Day 17: How We Ride the Waves

March 17, 2014

Update for friends & family back home:

Since moving to Korea, I've made most of my experiences here very public on facebook. There's not much I've seen and experienced that I haven't shared with you. Apparently I'm comfortable making my grief public, too. I question myself about that sometimes. I wonder if it's appropriate. Certainly our culture doesn't have many examples of public grieving. But I'm a writer, as Gareth says. It's what I do.

And it makes me feel connected to you, to my history with Gareth, and with my present experiences to write and share about it. I can't thank you enough for allowing me this space to do so. It means something.

I'm also a bit shy about sharing all of this because in no means do I ever want it to appear that I think I'm the only one grieving his loss. This is not and has never been about me. This is a shared experience. I just happen to be a prolific Facebook poster, for whatever that's worth.

Here are some things I've noticed about grieving: The waves are smaller and further apart unless triggered by something specific. It's not too different from what I remember when watching the waves of the Atlantic ocean as a kid on family vacations. Little ones. Constant ones. And from time to time the ocean swells up and a wave gains speed, crashing and making itself known. My grief does this.

Today I woke up singing. I played music while getting ready and danced a bit. I thought of how Gareth used to watch me get ready and comment on the fact that he loved how girly I was, without being too much. He loved the amount of makeup I wore- again, just enough without being too much. He would watch me. He would comment on things like this. I thought of this and felt happy.

I went downtown and upon leaving the subway station was overcome by a large wave of grief. Someone hurting in their own way made hurtful comments to me on line placing blame, and while I tried my best to see it for what it was and wish this person peace and healing in their own grief, feelings of guilt and responsibility were stirred up for me. I found myself crying and walking through a crowded shopping area, repeating "I will not reproach myself. I will not reproach myself." I had promised his father this.

It helped me to think that Gareth would never stand for anyone saying or doing anything unkind to me, even if it was said or done from their own place of hurt. I imagined what he'd say to me about it. I imagined him comforting me. I closed my eyes on the subway and pretended he was sitting across from me. That if I just opened my eyes, I'd see him sitting there, reading a book of poems. He'd look up and see me. He'd smile. We'd flirt on a crowded subway.

The fact is everyone has been left to deal with immeasurable grief. It's going to take different forms. Writing about it publicly. Diving into work. Reconnecting with friends. Sleeping for hours at a time. Finding a way to place blame. We each have to ride the waves we're on, and I know that.

Here's what I want to say about Gareth. I believe whatever struggles he had, and however those manifested themselves, are gone now. I believe he is healed in every way. And that means that the discomfort he had in the last few weeks has disappeared. What is left is the pure spirit of joy and I celebrate that. I celebrate that by sharing stories of witnessing that joy. I celebrate that by acknowledging that I was a part of that joy. I feel the greatest gift the universe gave me was to be present for this man. I love him tremendously and I know that he knows that. I know that he knew that.

I talk to him a lot throughout the day. Plenty of us do, I bet. I smile when I do something that I think he'd find funny or cute. I hear things that he'd say to me. "Take this," he'd say, as he'd give me his hand in the car. "This is for you."

I made a cup of tea tonight and heard him remind me that "tea is medicinal." I heard him commend me on my matching shoes and jacket. I heard him tell me that I am beautiful and I feel it when I hear him say it.

I went to a "Market Day" at a local coffee shop/bookstore- the same one where Gareth and I met friends for Thanksgiving dinner last November. (Was that really only just a bit over 3 months ago?) Walking up the stairs I felt my breath taken away. Grief hit my chest and I wasn't sure I could go into this place where we spent so much time together. "You can do this," I say. Are those my words or Gareth's?

I came in and saw familiar faces. I sat between Gareth's favorite distributor of homemade food and new friends selling cookies for a local dog shelter where I volunteer. We made jokes. We shared stories. We laughed. It felt good.

Then a wave hit. Nothing in particular triggered it. Just...there it was. It gets hard to breathe. My stomach drops. I know what's happening and I let it come. I trust now that it will last no longer than 10 minutes and that the only way out is through.

As it wound down, I made jokes about this being my ploy to get people to buy the rest of the baked goods. Still sobbing, but smiling, I called out "BUY THESE COOKIES AND I'LL STOP CRYING! PLEASE! WON'T SOMEBODY BUY THESE COOKIES?" We all laughed. It felt good.

Back home for the night I watched a movie that a friend sent me in the mail. I watched it and enjoyed it, aware that there's another movie running in my head at the same time. It's constant. Thoughts of Gareth. Memories. Replaying things of the past 2 weeks. A fear that if I stop the movie or log off of facebook or quit checking my email that a wave will knock me down. I remain plugged in. Connected.

I wake up in the middle of the night and reach for my phone. I scroll through facebook and gather these names and faces and happenings of people I know. I want to gather them up in my arms and keep them here in one place. Don't suddenly go. Don't suddenly leave. Everyone...stay right here.

I had an interesting moment of feeling overwhelmed tonight and it was related to my phone and my computer. "I have to plug my phone in. The battery's almost dead," I thought. Then I realized I'd have to do the same for my computer soon. And then they'd charge, I'd use them, and the battery would start to die again. "I have to keep plugging these in," I thought. And it seemed almost too much. Plug them in. They fade. Plug them in again. They fade. "Just plug them in. Just keep plugging them in when they almost die." Funny how our subconscious works on us all of the time.

Right now it's just past midnight. Movie's over. It's wise for me to go to bed. I used to be someone who loved the silence. Who loved alone time. Who loved time to connect with my spirit. And I suspect I'll get there again. But in the moment the empty bed, the sound of the humidifier, the pale light of the neighbor's apartment coming through my bedroom window, the feel of Gareth's pillow under my head, the silence of the evening is just too much for me. I don't welcome it. I don't find comfort in it like I did.

But I do it. We all do it. We all charge the phone and the laptop and go to bed and get up again. We all move forward and allow ourselves to slide backwards. This is how we ride the waves.

March 17, 2014

The last 4 weeks with Gareth were a bit rough. I asked for some space. Some things needed fine-tuning and I had secret and deep hopes that would happen. He was in deep grief about it, as was I. I've had many, many conversations about the details of that privately this week with friends and family who understood his struggles. I truly believe that the things he said out of grief in the last few weeks were not what he meant at all, and a letter I found that he'd written to me just a few days before he died (what an amazing gift!) shows that. He was remorseful. He was desperately missing me. I was desperately missing him.

The first night I stayed in the hospital outside of his door, I got the overwhelming feeling that any grief or upset he had was gone. It had disappeared. I truly felt in a way I can't really explain that he was letting me know that all that was left were feelings of love- the feelings that we were so lucky to be wrapped up in for the majority of our time together.

Gareth is not angry with me. He understands what was hard. He knows that I love him tremendously and that I'd want nothing more than to be with him today if that were possible. And I know that there's nothing to forgive. I know, as he wrote, that he's never loved anyone like he loved me. I know he was thinking of me. Missing me. And I know that he's aware I was doing the same.

 

 (On Goeje Island.)

March 17, 2014

On my birthday in 2012, I ran a ridiculously tough half-marathon on Geoje island. I was ill-prepared for the intense cold and massively hilly terrain. Towards the end, I stopped and walked a bit- a first for me in any run. I wanted to quit. I wanted to call Gareth, who was waiting for me at the finish line and tell him to pick me up. But I didn't. Know why? It's because I knew he wouldn't let me quit. He'd come drive along side me and talk me through it, if he had to, but he'd encourage me to not give up. I knew this. And it enabled me to walk/run my way to the finish line, where he was indeed waiting for me with a long, warm embrace and a proud kiss. I'm thinking of him like this now. At the finish line. Waiting. Telling me to keep going. You can do it, he'd say. You can do it. You've got this. Keep going.

March 17, 2014

I'm just going to keep typing it out until I don't need to anymore. That's what I'm going to do.

I have three t-shirts I brought back from Gareth's apartment. I slept in one the first few nights and then felt ready to sleep in my own clothes. Off it went to the wash and now it's just an extra t-shirt, several sizes too large.

Tonight I pulled out the navy one and put it on. I brought the front of it up to my nose and inhaled deeply. There he is. That's Gareth. I wrapped my arms around my shoulders in the best one-person embrace I'm capable of. There he is. That's Gareth.

I know what shape he took under this shirt. I know the broad shoulders. I know the soft belly. I know the expansive chest. This is where I put my head. This is where I put my head to sleep.

I'll wear this one at night until I'm ready to wear my own again. There is one more for when I need it. I will space it out. Not all at once. How long can the scent of someone remain? Into the fabric of this shirt I can breathe. I can breathe deeply and I can exhale.