9 months after husband’s death, ‘stabs to the heart’ start to grow less painful
%20sent.jpg "Columnist Kathe Tanner is still grieving her husband, Richard, who died in December 2020.")
After my husband Richard died nine months ago, many familiar things around me were like stabs to the heart.
Seeing his picture, his black cowboy hat or his beloved opals was a painful experience. Even trying to watch “Jeopardy!” without him or Alex Trebek hurt.
If I walked into a restaurant or a group by myself, I’d feel the void of not having Richard there beside me with his hand on my waist.
Something funny would remind me of one of the hundreds of shared, private jokes we had. Or I’d hear the song “You Needed Me.”
I could no longer share with him that intense “South Pacific” look “across the crowded room.”
All those lovingly intimate instances, gone.
A few months after Richard’s death, I thought I knew when to expect most of those nostalgic jolts. I rationalized that, as long as I kept myself busy, I could usually roll through them emotionally intact.
Then something would come out of the blue to smite my fragile, evolving sense of self as I was adapting to being a single person, rather than half of a long-devoted couple.
The unexpected reality check might have been something as simple as using my landline to call my cellphone — because I’d misplaced the latter, again.
Then the caller ID voice would announce that Richard Tanner was phoning me, just as his name popped up on my cellphone’s incoming-call log.
Or my online calendar would prompt me to do something for Richard. Stubborn Microsoft Outlook still won’t let me remove those recurring reminders.
Facebook’s really good at bad timing, unexpectedly flashing a photo of him from years ago.
Pangs of grief gradually grow less painful
However, as more time has passed, those emotional incisions and others have become — dare I say it — less painful and almost comforting.
I still have blue days, of course.
But many things that caused such pain nine months ago are now gentle reminders of things we did together: Momentous occasions. Everyday tasks. The life we shared. The love we shared.
All of these are happy thoughts. And most days, I can smile about them.
In The Tribune, an author recently wrote that grief is what’s left of the person you love after they die. Your continuing love for them, and how much you miss them, means that you’re not really alone.
They’re still here with you in those memories.
If Richard had never been part of my life, if I had never been loved him so much, not having him here wouldn’t hurt so intensely.
It is, in a weird sense, a tribute to who he was and how important he was to us … and always will be.
While the grief will change and moderate through the months and years, I’m told that it never leaves.
Maybe that’s reassuring in a way.
Do our loved ones stay with us?
Martha Whitmore Hickman wrote in her book “Daily Meditations for Working Through Grief” that when people we love die, they stay in our hearts and minds forever.
“We can summon the memories of them at will, and even when we’re not consciously thinking of them, they seem almost as integral to our being as our skin, or a comfortable robe we wrap ourselves in at the end of a busy and tiring day,” she wrote.
I take that concept one step further each night, by wrapping myself in one of Richard’s favorite robes, shirts or jackets.
When I look at the many photos of him that I’ve scattered around the house, or the ones on Facebook, I smile and talk to him about my day while remembering where and when the pictures were taken.
Is it his spirit I feel surrounding me? Or is the love I will always have for him keeping him alive for me?
I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s often reassuring now, rather than disabling.
These days, comfort can show up in strange places, even in those things that caused such pain before.
Today, I smiled when the phone rang and little Miss Name Mangler said “Richard Tanner.” I remembered how that always made him laugh, because he was sitting right there beside me.
The Outlook reminders? They can stay. They’re pleasant little flashbacks about things we shared.
Besides, by trying to eradicate them, I’d only infuriate myself again with my internet ineptitude.
None of these are lessons I ever wanted to learn, but they come to all of us eventually.
Pictures and memories help keep Richard alive for me now. Sometimes they’re painful, sometimes comforting, sometimes bittersweet — all at the same time.
Looking ahead
Someday maybe the pain will be gone. Maybe not.
As Hickman wrote in her book, “Years from now, I may agree that grief flies away in time. But don’t push me.”
Recently, San Luis Obispo County photographer Brittany App posted a quote from Brian Jacques’ fantasy novel “The Taggerung.” He wrote that “a wounded heart will heal in time, and when it does, the memory and love of our lost ones is sealed inside to comfort us.”
Life continues to evolve in the grieving process.
Meanwhile, my Richard continues to live on in those many memories and reminders that are finally beginning to be as comforting now as they were painful not so long ago.
