Now What?

~ rdicarne

Well, I survived the holidays – went through the motions at least. As expected, my heart wasn’t really into the holidays this year, but I did my best to put on a good front for my grandchildren. After all, who wants to put a damper on Santa’s visit?  

When NYE rolled around, I did in fact make myself shrimp scampi over tri-color penne.  If I do say so myself, it wasn’t bad – certainly not as tasty as Chuck’s but pretty good for someone who hasn’t cooked in over 20 years. I think he would have been proud.

The holidays have come to a close, decorations are slowly being taken down, and life moves on. The world around me seems focused on returning to regular routines or making resolutions for personal improvement.  Not me, though. You see, when you step into a new year without your person, you aren’t sure what you are supposed to do.  I didn’t want 2025 to end, because it would always be the last year that Chuck was physically present in our lives, the last time I laughed with him, the last time I held his hand, so many lasts.  I wanted to hold onto those “lasts.” But time moves on with or without you.

Yesterday, I went back to school.  Boy, did that 5:30 alarm sound extra harsh after so many alarmless mornings!  Going back to my routine was anything but normal because there is nothing “normal” in my life without Chuck.  Grief is a heaviness you carry with you every day, all day.  It is a weight that you carry in your heart, in your head, in your bones. When Chuck lost his life, mine changed forever. I lost my identity as a wife and am not sure what my new identity as a widow will be.  

Life as I knew it will never be the same; I will never be the same.  There is a sadness that has settled into every cell of my being that wasn’t there before. Yet I am still here, plugging away each day, attempting to do all the things. Weariness has become a new best friend who hits me every evening, tying me to the chair and leaving me unable to do much more than eat dinner.

Grief is a beast.  It crashes in on you in unexpected waves, taking you to your knees.  There is nothing anyone can say or do to help with the process. It is just something I have to go through without a road map.  It is not something anyone wants to experience, yet it is the result of great love. So if this is the price I have to pay for having Chuck in my life for almost 52 years, for loving him, for being loved by him, for building a beautiful family and life with him – then so be it.

Don’t get me wrong – I hate every part of this grief journey so far, but I am hoping I will learn to let grief live next to me and not consume me. I hope my days will become less tear-filled and more joy-filled as time goes on. I still don’t know how I am supposed to function in this world without Chuck by my side, and I still don’t know what “normal” will look like for me, but I am working on it.

17 thoughts on “Now What?”

  1. Rita, I feel your sorrow, the daily walk with grief, and the loneliness. My husband passed away within less than a month on April 2nd. To make matters worse, I fractured my ankle in late October and am stumbling all the time trying to find a way to make each day viable for my disabled son and me. Last month, I knew it was time for a bereavement counselor. Yesterday was my first session which was good but today the grief came right back. Know that you have friends to listen especially those who write. I am choosing one word to guide me on my spiritual journey. Have you tried this. The Spiritual Journey community organized by Margaret Simon is posting blogs on our OLW by tomorrow. Join us if you think it will be a place for you. May you be blessed as you move forward.

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    1. Rita, your slice is filled with deep emotions and raw thoughts that walk beside you. The word widow is a difficult one to utter but you have experienced love throughout your life. I am glad that you are trying to center your thoughts. I stand with you in faith.

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  2. Oh, Rita, my heart aches for you. Grief is an unwelcome companion. But like you, I realize grief is overwhelming because our love was so great. And like you, I am thankful for that love, even though intense grief has been “the price.” You’ve inspired me to look back through the grieving drafts I wrote in the darkest days. Perhaps it is time to share them. Sending a virtual hug to you.

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  3. I am so grateful for your brave writing life, the way you’ve welcomed us into grief and helped us understand. This sentence is sticking with me: “I am hoping I will learn to let grief live next to me and not consume me.” Oh, Rita – I wish that for you, and I hope writing is one way you push back against being consumed. Sending you care.

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  4. Rita,

    These words resonated with me:

    “Grief is a heaviness you carry with you every day, all day. It is a weight that you carry in your heart, in your head, in your bones.”

    It’s easy to forget how physical grief is. It’s exhausting.

    Thank you for writing so clearly of your grief and of your love for Chuck. I’m sure he’s proud of your NYE cooking.

    Sending peace and love.

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  6. Rita–my heart goes out to you as I sniff back tears. I haven’t walked in your shoes, but know how important that person is in my own life. Writing helps I think–I hear you, acknowledge your pain, and know through your words that you will find your way to keep grief from consuming you. Glad you made the shrimp scampi–I’m sure Chuck was proud! Sending love. Kim

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  7. Fita,

    I wish I had the words to ease your pain. I don’t. I hope you feel the love and care of friends and family near and far. I know no one can fix grief, but I do think meditation, yoga, stretching can offer some physical relief. I love the Down Dog app because I can choose calming routines that offer both physical and emotional release. Peace.

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  8. Oh, Rita. There’s no easy way to put it. Grief is…kind of a JERK. And it comes to sit with us in those big and terrible times, and it comes, sneaking up to catch us in those small and unexpected moments.

    I can relate to that first day back after a difficult loss. I remember both wanting people to acknowledge my loss, and also to not say anything to me – I had no way of knowing how I would respond, or whether that would ruin me for the day.

    As for normal, yeah. A big loss feels like both a presence and a deep absence, all at the same time. So I have no platitudes or anything like that, just the assurance that you are not alone. ❤

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