“Life Goes On”

One of the stock phrases I often heard was, “After all, life goes on.”  That is a well-intentioned sentence for the most part, but it is patently false.  First, Anne’s life in this world most definitely does NOT go on.  Anne is dead.  Indeed I have many wonderful memories of her.  I am working with great energy and joy to recover and record as many of those memories as possible—not only for me, but for future family and friends, and for the world that has lost a wonderful person.  But those are memories.  Those are not Anne.  Those are images, not the person.  Life does not go on.

Second, our life together did not go on.  For thirty-one years I was married to a wonderful woman, flame of my passion, the beating of my heart.  Now that marriage is at an end.  I would have wished for much more, as I know would Anne.  But we have completed our journey together.  We have fulfilled our vows “until death parts us.”  I am a widower, and she rests with Jesus.  I have remarried and am deliriously happy in that second marriage as well.  

The life we had does not go on.  And to pretend that it does simply creates even more pain than I already experience.  So I work at letting that life go.

Third, the life I now have is not more of what I used to have.  Instead, I now have a “new” life.  That newness is in the sense of a life that is qualitatively different, not just another chapter of the same old stuff.  I am profoundly changed by this loss—spiritually, emotionally, intellectually and in terms of life directions.  The hopes we had for our future together died with Anne.  This does not mean that I died with Anne, although a part of me certainly did.  What it does mean is that I follow the Lord of the Resurrection.  And what I experience now is a new life.

So life does not go on.  Instead, one must decide how to embrace the adventure and challenge of a new life—mostly not of one’s own choosing.

In addition, it is not clear to me that some around me wanted life to “go on.”  As they dealt with their own grief over Anne’s death, they could not bear the thought of anything that might be a further reminder of her absence.  So they resisted and judged changes that I might begin to make simply to survive another.  What, you’ve sorted through her clothes already?  How could you do that?  I did it because it hurt too much to have those empty dresses and suits hanging there as grim reminders that the owner had departed the premises.

What?  You’re not going to have the holidays like we used to?  I loved all the decorations she put up, the way she made the house so festive.  Yes, I must admit grudgingly, I did as well.  But hanging wreaths and tinsel did nothing to bring her back and did everything to make the pain so much worse.  I left the decorations in the plastic tubs in the closet under the stairs because that’s where they could hurt me the least.  I couldn't have them nipping away at my tender wounds like carrion birds at a fresh kill.

It seemed that for some around me, the options were simple.  I could do things that reduced my pain, at least for a little while, and they could be uncomfortable.  Or I could live in the midst of my pain and make no changes, while they remained relatively unfazed.  For some, the choice was clear: I was already suffering.  Why should they have to share in that process?  Keep everything the same.  Don’t upset the apple cart, they say.  Give it some time.  You’ll feel better in a year or two or three.  In the meantime, we can get on with our lives with relatively little fuss and muss.  This is your loss, they said—you are the one who should deal with the pain, not us.  All the while I lay there bleeding and wishing that I could just die and get it over with.

Your life may go on mostly as it did before if you are not the bereaved.  You don’t have to mail out death certificates with your spouse’s name on them.  You don’t have to explain to telemarketers and credit card companies and fitness centers and everyone else in creation that she’s dead.  You don’t have to roll over in the middle of the night, reach out, and grab an armful of air.  You don’t have to remove her name from legal documents or change your life insurance beneficiaries.  Your life does go on.  Ours did not.

For me, it was a new life or no life.  I didn't know what that new life might look like early on.  But it would not be much like my old life.  I knew that would make others uncomfortable.  I knew it would make others' grief worse for a while.  I was so sorry about that.  It hurs me to know that I would make others hurt more.  But I didn't know what else to do.  I was so lonesome I could die.  But I didn't want to.  I wanted help to find a new life, even if it hurt those around me some.