I found 'The Year of Magical Thinking' by Joan Didion while cleaning out Mom's house. I had heard about it a few years ago, but forgot the title so didn't get it. This is a good time to read about death and bereavement. The book also helps me understand what it would have been like for Mom when she became a widow. I try to put myself in her shoes.
"Marriage is not only time: it is also, the denial of time." We see ourselves through our spouse's eyes, not aging. We remember events that took place in our togetherness and timelessness. After they are gone, we see ourselves through the eyes of others. When home, commenting or going places, "There is no one to agree, disagree, or talk back." Often the bereaved keeps time by last year's calendar, marking the dates when the deceased was still living.
I remember thinking Mom was selfish at times. "We are repeatedly left, with no further focus than ourselves, a source from which self-pity naturally flows." It was natural for her to gravitate to this after twenty years of being alone. She had experienced the 'Widowmaker' (heart attack) because of Dad's coronary artery
disease" and had to make the best of what was left of her life.
"Often we try to keep the dead alive: we try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us. There comes a point when we must reliquish the dead." This is a natural reaction to losing a loved one.
About a the year after Joan Didion's husband's death she wrote: "I pledged thst I would not lead the rest of my life as a specail case, a guest, someone who could not function on her own." Everyone comes to this point eventually and then gradually digs out on their own timetable.
Although losing a parent doesn't compare to a spouse, the healing comes in waves. Sometimes when we least expect it, a memory is jarred by some subtle encounter. No one knows how long it will be until the grieving and mourning are over. It must run its course as unpredictable as a broken river or ditch bank cascading to the lowest spot. Healing takes time and I must be patient.
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