest that was Greg’s style.
I saw some people who came to the funeral and then disappeared so I’m hoping that this has reset their minds so they know they can talk to me.
The kids had a great time and I enjoyed seeing everyone.
But by the next day I was a wreck….
…and then today I walked downstairs to find my garage and store room sitting in 2 inches of (thankfully clean) water.
and I broke.
I feel like I’m 100 years old, everything is heavy, I am so tired, the kids are moody and I don’t feel like doing anything.
…except I have had to throw away waterlogged things and try to move things out of the water.
I want to sleep for a week.
Yep – death week is here 😦
… but I know it will pass and while I don’t expect things to be “good”, I know they will be OK again.
This week, bang in the middle of death-march month, has seen me BEG Greg to come back more than once.
Many times in fact.
Seriously, I have coped with this shizzle for almost 3 years.
I have worked, I have kept the kids on an even keel, I have hit rock bottom on more than one occasion and I have stood up again.
Can I have my medal now?
I am tired of grief.
I am tired of being alone in THIS month …. the month that contains the 20th anniversary of that birthday party where we first met.
That first date.
Valentines Day (and the single time Greg bought me flowers without laughing that you’d swung by the 7-11 on the way home.
….and finally, his death day.
I just want to be done with this and go back to how life was Before.
…..but I can’t go back.
I must go forward, even though I hate every year that passes without Greg in it.
I have to ensure I experience joy each day so that yawning black hole of grief is held at bay.
I will move forward in a ways I have never dreamed of.
Grief will not define me.
I will rise again.
5 First bars of Beethovens Funeral March (Sonata 12) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
|5 First bars of Beethovens Funeral March (Sonata 12) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
….. is here.
Its now February – less than a month until the 1st of March.
The last few weeks of year 3 are here before we tick of the 3rd Sadiversary and enter year 4 of this madness.
My internal monologue is stuck on repeat: “He’s dead. Can you believe he is dead? This makes no sense. How could GREG be dead? He is so alive. So young and fit and healthy. So adventurous. So full of energy. How can he not be here?”
February is the month Greg should have turned 50.
I’ve just invited a bunch of people to mark the occasion with an informal picnic at the beach.
I had to track down the e-mails of the men he had been friends with since his university days.
Funny – Before, when life was good, I thought I would be able to count on these blokes if I needed them for any reason.
They were Greg’s oldest mates.
They were solid.
But they turned to dust within 6 months of Greg’s death and have rarely, if ever phoned.
Maybe they don’t know what to say to me …. but anything would have been better than the complete silence of the last 2+ years.
On the other hand, other people have been here the whole time.
The friends who had Greg as their Best Man at their wedding – always checking on us, and coming over to help with those handyman jobs that are beyond me.
Greg’s workmates – phoning, facebooking, sending through new photos as they are found.
My friends who have always been there, never drifting away from me and my grief.
….and my family. My family are awesome. They make life good.
…and as I look back over the past year’s death marches, I think (hope) I can say that – so far – this one is a little bit brighter than the last two.