Comings and Goings
My husband died at home, in our bed, in my arms. Of course, he also lived his life in our home, in our bed, in my arms. When we made the decision to have him at home in his final weeks (and I know we were fortunate to be able to do so) his doctor made the case for choosing a hospice. “You might want to think about the karma of having him die at home” she said. We thought about it and chose the place where we’d lived most of our married life, raised our children and shared immeasurable joy and love – and we never looked back.
So I didn’t think that going to the cottage would be harder than being at home. He died here, not there. So going there would be a getaway, a chance to leave some of the bad memories behind and remember only the good. How wrong I was! Entering the place we had built together without him for the first time absolutely crushed me.
Over time, with a lot of help from family and friends, it slowly got better. But when I headed home at the end of summer and walked into the house where he had lived and died without him, it hit me again. He’s not here. He’s not there. He’s not anywhere. Crushed.
You can’t leave loss behind when you change the scenery or the people around you; you take it with you wherever you go. Logically we may understand this but emotionally we are so easily thrown off kilter by places, sights, even sounds and scents of where we have lived with our beloved. And most people I know find “comings and goings” particularly painful.
Your friends finally convince you that going away with them for a few days will be good for you and it is. Walks in the woods or by water, a change of scenery, good meals cooked by dear hearts, people who know you well enough to know when you want company and when you need to be alone with your memories. But the aching feeling of returning to an empty house makes you wish you’d never left.
The empty chair beside you on the porch, the objects they built with their own hands, the smell of the ocean by shores you walked hand in hand, the sounds of the early morning birds who were singing when they died, their hat hanging on a hook inside the door; they all recall the times you were together in your home or out on an adventure.
Whether you arrive home or venture out, these “comings and goings” can be an unexpectedly sharp reminder of your loss. They’re “stealth grief ambushes” that spring upon you when you least expect it. You’re feeling proud of yourself that you took the trip or made it home on your own when “Boom!” it hits you all over again! So don’t be surprised or blind-sided; be prepared. You may not be able to prevent the way you feel, but knowing it’s coming, you may be able to head it off at the pass a little.
That first time I went to the cottage on my own, after my big cry on the deck looking out over the water, I looked down and realized that my cousin had planted my cottage garden for me! There were groceries in my fridge and a bouquet of flowers from her daughter with a note saying “I know Peter would want you to have these.”
I gathered them in my arms, splashed some ice water on my face, dried my tears, gave thanks for the small and not-so-small gestures of kindness that help us get through the hardest times and went out to unpack the car. It made a painful situation so much better.
Do you have a friend or family member who can help you just a little with your “comings and goings?” Is there someone nearby who can meet you on the porch with a cup or tea or glass of wine? Can you make a plan to share a meal that first night, or ask someone to take that walk to the ocean with you? Even practical help unpacking or getting in groceries can help stave off those meltdowns where you say “I just can’t do this on my own!”
