Living a day at a time

I have learned to just take a day at a time and not think too much about the future.

Some days I get on better, some days, not so good. Mornings are usually the hardest. It is not possible to fool the sub-conscious mind, I suppose. Sleep, if it does come would be rattled by restless dreams. Waking up each morning to that familiar deflated feeling makes it hard to be too excited with the dawning of another new day, regardless of what I had planned to do.

I know well by now that grief would come in waves, and the ebbs and flow could be unpredictable. At the beginning grief surges like a tidal wave and I experience a constant bombardment of pain and even panic attacks that stifled my breathing and pounded my heart. The wave patterns are thankfully now less frequent but it also gets harder to tell when I would be next hit.

Even as over time the storm and turmoil within me might subside there is also a fear that with time, my long endearing years with Jenny would slowly fade away, becoming distant memories of the past, growing faint and weak.

It is a disturbing imagery. I picture her stranded at sea, on a piece of flotsam that is drifting further and further from me till I could barely see her disappearing into the horizon. It is for this reason that I make conscious effort to refresh my mind of our time together – little snippets and moments that we had shared together And there is so much to recall – routine, banal things we do at home or on outings, what her response would be when we had our disagreements, how we dealt with the kids when they fell out of line and a host of other family issues.

Jenny has passed on but I am not ready to let her go. Let it go, let it go. There is this song from the animated movie Frozen that a colleague have the habit of chanting whenever there is a need to defuse tense situations at work. But for now this song does not resonate so well with me.

For most part of the day I must admit feeling quite normal and fine. I started the day with a slow but sprightly jog, opting not to miss my usual Saturday morning exercise routine despite a drizzle. I got back in time to bring my daughter for her dental check-up and shop for the week’s provisions.

Later in the afternoon I plugged my guitar into the amp to practise. There would be a staff performance in the national day observation ceremony taking place in the follow week and yours truly would be providing the guitar accompaniment. Our 8-member staff troupe would be doing a rendition of Dick Lee’s “Home”, which is one of the better national day songs, and a favourite amongst even the musically-stone deaf.  It would be just one song but lack of stage experience might well see me screwing up the show by striking a wrong chord or playing out of rhythm. That would be an epic embarrassment and a major let-down for my other singing colleagues.

I went on to strum and warble a few other familiar favourites – “Horse with no name”, “Eleanor Rigby” and then Gordon Lightfoot’s “Changes”.  This ballad was one of my favourite Gordon Lightfoot number.  GL, if you have not heard of him is a Canadian music legend, now an aging singer with strings of hits under his belt.  “Changes” is not one of his biggest, but its bright but slightly melancholic tune and poignantly meaningful lyrics resonated with me.  It has always served as a tender reminder that change is part of the cycle of life and we need to be braced for it.

But Jenny’s passing was not just a change, it was a seismic upheaval and no less. The song comprises 5 short verses with a short guitar rift in between. When I reached the last verse wavelets of sadness started to build up and very quickly surged into a tidal swell, taking hold and overwhelming me.

     Your tears will be trembling while we’re somewhere else
     One last cup of wine we will pour
     I’ll kiss you one more time and leave you on the rolling river shore of changes

I sank back, slumping on the sofa, eyes tearing and find myself questioning again. Why does she have to die? I am not prepared for such a change. Her loss is too heavy a burden to bear.

It would not be possible to continue with music-making. My old guitar would take a rest for now. Slumped against the sofa, leaning with my teary eyes gazing at the bare ceiling, I sat for some time thinking about her.  If I have to leave her forever on the rolling river shore of changes, then I am not prepared for this change. The images of Jenny floating away into the horizon came back all over again.

I suppose after 107 days (yes, I still keep count of the days) of mourning for my dearest Jenny, I have learnt to salvage myself from sinking too deeply in such situations.  I have taken to journaling and I knew that I may need to write about this experience. But this time, I thought that a change of scene and a breath of fresh air may be good for me.  I got out of the house with my computer and drove to a small swanky restaurant at Dempsey Hill and after a simple but delectable meal, while slurping on mango smoothie I worked on this next posting.

I had recently also joined a Facebook group on mourning.  There was a call for sharing of music that had touched our lives so I added in a Youtube link for Gordon Lightfoot’s “Changes” to share with other members in the group. I felt better during the drive back.

It is too early to say that I have transcended grief.  But I am taking small steps to help myself live with it. 

Each day would pose new challenges.  I have heard from others that time would heal all the wounds, but right now I find that rather unbelievable.  I don’t think I could ever triumph over the sorrow of losing my wife.  There is only one Jenny and is gone. It is hard to fathom and much harder to accept.

So grief will come calling again and next time, it could be like a tsunami.  But next time is in the future. For now, the future is not yet. I will just take a day at a time.