I discovered long ago that grief is not linear. At times it slowly creeps in unnoticed until it can’t be ignored, other times it takes me by surprise. Embracing January & processing unexpected loss…
This winter my grief process has reminded me of cold air changing a room.
It’s like when the heater hasn’t been turned on yet in the early morning hours. There is a crispness and a bite to the air. When I was under the covers in bed I didn’t notice the change in the room. But as soon as I get up, I can feel it. It’s uncomfortable. It makes the arthritis in my knee hurt. My arms prickle. The floor is unbearably cold even through my socks.
“When did it suddenly get so cold in here?” My desire is to simply get back in bed underneath the warm blankets. Any aspirations that I had before feeling the cold have vanished.
I don’t like hurting, even dull pain is best avoided.
Other times it’s like when the front door is left open and the wind rushes into the house. All of the warmth and the coziness that was felt a few minutes earlier seems to be pulled out and away. “Close the door!” is the response.
Now my thin sweater feels like it’s not enough. I grab for a jacket or a blanket, I tuck my cold fingers into my pockets. It takes me some time to get my bearings even though I’m standing in the same room and nothing visibly has changed.
I’m suddenly uncomfortable. How did this happen? Everything was fine a few minutes ago.
And now I feel like a bit of a mess.
Recently I ended up sobbing in the dentist’s office. We had just gotten back from our trip to Colorado for the celebration of life for my Aunt Stacie. I had to have the last piece of my crown put in place. I had no idea how incredibly cold (and thus very painful) it was going to be. I didn’t want to be numbed so I was using breathing techniques to get through it.
And then I hit the edge of what I could handle and it all overwhelmed me. The staff was very kind and gracious. I had mentioned my recent trip and the unexpected loss my family had experienced. They knew that I was processing more than just dental pain that day. Embarrassment and pain surrounded me all at once.
These last few weeks as I have slowly moved into this new year, I feel like a hollow version of myself. I am unexpectedly heartbroken.
And yet at other times, I can proceed as if everything is normal. I can have energy, motivation, and even some spunk. I will be moving through my day and then something will remind me of her. My heart will suddenly feel heavy and I have to slow down my breathing as my chest feels tight.
Sometimes you don’t realize how many random parts of your life are woven in with other’s stories until there is a missing piece.
Or a question will rise in my mind. “But what about …?” And the room suddenly changes. And it feels cold and uncomfortable. I wrap my arms around myself to keep in the pain, the heat, the feelings…
I have moved through the phases of “this is not happening”… “why?”… and “how can this happen?” to this new uncomfortable place of “what now?”. But only in some areas. In small ways that I’m willing to accept right now. The big ones, like my book, I am still avoiding. I am not ready.
Living in the Arizona desert it is not often that we experience “genuine winter cold” (or real-life snow). But I have experienced times in the past few years of personal wintering.
“Wintering is a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world… However it arrives, wintering is usually involuntary, lonely, and deeply painful.”
– Wintering By Katherine May
Aunt Stacie was my comfort in the seasons of burnout and rebuilding. She would give me kind guidance when I felt stuck. She always wanted me to be confident that I have something to offer. Whenever I would doubt myself, she would encourage me with truth and firmly rebuff my concerns.
She told me a few months ago, “Your frustrations and feeling overwhelmed right now is your street cred. It is how you can connect authentically with your readers. You know what they are going through and you also know the way out.”
Right now, this is what I know:
This is hard. It hurts.
Loosing someone unexpectedly is painful.
Most of the time I’m fine.
And another times I’m not.
Grief hits me like an icy chill that I’m not prepared for.
And so, I choose self-kindness. I give myself some time. I let myself show emotion in unusual places. Sometimes I even let myself fall apart. I take long walks. I do some comfort baking. I sing hymns to my kids and give them extra hugs. And I miss my Aunt Stacie and the many ways that she has been a part of my life.
So here is to those of you who don’t quite feel like yourselves as you process grief in this season. I don’t have much to give. But if I see you in person, I will have extra Kleenexes in my purse and I can offer you a warm cup of tea. And if I only see you here in this digital community, know that I pray often for all of us experiencing loss and heartache.
Hugs! 💙 – April
Photos from Erica Marshland, Kira auf der Heide and Anne Nygård on Unsplash
Come visit me on Substack = APRIL EDWARDS
