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Scheduled Grief

Posted on: August 16, 2016 | Posted by: Mike Welker

http://widowsvoice.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/50-percent-gray.jpgI sat down last night to begin my writing for this week, and I had nothing.  No anecdotes, no significant events, not even any special lessons I learned this past week as it pertains to grief or mourning.  I stared at the screen for hours, adding a few paragraphs, reading over them, then deleting them.

Finally, as midnight drew near, I closed my laptop and went to bed.  I had no more energy to write, and the words weren’t flowing either way.  

Writing here for Soaring Spirits gives me the opportunity to share my perspectives and lessons learned with a wide audience.  Every Tuesday, I hope that something I’ve written helps at least one person through a tough time or is something they can relate to and say “me too”.

But sometimes, it is just not there.  The flip-side to writing every Tuesday is that, well, sometimes Tuesday isn’t when I’m emotional or grieving.  Tuesday isn’t always preceded by a week of memories, anniversaries, first-time-since-Megan events, or milestones in Shelby or I’s lives.  Sometimes, Tuesday is just Tuesday.  

I’m not always grieving.  In fact, it’s not often that I am in a heavy fog of grief.  There are periods of time where my mind is much more focused on work, Shelby, Sarah, home projects, or the upcoming weekend.  Megan crosses my mind at least once, daily, but not to the extent that I have to stop and take a moment.  Just as her birthday, or our anniversary fill me with emotion, so too does a random week bring no real poignant thoughts.

And so sometimes, it feels as if I need to “schedule” my grief.  I have to hope that when Monday evening rolls around, that something occurred in the past week or two that I can write about, and relate to people.  I write to an audience of primarily widows.  Writing about Shelby, Sarah and I’s upcoming camping trip wouldn’t be all that meaningful, given the context.   It has nothing to do with losing Megan, grief, mourning, or loss.  It’s just a camping trip, with no metaphors or lessons to be learned.  

Even more so, sharing about Sarah and I’s lives together brings a bit of guilt.  Yes, I’ve been told that it brings hope to people that feel they are ready to begin a second chapter, but just the same, I know there are widows and widowers out there that feel there is no hope, or have no desire to have another relationship.  It feels like bragging and/ or oversharing.

More often than not, I tend to sit down and stare at a blinking cursor for a while, trying to “write to the audience”.  Most of the time, it works out, and I remember an event that happened in the past few days that MEANS something.  There are instances though, such as this, where my mind is blank.  Where Megan is still gone…and that’s about it.  Where all I can write about is having nothing to write about, and keep it brief.

I suppose that’s a good thing.  

 

Categories: Widowed, Widowed Emotions, Widowed Therapy

About Mike Welker

Three months after my discharge from the Marine Corps, at 22 years old, I met my wife Megan, on December 10th, 2002. The very next day, I was drawn like a moth to a flame into dealing with a long term, terminal illness. Megan had Cystic Fibrosis, and after 8 years or declining health, she received a double lung transplant, and a new lease o life. Our daughter Shelby was born in 2007. In early 2014, those recycled lungs, which had brought our little family three years of uncomplicated health and happiness, finally began to give out. She died from chronic organ transplant rejection on November 19th, 2014 while I held her hand and let her go. I'm a single father and widower at 34 years old, and no one has published a manual for it. I don't fit the mold, because there is no mold. I "deal with it" through morbid humor, inappropriateness, anger, and the general vulgarity of the 22 year old me, as if I never grew up, but temper it with focus on raising a tenacious, smart, and strong woman in Shelby. I try to live as if Megan is still here with us, giving me that sarcastic stare because yet again, I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

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