Another Thanksgiving

A journey through grief

When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t help but notice the weight sitting on my chest. Perhaps saying it was residing deep within my chest would be a better depiction of what I was feeling… what I am still feeling as I write these words.

It’s Thanksgiving Day… and I have much for which to be thankful. That is abundantly clear.

I have my health.

Breath within my lungs.

Three incredible sons.

Work I enjoy.

Roof over my head.

A (mostly) able body.

Accessible, abundant love.

And so much more for which I am thankful… not just today, every day.

I also have a mind that is thickly-clouded by the thoughts of a life now past, a husband now dead, a dream now deferred… well, denied. Like no other fog I have experienced on this grief journey, whatever it is in which I am now engulfed, is wielding more power than I am able to offset.

As I sit at my desk, moving my eyes from one screen to another (there are three before me… a set up that Peter built for himself… a set up I have inherited), I can feel the muscles of my neck rotating my head from side to side only to find that my eyes and the communication they transfer to my brain lag behind. It’s as if this simple action, one I have done a billion other times, now requires additional time and attention in order to align my mind and my sight.

And let me tell you… it not only feels incredibly odd… it’s damn annoying.

A big part of me wants to sit before my computer and be as productive as our society deems necessary for those who are seen as vital. And yet… two things keep me from that.

First, well… today’s Thanksgiving… a holiday. I should shut the computer off, log off my email and open one of the countless books I want to be reading. I could have watched the Macy’s parade… and didn’t. I could have watched the National Dog Show… and didn’t.

The second thing (or collection of things) keeping me from my usual ability to focus… the fog, the weight in my chest, the depression (if I may self-diagnose) and the grief combine and do their best to keep me from focusing and accomplishing the things upon which I wish to pin my attention.

In fact, this feeling, these incapacitating visceral experiences have been slowly creeping in. As I look back over the previous weeks, I see moment after moment where they have begun to settle in. Moments where my attention to a project, attention to details waned. Times when procrastination won out over diligent efforts to accomplish even the simplest things.

The weight in my chest has been growing. The fog in my mind has been descending. And something within me has tried to simply push it aside… not acknowledging what it is and where it’s coming from.

It’s grief. Of this I am certain.

I recall within my grief journey, over the course of the first year after Peter’s death… checking off a series of “first,”

First Anniversary since Peter’s death…

First Christmas without Peter…

First round of the boys’ birthdays with only one parent at the table…

I also recall something someone said to me… “the second time around is just as painful… if not worse.”

I couldn’t believe that could be true. Surely waking up on these important days in a bed where two once slept and finding Peter’s side still empty would have the most substantial effect on me the first time around. Surely if I could make it through each of these milestones as the surviving spouse, the years to follow would be easier.

Clearly that’s not the case… at least for me. Sure, there may be those out there who have lost a partner or spouse and find navigating that loss getting slightly easier as years pass. And perhaps that will one day be my experience.

But today… this Thanksgiving. Yeah, no! The grief that comes with knowing that our Thanksgiving dinner will be shared at a table with our three boys and only one of their dads is a weight I’ve not yet had to carry… not even on the second time waking up on our anniversary.

Maybe it’s compounded with the loneliness that comes each Thanksgiving in our family’s life. With limited family connections… only two, in fact… the majority of Thanksgiving meals shared over the years have been just me, Peter and the boys.

It’s a lonely existence, to be completely honest. And I can’t help but think of what our boys miss out on when each of these celebrations finds us alone… with one another.

And yes… we did receive an invitation to share the day with others. And that invitation was greatly appreciated… and declined. It was a kind, sincere, and loving invitation. However, something deep within my chest told me that I would not be a dinner guest for which the host would be very thankful. No one wants to intentionally invite depression to the table.

So I’m here… with our boys. A store-bought lasagna is nearly finished in the oven and the garlic bread will go in soon.

I’ll sit at the table with our boys, very thankful for them and for the life we share.

I will be thankful for the many years Peter sat across from me at that meal.

I will be thankful that for just over a year, I have been able to get out of bed each day, shower (most days) and function.

And I will be thankful as I consider the prospect of these special days getting easier… one day… eventually.

Today just isn’t that day.

So yes… this Thanksgiving I have much for which to be thankful… and a lot less for which to be happy.

I’m thankful tomorrow will be another day… one with less emotional weight attached to it. And I’m hopeful the fog will lift, the thing in my chest will subside and the depression will find its place high upon a shelf, only to return again… though hopefully with less frequency.

I’m thankful the day will end… and a new one will begin.