Last October, I lost someone who had grown very close to my heart. He had a kind one, a heart much softer than my own. He was many things I am not and fear I never will be, and often I wonder how he would handle this very situation. In the months since he passed, inching along at a slowed, yet blurred pace, I have ached for him in increments. Some being huge waves of emotion, some moments only fleeting feelings of longing. Regardless, my grief has found itself a home in my body. My back aches, and my legs cramp as I walk. It stirs in my heart each day and rumbles in the base of my stomach, reminding me of the love I hold for him. I feel heavier than before, and I cannot remember what it felt like to be light.
Memories fade with time. They dissolve with the seconds that pass on a ticking clock; a reminder of the distance growing between the reality I knew then and the reality I know now. While my memories have begun to lose some clarity, my body can tell that at this time last year, I was forced to say goodbye before I was ready. It’s the strongest yearning I’ve ever felt. A flipping in my stomach at each reminder of this loss. This grief presents itself in the way my eyelids begin to feel heavy, my body heats to high above room temperature, and I feel myself sinking into the ground. A bowl of soup and rest on the couch won't aid this illness, but rather it must be sat through, despite the aches and pains that don't seem to fade.
During the first few weeks of grief, it is said that people experience increased heart rates, higher blood pressure, and are more prone to heart attacks. When someone faces grief, they experience immense stress that may result in severe health conditions. The anniversary of someone’s passing is not a time to be taken lightly, as many experience an onset of more intense grief symptoms than they were experiencing in the months leading up to the anniversary.
Of everything I have felt in the last year, I am surprised by how my anger persists within my body. It isn’t anger towards him, but anger towards the fact that lives must come to an end. I am angry that I no longer live with the perception that those we hold close will always be there. It is a privilege that many are able to hold onto until they are much older than I am. When I look at old photos of him, from memories I wasn’t even there for, I am still hit with the same panicked urgency to do something to fix what has happened. I often have the inclination to text a dead number. I revisit his social media pages as if something could have changed. My grief doesn’t wash over me like I have been promised it would. It doesn’t leave me laughing at the thought of fond memories, but instead with tears staining my work shirt because I can’t quite hold it in sometimes.
MY GRIEF DOESN'T WASH OVER ME LIKE I HAVE BEEN PROMISED IT WOULD.
I had a dream a few weeks ago that he was alive and well, perhaps better than he was before. My mind wanted to play a trick on me that day, or my dream state merely reflected how he sits in the forefront of my brain each day. It’s been an entire year, and in my most peaceful state, I continue to long for him. I woke in a familiar panic. Waking with the sense that something has gone wrong doesn’t come every day anymore, but it’s persistent in the time surrounding this anniversary. My body believes it’s happening all over again. In my worst moments, my mind mutters the words, “he’s going to pass soon,” as if it hasn’t already happened.
When I remember how I wasn’t done getting to know him, my heart weighs about five more pounds. When I recall what it was like to hold him, my eyes begin to water. When I come close to experiencing the growing excitement I felt whenever I was about to see him again, I often break. When I watch his favourite film, the one that he suggested to me the first night we met and the one he had posters for I can picture so vividly around his room, I cannot make it through without pausing. And when I hear certain songs, my heartbeat picks up its pace. My body reacts in tandem with my emotions, and the aching throughout me is a reminder that I need some time once again.
Our bodies take the brunt of our grief when we don’t acknowledge the experience in our minds. It’s important to take care of yourself in your grief, no matter how many years it has been or how far out your memories now sit. Give yourself the space to breathe through it, for your body might just be holding in much more than you imagine.
October 31st, 2022
When I remember how I wasn’t done getting to know him, my heart weighs about five more pounds. When I recall what it was like to hold him, my eyes begin to water. When I come close to experiencing the growing excitement I felt whenever I was about to see him again, I often break. When I watch his favourite film, the one that he suggested to me the first night we met and the one he had posters for I can picture so vividly around his room, I cannot make it through without pausing. And when I hear certain songs, my heartbeat picks up its pace. My body reacts in tandem with my emotions, and the aching throughout me is a reminder that I need some time once again.
Our bodies take the brunt of our grief when we don’t acknowledge the experience in our minds. It’s important to take care of yourself in your grief, no matter how many years it has been or how far out your memories now sit. Give yourself the space to breathe through it, for your body might just be holding in much more than you imagine.
October 31st, 2022