A few weeks after Lauren died, a friend of mine showed up at the house with a tray of his well-regarded chicken parm.
As we ate in the kitchen that afternoon, we talked about Lauren, about how tragic it was that she died so young, with such young children; we talked about the lousy weather and about the football playoffs. He told me I needed to take a trip out to the casino with him one of these weekends.
The conversation slowed and we finished our lunch. My friend got up to leave, and as he did, he gave me a hug and said, "Look, buddy, you had a lot of great years with Lauren, she was a great woman. It's sad what happened. But it's one chapter of your life; you'll have to live some new chapters now. You'll have to move on."
I thanked him for the food, and for bringing enough of it to last me and the kids a couple of days. Yeah, I said. I'll have to move on. Right. Got it.
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.
A few days ago I wrote a diary detailing a particularly bad day my oldest son had just experienced and in the comments, someone wrote something along the lines of, well, it looks like the son has moved on even if you have not.
This comment got me thinking about the concept of "moving on" and brought to mind my friend's comment in my kitchen what seems like fifty years ago. For that day in the kitchen, I was convinced that the whole idea of moving on was a joke for someone who had suffered an earth-shattering loss, as I had. I mean, I had lost, with very little notice and under a fairly brutal bioethical nightmare scenario, my wife, my partner, the mother of my three children, the very center of my life. This, I thought, was not something one "moved on" from and indeed, for a long time after Lauren died, I didn't expect to ever truly be happy again. I thought that whereas once my life was something I deeply savored, whatever remained of it would be something I could only hope to endure.
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It was four years ago yesterday that Lauren lost her life.
On the first anniversary of Lauren's death, I literally spent five or six hours lying on my side, on the kitchen floor, sobbing, while Bailey was in school and Evie and Riley watched Elmo videos.
This year, on the anniversary of her death, I made homemade ravioli, homemade fettucine, sauce and meatballs, and my Nana's spicy oatmeal cake. The cake was something of a tribute to Lauren; she loved when my Nana made it and got the recipe off of her. The recipe I worked off of yesterday is written in Lauren's hand.
Seeing that flowing, elegant handwriting of hers brought me comfort, brought me a smile. As I worked in the kitchen, a glass of red wine always within easy reach and favorite tunes playing within earshot, at times I thought back to random memories of my life with Lauren; a few times, I thought back to the night she died, of the awful moments in that godawful room in the ICU where she spent the last twenty three days of her life. And those memories stung, yes.
But I realized, as I drifted off to sleep last night, that I hadn't even cried all day.
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Does this mean I've moved on? Does the fact that I've fallen in love again, got married again, mean I've moved on? Can I even say what it means to move on?
My mother's brother died on September 11, 1960. Last year, on the fiftieth anniversary of his passing, she told me that there's not a day that goes by that she doesn't think of him.
Fifty years, and she still thinks of him every day.
I like that idea.
I still think of Lauren every day, and I like the idea of thinking of her every day for decades to come. I figure she deserves that much.
Maybe we never do move on. Or maybe I don't like the concept of it. Maybe to me it implies moving along and leaving the lost brother, the lost sister, the lost child, the lost parent, the lost partner, alone on a cold field of the unremembered. This seems impossible to me; surely all of us carry the departed we loved somewhere in our hearts forever.
So I don't know if I've moved on. This I do know: I am truly happy again. Never thought I'd see the day, but it is here, and I plan on reveling in this sunshine for as long as it lasts.