About moving on...

Do I want to move on? The simple and honest answer is no.

If moving on means leaving her to drift away, banished to the nether reaches and deepest recesses of my memory, so I can start anew. Because I do not want to start anew.

Just a few days ago, as I was browsing my Facebook account, I came across a link shared by my boy W.  A response to a person grieving.  My son must have been thinking of me.  Or was he also similarly gripped in grief? But what caught my eye was the statement that the response is the “best Internet comment of all time.” A bold claim indeed. Might be worth a read.

http://magazine.good.is/articles/best-comment-ever

That grief hits in waves is true.  Very large ones at first and eventually diminishing. But the scars run deep, as deep as the love I feel for her. I could relate with everything written in that posting. The article offered good advice, beautifully crafted and definitely worth sharing.

I can accept that Jenny has died. In truth, I have no other choice. It is pointless to think otherwise. My mind is not capable of conjuring delusions of any sort, so this is not the time to fool myself. Even as the thought of living in this physical world where she is no longer a physical part of is uncomfortable and unreal.

Hence I am not resisting. But while I can accept the change (her absence now), and what I cannot change (bringing her back), it is too much to expect for me to just get moving on with life. And be back with the normal, as if nothing had happened.

I am not sure how long I will need to grieve. Right now it seems like I will be grieving for the rest of my life. I have read elsewhere that grief is none other than the love we feel for the person we lost. My love for Jenny has not changed with her passing. I will be grieving for a long time then.

And I will hold on to many of her things. 

Jenny’s demise was akin to a mighty ship sinking, as said in the Fb posting shared by my son. And all around me there will be floating debris, remnants of the wreckage. I need to cling on to stay afloat. To hold on to what she has left behind for me. Her photographs, to remember her various postures and expressions.  Her soft pillow and worn out cotton bolster. Now bringing me such comfort each night.  Her clothes that hang patiently in her wardrobe.

Perhaps it is too early.  Way too early. I have to accept that grief is something only that old cliché time can heal. But I am doubtful that I can ever re-claim my life and start anew.

So how do I move on, now that Jenny is no longer here to share space and time with me?

Dragging myself home from work, the house is unusually quiet. Soft clanging of utensils from our helper in the kitchen. The kids often spend long days out, at work, studying or hanging out with friends. Some days one or two or if I am lucky, all three are in. We would dine together, sometimes at the table or in front the TV. No fuss meals. They are usually cheerful, quite unlike their father who usually needs cheering up.

I would retire early into my bedroom after dinner.  Or what used to be our private chambers, the master bedroom of the house. I would spend most evenings alternating between my paperback books and browsing through other grief sites on the iPad, now a recurrent habit. Sometimes I strum my guitar. I enjoy watching music videos also or cover versions of my favourite songs to pick up new guitar tricks.

Jenny and I had spent most of our evenings together in this spacious room, where aside from our king-sized bed there is ample space for a sofa set and coffee table. Jenny had spent many relaxing hours couched on this sofa, imbibing an endless diet of Korean dramas, her favourite past-time.

I would be sitting on my side of the bed, staying clear from hers. Respectfully so. I had stashed away her large comforter blanket to spare it from collecting dust. So except for her pillow, her side of the bed looks bare and empty. It mirrors the emptiness I feel inside me.

Occasionally on Friday evenings there are invitations from friends to meet up for dinner or drinks. I could relax and even enjoy my time with them. Sometimes we chill out at pubs, where the music is loud and heavy. I could get all wrapped up in the music alone, being a music-lover at heart. But always each meeting would end with the same hollow feeling.  I remind myself to limit such bouts of carefree fun and laughter. It seems improper. It means I am not adequately mourning or thinking of her. The vibes are out of phase.

So most of my evenings are times spent by myself. These are times I look forward to and try to have more of.  By myself within the silence and sanctuary of my room I never really feel alone. In fact I feel her presence stronger than ever as every item in our room resonates with her.

So that’s how I move on.