When You Know

It is not often anymore that I recount the days leading up to Mark’s death, the manner in which he died, or the aftermath of that devastating day. In the beginning I had to tell the story over and over which I learned was common and even necessary after a death. Now it seems like everyone knows and those who don’t can hear it from someone else. On the rare occasion when I hear my own voice recounting those days from six years ago I still have trouble believing any of it.

I went to lunch last week with a friend who lost her husband three years ago. Our daughters have been friends since middle school but it was the sudden death of our husbands that forged a friendship. We seem to need to touch base after the holidays when we feel steam rolled and flattened and need to check in to make sure we aren’t crazy. Eventually we start talking about the things people say to us that feel like a knife to an open wound that will never heal. “Happy couples on Facebook,” we say, “gawd, I hate their smiling fake faces that say look at us.” There is no escaping we say and I thought of all the times I posted a happy anniversary and photo of Mark and I for all the world to see how much I loved this guy I married. Surely it stung someone I knew who had lost their spouse or was in the midst of a divorce they never wanted. BUT HEY YOU GUYS MAYBE YOU CAN STRIVE FOR WHAT I HAVE was the hidden message when I was clueless about the permancy of loss. “To be honest,” I said to my friend, “I was probably one of those obnoxious people who tried to cheer someone out of their grief and did everything wrong including piss them off,” and she agreed because experience dramatically changes your empathy. “When you know you know,” she said as the ghosts of the two men we loved hovered over our table.

A few months ago I was invited to a dinner party. I knew the hosts and one other person and since it was centered around an author the subject of my writing came up. I said that I started a blog many years ago and mostly wrote humorous pieces about life until my husband died suddenly and it changed the course of everything in my life. Before I knew it I was recounting Mark’s death to the rapt attention of everyone at my end of the table, hearing my own voice tell a story that sounded horrific and must have happened to someone else because how could it be me? How could I live through that and casually say why yes I’ll have more wine. At one point my voice cracked, the specific detail I don’t remember because it is all worthy of cracking. The faces of those around me looked stunned and uneasy and I don’t think there will ever be a time in my life that I won’t want to crawl out of my skin when I see the reaction to the retelling of the day Mark died. Maybe it’s because it spectacularly fails to match up to my heartbreak and that of my kids, maybe it feels like a heaping dose of pity instead of empathy, maybe because if it could happen to me it could happen to you and nobody wants to believe that could possibly be true.

When the dusty remains of my story settled and blanketed the table, someone asked, “Are you mad at him?” Are you mad at him? I fumbled, I deflected, I forgot for the thousandth time the thing my therapist said was the only proper response to a question like that. Why do you ask? I don’t remember what I said. Did I throw my dead husband under the bus for leaving me? Did I say anything that made sense to someone who never knew him, never saw his passion or exuberance and delight for life? That he got so excited when his grown kids were in the house that it felt like Christmas morning? That after his Saturday morning rides with his biking friends his eyes would glisten as he said, “I love those guys.” Or did I say that I saw a despair on my husband’s face that I hope you never see because you will never forget it. That I saw him struggle and come out on top over and over and the last struggle took him down in a way that on any other day would have shocked him to his core.

When you know you know, my friend and I knowingly said to each other over lunch, which is why the only thing you need to say when someone invites you into the hallowed halls of their grief is, “You must miss him terribly.”