In the months after Brock died, when I was busy packing up our stuff to move to Invermere, I wondered if I was missing my opportunity to grieve. I was worried that I would reach Invermere and settle in here to our new (Plan B) life, and be so busy finding us a house and making friends and re-creating Isaac’s active lifestyle that I would just move on to the post-Brock chapter of our life, without ever properly working through the trauma and sadness of losing him.

Instead, I am relieved to find that the numbness I’ve felt since September 21 is finally thawing.

I think I can finally be sad because I’m no longer trying to put on a brave face for the people around me. In Duncan, I was mourning along with Brock’s friends and family, as well as his childhood teachers, fellow volunteers, once-colleagues, farm customers, etc. I can’t help myself — I’ve always needed to “silver-line” other people’s negative emotions, for some reason (I think I just made up a new verb, but that’s the best word I can think of). And so when someone expressed sympathy for me I would (usually) automatically try to comfort them or downplay my own grief.

Many people here in small-town Invermere know about Brock’s death, and have given me their hugs and condolences, but they didn’t know Brock. I can just be sad and accept their sympathy without feeling the need to comfort them.

I’m also finally in a situation where I don’t have to be strong for Isaac. He happily spends entire days away from me, with my sister and mom. I don’t have to be “on” all the time for him.

I read an essay in The Walrus the other day, written by a man (Paul Adams) who lost his wife to cancer four years after her diagnosis. They’d accepted it was terminal, too. He wrote this articulate bit:

“We all come to cancer with the emotional, psychological, and spiritual resources we have, and we use them up. We use them all up.”

I think my friend Maeve was right: I am exhausted. I gave everything I had these past few years. My head has felt full of cotton for months. I remember being a “high-functioning” (as Ryan would say) person, able to multi-task and tackle errands efficiently. I hope that I will be that clear-headed again someday. But these days I am barely a safe driver. In Invermere I have the excuse of being out-of-practice driving on snow and ice, and usually relinquish the wheel of my car to whomever else I’m traveling with. But it’s not just the big horn sheep and black ice that make me unsafe. I can’t maintain focus. I often awake from little “black out” moments of distraction.

I am learning that grief is like sailing through an ocean of icebergs. It isn’t one single thought or memory that makes me sad. There are dozens of things to grieve. I relive Brock’s last four days, including the moment when he stopped breathing and died. I remember our conversations, how funny and unexpected he could be. I mourn the loss of our farm, and Brock’s energy. I think about the future we wanted and should have had. Brock should be here teaching Isaac to skate and ski. Brock should be binge-watching season 2 of The Crown with me until 1am.

It’s bizarre that I’m finally able to be sad here, when otherwise I feel so at home, and happy to be back in the East Kootenays.

There is a bereavement support group in Invermere and I’ve signed up for the next session, which should start at the end of January. A family friend, who lost his wife this year, is halfway through the last session and he says there is a workbook. I love that there’s a workbook. Because it’s work, and because we humans are all so essentially the same, and because a workbook has a start and an end, with steps to follow, and that seems healthier than just sitting around with other grieving people, talking about how sad we are, with no path forward.

A 2053 Perspective

A mental exercise that intrigues me these days … I wonder how Isaac will tell the story of his life when he’s an adult. Say, 40 years old. “My dad died of cancer, and then we moved to Invermere, and my mom …”

What did I do next? Did I make good choices? Were we financially okay? Did we stay cuddle-close or drift apart as he approached his teen years? Was I a good role model and support to Isaac for dealing with his dad’s death? What will he remember, and what will scar him?

It’s mind-bending to see our present reality through that big-picture lens. It’s weird to be the “widowed, single mom” in someone else’s life story.