By: Linda Martin
Date: October 6, 2023
The notification appears on my screen in stark, black letters: “J got married over the weekend. How are you holding up?”
How am I holding up? My first instinct is to say, “I’m good. Thrilled for him. Wishing him all the happiness in the world!” But then the reality hits me, and I can hardly breathe.
My former son-in-law has married his new partner, yet my thoughts are consumed by the poignant memories of 18 years ago when he joyfully vowed, “I take you, Emily, in sickness and in health.” He honored that commitment for two and a half years. Unlike many in the young adult cancer community, he stood by Emily as she fought her battle, witnessing her transformation from a vibrant woman to a shadow of her former self. He remained steadfast, loving her until her last breath and beyond, never once complaining about the toll it took on him.
So, how do I feel now? Happy for him, yes, but also sad for myself. I feel a sense of loss, as if another piece of my connection to Emily is slipping away. I feel isolated.
Over the past 16 years since Emily’s passing, other loved ones have moved forward, starting anew. Like the others who were once part of “Emily’s Circle,” J is now free to laugh, love, and embrace life, unburdened by the shadow of grief that for so long overshadowed our lives.
In the last few years, I’ve experienced fleeting moments of clarity and joy, where colors seem bright again, and I feel alive. However, those moments are rare. When I see others “moving on,” I cling to my memories of Emily, struggling to let go. Yet, I realize I, too, must find a way to carry on, or risk fading into despair. My friends and family celebrate Emily’s life by living fully. She would have wanted that. If I remain stagnant, I risk allowing grief to claim another part of my existence, something she would never have wished for.
How do I truly feel? If I’m honest, I feel envious. I wish things had been different. I wish I could experience joy without the constant weight of grief.
Digging deeper, I feel abandoned. Does no one else miss Emily as much as I do? The immense void of her absence is something I grapple with every day. It’s hard to articulate this profound sadness that catches me off guard, disrupting moments of laughter or joy. I retreat into myself, into shadows where everything is muted and gray. It feels safer to isolate rather than pretend to enjoy social interactions that feel hollow. Yet, this “safe” space is slowly draining my vitality. I long to choose life.
But when I do, anxiety overwhelms me. I fear facing another significant loss, questioning whether I could endure such pain again. I have become hyper-aware of everything around me, worrying about the safety of my loved ones to an extreme. My husband teases me about my irrational fears, like the boulder poised above our home, or the earthquakes I dread, even if the chances are minimal. I know the odds are low, yet the reality of losing a child remains etched in my mind.
These are tiny steps, gradual progress. There’s no timeline for grief, healing, or for loving and letting go. My love for Emily is uniquely mine, which is why I sometimes feel alone in my sorrow. This love is also J’s. We will both carry her memory deep within us, forever intertwined with our lives. His new marriage doesn’t erase Emily’s existence; it honors it by allowing us to cherish her memory while moving forward.
Is that what “moving on” means to me? Do I react strongly to it because it seems synonymous with erasing and forgetting? I envision pioneers discarding cherished possessions to lighten their load as they journey to new horizons. I don’t want to leave Emily behind in the dust, forgotten and alone. Perhaps I fear that if I don’t hold her close in my thoughts every day, she will slip away from me. But maybe, just maybe, she is ready for me to move forward.
The beauty of memories is that they are never lost. They provide comfort and accompany us wherever we go. Even those pioneers carried their memories with them. Anyone who loved Emily will never forget her. In my heart, I continue to care for her, and she for me. Instead of viewing “moving on” as abandoning her, I can reframe it as “carrying on, with her.”
So, how do I feel about J’s marriage? I’m grateful that he has the chance to carry on, to feel alive again, filled with joy. I admire his bravery in embracing love once more.
The announcement of his wedding has stirred a complex mix of emotions, but perhaps in processing this, I can allow myself to engage with J and others in Emily’s circle in “moving on”—or rather, “carrying on.” This doesn’t mean letting go of Emily; it signifies that as I move forward, she will walk alongside me, inspiring me to breathe, laugh, and love. She would want that.
So, how am I doing? Externally: “I’m fine!” Internally: “One step at a time. Carrying on. Thank you for asking.”
For anyone exploring similar journeys, resources like Hopkins Medicine provide valuable insights into the emotional and physical aspects of navigating grief and healing. For those interested in family planning, check out our guide on the at-home insemination kit to help with your journey or delve into the impregnator at home insemination kit for more information on self insemination methods.
Summary:
The author reflects on the complexities of grief after the loss of a loved one, transitioning from the notion of “moving on” to “carrying on.” They explore feelings of envy, abandonment, and the struggle to find joy while honoring the memory of their lost daughter. Through shared experiences with others, they recognize that memories provide comfort and connection, allowing them to embrace life while still cherishing their loved one.
Keyphrase: reframing loss
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