Grief: You Are Going to Feel How You Feel Until You Don't Feel that Way Anymore

As I write this, in this moment, it has been 19 years, two hours and 55 minutes since the last time I saw you, hugged you, kissed you and said "I love you," to you. For those doing the math, that is 228 months, approximately 912 weeks, somewhere around 6,939 days and right around 166,552 hours. Broken down even further....that is real close to 9,993,201 minutes since last I was walking out the door, not knowing that in an instant, my world was going to change forever.

I break this down in such a way, because over time, sometimes the months and weeks have passed quickly with the business of life taking over and sometimes, the loss has been so painful and so excruciating that it feels like life has stopped and it has been all I can do to get thru the next minute. I guess this is simply the nature of grief.

On July 2, 2001, at about 7:30 in the morning, I kissed my husband, told him I loved him and walked out the door to take my mom to a doctors appointment. My mind was on the news of her health that we might hear that day and little else. Other than that, it was a normal summer day and not for a second did I think it would be anything else, but by 1:00 that afternoon, my life would be shattered, my heart would be irreparably broken and nothing from that moment on, would ever be the same in my life again, because at 1:00 p.m. was the time I came home to find that my husband had suddenly and unexpectedly dropped dead of a brain aneurysm.

I had lost people before Tim, and I have lost people since, but with the exceptions of my mother a year after, and my baby daughter many years earlier, no death has ever taken from me or affected me like his. It was losing Tim that taught me about falling completely apart and then eventually finding my way back to life. It taught me about abject loss and then slowly seeing the blessings that surround every tragedy in life. Most of all, it taught me about the beauty of grief and the strength and purpose that can come when you begin to move on with gratitude.

Skipping ahead to this year (2020), there has been a great amount of loss in my world. Some have been by extension of those I care about, and some have hit me right in the heart, leaving another piece  of my heart, wounded and bleeding. Those wounds never completely go away. The best we can hope for is that they scar, leaving us a permanent reminder of who we loved and what we lost. Maybe it is because of all that has been lost this year that I felt the need to write this and since I woke up very early today with Tim on my mind, I write this in his honor.

If you make it out of childhood, there is an overwhelming probability that at some point you will lose someone you love and depending on just how long you live in this world, the chances are even better that you will lose several in your lifetime. The fact is, no matter how many times we lose those we love, the grieving process will happen and it will always be different. Grief is not a one size fits all occurrence and if anyone tells you differently, then they likely haven't dealt with a lot of loss.

Yes, there are stages of grief that we all tend to go through, but we all don't go through them the same way and we don't all go through all the stages. When I lost Tim, I went from hysterical to complete calm in a matter of minutes. The "knowledge" of his death in those first few minutes, knocked the wind completely out of me. I felt as if I was living in a nightmare and I was begging to wake up. I remember screaming and then there was the realization that I was a mom and I had young children that were more lost than I was. I then became calm, in an almost auto-pilot kind of way, and I began to organize and give direction as if I had to clean up and control the situation.

In those first few hours, life went by quickly in a slow-motion kind of way. There were things to do, questions to answer and a never ending line of people coming in and out helplessly wanting to help. I remember in the moment I was so grateful they were there, but at the same time I couldn't focus or even comprehend reality, so I was just blank inside. Again....auto-pilot.

The days that followed were non-stop. People continued in and out, making arrangements that I never planned to make and making decisions that I had no idea how to make. All of this was going on, along with the fact that I still had kids. I had to be a mom and help these children who looked to me for guidance, to get through something that I didn't have a clue about getting through. All I wanted to do was crawl in bed and not move, not think and not feel, but instead.....I had no choice but to keep moving and keep answering questions and making decisions.

It was nearly a week of everything but the kitchen sink being thrown at me. There were people in and out and in a funny sort of way, it felt as if a new normal had set in. Then there was the funeral. There were faces, kindness, me trying hard to look as if I was still me, when somewhere inside I knew that the me that left the house on July 2nd was gone forever as surely as if I had taken my last breath the moment he did.

Then it was over. Tim was buried. All who had come to say good-bye, left. They all went back to their lives and I was left alone, raising kids and having to figure out what each minute going forward was suppose to look like. I was angry for the first time. No I was not angry at Tim, because I always knew that Tim would have never left if that had been his choice. I was also not angry at God. I was raised to understand that none of us is guaranteed in this world and none of us leaves this world until the moment that we have accomplished everything we were meant to accomplish. No....my anger was at the world. I was so mad that everyone got to go home and resume their regular lives. How could this be? How could everyone else just go back to business as usual, when my life had virtually stopped?

I don't know for how long the anger lasted, but I do know that it took a toll on who I was as a person and my relationships with those around me. Some days I would force myself to get up and be a semi-functioning human being for the sake of my kids and some days I just barely functioned. It was a mixture of grief, guilt and anger. I could barely talk to people, even those closest to me, because I was seething with anger at them. I did not want to hear and see how they were going to work, enjoying their summer and doing the many mundane, everyday things that make up life, while I was caught up in a weird place where I had to exist but couldn't move from the pain that held me in place. It got to the point where I didn't answer the phone or the doorbell and the only time I left the house was out of necessity. Looking back now, I can't tell you whether this period in time lasted weeks, months or years, but even today, if I think about it, I can come back to a touch of that dark emptiness that filled me during that time. It was suffocating and I remember wondering if I would always feel that way and if I would survive. All these years later....I have those answers. No....I would not always feel that way and yes....I would survive.

At some point, the wound in my heart began to heal a bit and start to scar. As harsh as the old saying, "Life goes on" is, it is true. Those left behind after a loss, have no choice but to fall back into life and eventually start living again. No, that life didn't look much like the life I had previously, but slowly not only was my heart starting to heal a bit, but so was my mind. The anger slowly subsided and I began to be very grateful for those people who even in my darkest moments when I refused to let them in, stood by me. I was blessed to have some people in my life that loved me enough to give me time and not turn their backs on me. I also began to see the positive in the negative. Yes, I had lost Tim, but the blessing was that I had ever had him at all. I began to see that Tim and I had put a lot of love and happiness in our short years together. We had more in our few years than some people have in decades of marriage. He had given me kids who were constant reminders of his heart and soul and each time I looked at them, I saw him. In time I came to realize that Tim had been a gift and our time together had been something special that God reserved for only the two of us. Tim had given me love, a life, children, joy, laughter and strength. In a very real way, while he was alive, Tim gave me what I needed to survive when he died.

After Tim died, I learned that as much as he changed my world and my life with his presence, he also changed so many others. There was a period of time, when out of the blue, I suddenly had people coming to me and telling me what he had done for them at work or in a passing moment in their lives. I learned of people he had encouraged, gone to bat for or helped in some way. I heard stories of how his kindness, strength and humor had changed peoples lives and it validated what I already knew. Tim had not left this world without doing exactly what he was put here to do. I was so grateful in this knowledge.

Once the healing seemed to be fully underway, a new normal had set in. I could go several hours without feeling alone or missing his voice, but grief is a strange thing and it doesn't let go easily. I remember driving one day and a song came on the radio. It was "The Dance," a song that had been a favorite of Tim's and had been played at his burial, and that song tore through me like a grenade. It literally took my breath away and made me have to pull off the road. Tears flooded me and I cried like I hadn't cried since the day he died. I was angry and frustrated that after all this time, I could still be brought to my knees by of all things....a song. Once the tears subsided though, I actually felt better and the healing continued on. This however, was not the last time over the years that I would be brought down out of the blue and I am sure, even at this stage of the game, it can still happen under the right and unexpected circumstances.

I think of all the things that I have gone through in my grieving process, the most startling, sad, beautiful and reassuring gift though, has been my dreams. Over the years, there have been several and when I wake up, I am left feeling beautifully sad. In those dreams, Tim always comes to me and lets me know that he is always with me. His visits to my dreams always come at a time when I am struggling and his presence is comfort and the dream stays with me long after I am awake. I still am blessed to have these from time to time and I have come to see them as a spiritual extension of his life.

Today, all these years, months, weeks, days and minutes later, the grieving process still continues on, but it is not the devastation of those early days. Today, it is a smile when I see a picture or a tear when a memory hits me full on. It is a subtle ache instead of a searing pain and it is an understanding that while the loss was painful, if given the chance, I would do it all again because he was my person. He was my love and he gave me so much and that pain was just a reminder of how much I loved and how lucky I was to have him in my life.

So if I were ever to give someone any advice on grief, I would simply say, don't let anyone tell you how you are "supposed" to do it. Grief and grieving are personal and as I said earlier, not all grief is created equally. It is a process in which there are no real rules and no shortcuts. As Tim used to say, "You are going to feel how you feel, until you don't feel that way anymore." Today I feel grateful. I was blessed that God gave me Tim and I am grateful that I see his light continue on in our kids.

Tim Elam

Sept. 20, 1961 to July 2, 2001