Solo, Not So Low

“Are you lonesome tonight?

Do you miss me tonight

Are you sorry we drifted apart?

Does your memory stray to a bright summer day,

When I kissed you and called you sweetheart?” -Elvis Presley

I have spoken on this topic before, but it has been brought to the forefront in my life this week. A few years ago, my friend, Camille, helped me to identify and survive my grief after losing my husband and mother within a six-month period. She helped me see that each person’s grief process is individual and personal. There is no set end date for grief. Many times, there is no end to it. There is just a lessening of its grip on our hearts and souls and life energy. A large part of grief is loneliness. You know, the kind you feel in a room full of people. When you are alone, you probably recognize memories filling the emptiness and quiet, but when you are around others whose lives are swirling and gliding, you know you are in a different dimension, unable to navigate the active world that others consider normal.

“Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and bare?

Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there?

Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again?

Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?” -Elvis Presley

I once listened to a podcast about aging. It was an eye-opener. The speaker described Elder Orphans as those who live alone, not by choice, but by circumstance. They have lost a significant other and, probably, their children have moved away and have moved on with their lives. Also, due to increasing age and decreasing health, Elder Orphans become unwilling hermits. For over ten years, my first husband became more and more physically incapacitated, eventually draining the life-energy out of him. I spent the last five years of his life actively grieving the life we planned and would never have. My second husband had a hidden cancer that finally showed itself, masquerading as a flu virus, keeping him in bed. After a week, he decided he needed to try and get up. He walked down the hallway and sat at his painting chair, in front of a canvas he had been working on. I left him for seconds, fetching his glasses, and in just those precious moments, he was gone.

Loneliness is something we all experience at one time or another. Tack on regrets: what I could have done, what I might have done, what I should have done. Sprinkle in some bad advice given by good people, trying to be helpful: “You will be fine”, “Just think happy thoughts”, “Stop crying and start smiling”, and, my favorite, “Aren’t you over it yet?” I lost my first husband when I was 49 years old. Obviously, I was able to move on with my life but, just the other day some moment in my day made me think of him; a bittersweet memory that sent tears down my cheeks.

Do not let anyone tell you, “Just stop.” You keep grieving in your own personal way, without the guilt. We put enough guilt on ourselves without piling on more. My friend, Camille lost her precious adult daughter, the light of her life. She grieved for ten years before the pain finally began to lessen enough so that she could begin to enjoy her own life. She is not done grieving. She will carry grief with her throughout the rest of her life, but she has begun to enjoy the rest of her life.

So, what does the rest of your life look like? You eventually get up and make yourself some tomato soup and try to make yourself drink it. You finally take a shower and then allow yourself a four-hour nap because you are exhausted. You repeat. You walk around in the emptiness and silence until, one day, you ask Alexa about the weather report. Then you put on some soft, classical guitar music. Then you turn it off and take another nap, holding a tear-stained pillow. Little by little, in your own time, you begin to return to the world. It’s not the same world, but it is familiar. You learn to navigate this different world. You begin to navigate the sadness that attacks you without warning. You make cream of chicken soup, and you drink it.

I usually end my blog posts on a happy or funny note but I don’t think I will today. When you are in a car accident and your left leg has been broken in three places, and you have had two surgeries, and you are in a cast, in traction, you are not happy. There is nothing funny to see. But you will, eventually, heal. Grief is that broken leg. You may not be the athlete you once were, but you will be back in the land of the living again.