Grief and the power of writing
Four years ago this week, my husband, Jack died. For the six months leading up to his death, I knew it was imminent and I thought of little else. For two years before that, suspecting the likely outcome, I thought regularly of it. For 18 months after Nov 19/18, it was my primary preoccupation and I measured time in days, weeks, months from the death date. I captured this in an earlier piece, “Mirrored Time.”
The COVID shutdowns gave me the push to start writing the story of Jack’s illness and death. It was August 2020 when I really got the urge, recounting first the amusing parts of our life together. I pulled the main arc together easily and quickly, inserting placeholders in the document where I knew I had to go back to write the harder bits, principally the end of his life. I didn’t have the fortitude to “go there.” I knew in time I would. I just didn’t know when or how.
I started honing my writing and my approach to the challenging content in a more deliberate way by enrolling in Megan Devine’s “Write your Grief” course. Devine provides writing prompts every day for 30 days, each exploring death and grief from a different angle, all to help the writer achieve one of two outcomes: to either numb the initial pain of loss or to remove the numbness and expose the nerves. Either way, it worked. I was writing more than ever, and moved from that experience seamlessly into a 16 week course by Stratford-based writer, Alison Wearing, called “Memoir Writing, Ink.” Alison’s course made me think more carefully about all aspects of the project from what to include, what to exclude, why anyone would want to read it, how to structure a book, and everything in between. She talked often about the importance of writing from scars not wounds, a message that has echoed through various other workshops I’ve taken since.
With different wounds closing over at different rates, it was no surprise that I continued to be unable to write certain parts of my story; those pieces of me hadn’t healed. In particular, the details of the last days of Jack’s life remained difficult for me to reduce to the page. It was as though that part of my story was a ship in a firmly corked smoked glass bottle allowing me to see only blurry outlines.
Until a year ago.
As I have done every year since Jack’s death, in November 2021, I took the anniversary week as vacation from work. As the week began, I knew it was time to crack the bottle, gently to not break the ship, but with enough force I could remove each piece of glass without cutting myself anew. With access to the details inside, I decided to do my own blogathon, recounting for readers - and myself - the days leading up to Jack’s death. In seven days, I wrote 10,000 words, posting a part of the story each day. I reported on the exposed ship that was the end of our relationship - all of it. Its beauty and ugliness. The tattered and triumphant bits. It was cathartic beyond what I imagined. Getting reader feedback also made me realize its honesty could help others too. If you want to read those pieces, start here and work forwards in time.
My life has been profoundly coloured by my time with Jack, his illness, and his death. In relationship terms, it was short - nine years - but those nine years were transformative for me, preparing me for other transformations and life experiences. Some are underway now. Some I can’t even imagine. While the Jack years kick-started my writing, over time, I’ve broadened the focus to other parts of my life past, present, and imagined.
So this year, while I took the week off from work to honour my time as Jack’s caregiver that ended on November 19 four years ago, the week had a different tenor. I didn’t focus on the pain of autumn 2018. I am no longer angry at being thrust into a role that was hard for me with a patient who was difficult. I haven’t spent the week grieving the loss of a future I’d imagined or dwelling on the challenges in our relationship that might have made that future troubling. Instead, I pushed forward on plans for my new career, my new home, my new life, celebrating those things life with Jack taught me, good and bad.
On this, the fourth anniversary weekend, I salute Jack who provided me with much rich material to write about and will always hold the position of my first real love. Na zdrowie!
I also salute all those who are in the throes of early spousal grief who can’t imagine being happy again or having an exciting future. I didn’t believe it when people told me it could happen and you won’t believe it either. But it’s true.
The two resources I’ve referred to were invaluable to me. To learn more click here for Megan Devine’s “Write your Grief,” and here for Alison Wearing’s "Memoir Writing, Ink.”
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