Right now- this hour- is a good hour, in an average day within a difficult week in a better-than-average year. This is the nature of grief- by the hour, by the day, by the week, by the year.
Some hours I cannot be or do. Some weeks I cannot be or do. Recently I could not be or do for weeks because I was paralysed into inaction due to the extraordinary yearning I had for Ruby that was breaking my heart all over again. It was physically painful- the yearning- my chest gaped, grabbing for her again. There were some minutes, some hours too, that my legs could barely support the heaviness of me as something, the Earth maybe, pulled me into it. There were some minutes, some hours too, that I wanted to be pulled into the Earth. And I would have if I could dissolve and permeate through the floor as I wished I could.
The yearning can be immense, sometimes monstrously, for a minute, for an hour, sometimes longer. I gape but nothing comes into me so I close my chest, I fold my arms back in, I breathe again. What am I to do? Everything passes.
Right now, this hour, I can write this. This is a good hour.
It was the anniversary recently- Ruby died five years ago- and the unexpectedness of grief surprised us again.
In the run up to the anniversary each year Claire and I habitually plan a day of relaxed order and simple goals. In the early years we cycled or hiked around the hills, being active and healthy and helping others by raising money for charity. During the recent anniversaries we instead arranged to meet family at the only significant location connected with Ruby- a bench with her name on in her favourite park (Crawfordsburn Forest)- for a stroll and lunch and then Claire and I would do our own thing for the day, picking up Tom from school, trying to have fun, normal stuff.
I felt a little different this year, less sure of my sadness, yearning less, more in charge. I had experienced an inexplicably tough few weeks before this and thought that maybe I had been subjected to my allocated quantity of grief for this anniversary period already. In the run up to the day itself my mood was stable and I was able to cope with stresses better than in previous years. I was confident, I could be a rock to others. The day itself was relatively uneventful, my mood was flat and I was seemingly unaffected by the weight of occasion.
But for a week after that day I became anxious and irritable and thereafter I was angry that I had lost control of my emotions, assuming I ever really had control. I shouldn't have been surprised that this anxiety kicked me when I was feeling confidently in charge- during grief one should always expect the unexpected- but I was initially angry with myself for losing my autonomy. It's five years down the line, I'm seasoned, I know what to do, I'm a mental health professional but the sudden impotence was jarring.
So I was anxious for a few days and truth be told, pretty shitty to be around. Claire deserved a holiday from me, a couple of work colleagues exercised great patience and restraint because of my insolence and, even though I genuinely tried as hard as I could I was no fun for Tom to be with for a while. The lack of control over my mood and my anxiety angered me, even the potential for self-actualisation seemed unattainable.
And then, as suddenly as it had dissipated, a sense of insight and freedom returned. Just a day to start with, a warmer connectedness to myself and a gentler treatment of my guilt and discomfort. Gradually, over a few days, I became more me (almost "more human" but then what is more human than grief and its peculiarities?) and I returned to a sense of routine and familiarity. I was post-anniversary. And a strange one it was too in its own way with its own identity.
Maybe I was complacent before the anniversary, assuming I could cope without the active input of insightful coping mechanisms. Or maybe I wasn't complacent- we had made plans after all, we had discussed how we felt, what we wanted from the day- but instead I had simply been affected by the unpredictable nature of grief.
Whatever the reason for my difficulties on this year's anniversary I am to remain vigilant during important dates and I must, of course, expect the unexpected.
I remain without Ruby. But right now, this hour on this day, I can write this and that's OK.
