I wasn't much into celebrating my birthday, what was the purpose, I'm just another year older, or as one person put it, another year closer to being reunited with my child. Jim's birthday was however a big one, you know ending in "5" or "0" and it deserved celebration. Not only because it was a big birthday, but because he is a wonderful and kindhearted man and we decided Wyatt would want a celebration. We had a wonderful party, friends from all segments of our lives shared in the joy of the day. We ate, drank, chatted, took photographs, hugged, cried and laughed. The day was filled with life, love and friendship and we relished every moment. Then the door closed. The people were gone. We sat together and quickly realized without words how very alone we were; how Wyatt's absence from this day, this celebration, cut into our very souls. He should be here. We yearn for him. We cherish the person he was and the man he was becoming. We want him in our lives, we want to share the joy of our lives with him. There were lamenting tears, wails of sorrow, mournful hugs and the overwhelming anguish of absence so heavy on our hearts. Our love for each other tenuously balancing comfort and agony at the same moment. To experience the torment together is almost more arduous than to cry alone, it's as if the pain becomes exponential in intensity, absorbing the suffering of the other, feeling their pain, knowing their heartache and sharing their torment. I would have it no other way, for love is to be shared, felt, known, worn on your heart and stained on your cheek, spoken in word and shown in deed, given freely, without question of yourself. Love is sharing our burdens and our joys. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.
A husband and wife (spouse/partner) generally have different ways to soothe their sorrows, express their grief, and to move forward in life. Finding a balance that respects each other is imperative to land in a healing place. Moving forward can be challenging and scary because all the while you want desperately to keep alive the memory of what was once the living representation of your union. My husband and I have very different ways of coping with our grief. I see him as an active griever. My way is a bit more clandestine. He finds comfort in listening to the songs our son enjoyed, driving his truck, visiting the places he went. For him, these things are a connection to our son. To be in concert with a person who knew Wyatt, or to be in a place they were together is a heartbeat for him. Me, I retreat to a veiled silence. The songs, the places, the things; more often than not, they evoke fear and sorrow in my heart. The marrow of my being hurts an...
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