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A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
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I've never done this before, this 10-month widowhood. I know what it's like to be a minutes-new widow, crying "No! No! No!" at the nurse's pronouncement that yes, Russell was dead. I know what it's like to sob and hear a sound coming from me unlike anything I've ever heard before. In the newness of grief I know what's it's like to grieve Russell's death with the added burden of grieving the inability of friends to help me when I most needed it. I know what it's like to be on permanent stun wading and reeling through the holidays until they are over and I can let my breath out again.
But even with all that experience, even with all of that, I can't breathe easy, I'm still holding my breath. I'm not in "my world", my world with my physical Russell, the world that I knew how to balance in, the world that, should it become unbalanced, I knew where to reach out to regain my balance. And I'm not in "that" world, the world that I expect I'll know some day, the world where I see myself in my post-work career, oil painting, showing my work, showing and selling prints of Russell's work, the world that Russell and I were building together for me, the world where I'm not thrown off my feet, slammed by grief again and again.
Instead, I'm in "this world", the world of the 10-month widow. What an awkward place. No longer newly widowed but not ready to go full speed, with a fist full of "firsts" to tackle before I get my "She Got Through The First Anniversary" badge of honor. Firsts like the anniversary of each of the 3 trips he took to the hospital (just passed the first of those last weekend), the anniversary of the last time I brought him home from the doctor's office, the anniversary of the last birthday of mine he was alive for.
Shoot, "this world" is still a yawning, gaping hole of grief practically willing me to fall into it. Even with all I've learned about grief and experienced during these 10 months of grief work, "this world" feels bewildering as hell. Smarter people than me will say look back and see how far you've come, how much grief work you've done. But right now in "this world" the ache feels just like it did in the beginning when I first lost "my world" and that's why it's so confusing. Because the ache is the ache.