A Journey of Grief
Some things in life have useful parallels. Losing a mobile phone might help us empathise with someone who loses their laptop but rarely are our experiences exactly the same, and there is always a uniqueness to our emotions, coloured by our attachment to what is lost. When it comes to the death of a spouse, no previous life experience, including the loss of other loved ones, quite prepared me for the overwhelming effects of such an event. But this is my story – a brief overview of how grief affected me and how I tried to manage it. Your experience will differ, but be assured that life soon vanishes away, hence the pressing need to love others and let them know of that love while today lasts.
My beloved wife, Ethel, and I enjoyed 37 years of a wonderfully happy marriage. At least that’s how I saw it. I hope she did too! Even her previous survival of cancer on two occasions and her significantly declining health over three years did not prepare me for what seemed an awful, sudden separation upon her death in 2021.
After her passing, the feelings of grief were intense and devastating. I was very fortunate. I had married an exceptional woman. We had many great shared memories. We had three daughters who lived nearby. I had a supportive Church community. One or two trusted friends were willing listeners, with whom I could share my innermost thoughts – though I felt awkward doing so. Even then, none of these, not even the sum of them, seemed to ease the immeasurable sorrow I felt.
Initially, the grief came in what seemed like never-ending torrents and, as time passed, later became waves (just as painful) that would crash onto me without warning. Bumping into someone, seeing a dress in a shop, hearing a piece of music, watching a grandchild that Ethel had never lived to see – all of these and more would bring on the tears. Nearly four years after Ethel’s departure, the frequency of intense grief has decreased, but the unpredictable onset of weeping for her continues with similar intensity. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though. Love does that to you.
I felt like an incomplete person. Ethel had been my 24/7 support group! Now part of me was missing. As time passed, it only reinforced how settled my past had been. Now I felt disconnected from reality. I was living in some kind of dream, mainly a nightmare, save for the saving, divine light that I felt holding onto me. But even that didn’t erase feelings of not wanting to carry on. A loving bishop visited and said how well I was doing just getting out of bed and getting dressed. That heartened me. Some days I didn’t even manage that.
Some of my confidence was gone. Talking about how I felt was difficult – what if I suddenly burst into tears? I worried about appearing weak. I worried about burdening others with my grief. I sat and worried that I worried too much! My physical existence was severely disrupted too. Going to bed between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m. had become the norm. It seemed that when the rest of my world had gone quiet, I could then fully grieve over my loss. It was my time with Ethel – precious and painful.
I had never received professional counseling before. I had always thought – erroneously – that I should be able to resolve my own problems by myself. But I struggled so much that I took up the offer from a local hospice. The counseling proved helpful, but after five sessions, I felt we had gone as far as we could, and I took a break.
Six months after Ethel died, then at nine months, then at two years, I wrote down my feelings. Keeping a daily journal has been a source of comfort. Between nine and twelve months after Ethel’s passing, I decided to ‘get back out there’ by joining a social group and a travel group. That lasted about a month before I realised my heart wasn’t ready. I felt the impression to attend the temple regularly. Despite the initial pain, this proved a great strength to me.
There was a lot of ‘ice breaking’ – attending the first ward activity alone, the first holiday alone. Despite my best efforts, after eighteen months, I felt I was treading water. A Church friend asked me: "What is your greatest fear?" I answered: "That I will always feel the way I feel now." I have great faith that I will be with Ethel again, but I also knew she would want me to be happy. I had to try to move forward, accepting false starts and setbacks.
I sought more help and contacted a bereavement support group. Six video sessions with a counselor named Emma were transformative. I learned to open up and to be more vulnerable.
The impact of those willing to listen and love me has been significant. The light of human compassion striving to convey the pure love of Christ is a wonderful power.
As time progresses, I still sometimes struggle to understand what I truly feel and want. My relationship with my Heavenly Father and my Saviour has become deeper. The companionship of the Holy Ghost has been a lifeline. Even with this, I sometimes feel lost. But I can learn to wait. I don’t have to make every decision now. Feeling like a ship on the ocean with no visible landmarks doesn’t mean I can’t still sail onward and take bearings as I chart new waters.
At times, there seemed no way out of the pain. Having now experienced some brighter days, I know that there is a way out, a way forward. So, when the clouds engulf me again, I tell myself that there is a way – I just can’t see it yet.
I grieve not only for my own loss but for that of my children. In some ways, that hurts more. I feel helpless that I cannot bring back their mother’s presence. But I can live in a way that honours her. We can laugh and cry together as we cherish the wonderful times we shared.
This has been the most difficult period of my life. I remember that two years after Ethel’s passing, I could say, for the first time, that I felt ‘light and happy.’ That feeling didn’t last a day, but it was evidence of possibilities to come. Sometimes these small mercies carry us through.
No matter what the future holds, I will always love Ethel. I am not looking to ‘move on,’ but I can ‘move forward’ with her still present in my life. Our decision to put our love of God first helped us enter marriage on a firm foundation, and I believe it can help me going forward. I am grateful to the Lord for what I have learned through this unique, challenging journey, and I am grateful for the light of hope I continue to have, both for this life and for a glorious reunion.