“We were not hoping for happiness—it was not that which gave
us courage and gave meaning to our suffering, our sacrifices and our dying. And
yet we were not prepared for unhappiness.” –Viktor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning
Losing Chris has redefined my purpose in this world. I am
trying to understand what that new purpose is, while mourning the death of
Chris, and the dreams we shared. With that, I feel like I have lost parts of
myself that I am uncertain I will ever regain. It's not that I expect to be happy, but I mourn the loss of happiness. Trying to re-imagine any sense
of contentment is very difficult.
Grief is far more complicated than I ever anticipated. The
inner, core layers of my sorrow involve an intense longing for Chris and all
the things I miss about him. Surrounding that sadness are the layers of grief
for how I am profoundly changed by his death. How can I lose my soul mate and
not feel as though a part of me is gone with him?
While I was many things before meeting Chris, I found a
purpose in our marriage that I had been searching for. I loved being his
partner. I found contentment in seeking his happiness. I enjoyed finding ways
to love him, from making dinner to helping him with brewing projects. I wanted
him to know I cherished him through my actions (even when he complained that I
was making him fat with all my cherishing). When he was deployed, I would make
him weekly care packages full of baked treats for him to share with the crew or
silly toys and games to occupy his down time. I enjoyed the challenge of
finding small ways to make the week seem a little brighter and break up some of
the monotony that can settle in during a deployment.
Now that he is gone, it’s hard to feel a sense of purpose in
my daily life. I am making progress towards establishing professional goals and
seeking purpose in my future career, but that does not fill the down time.
Evenings are unsettling. As a dear friend of mine said to me, it’s hard to figure
out what to do with the hours from 7-11 p.m.
Objectively, I realize there are ways that I can continue to
give to other people. And over time, that is something that I would like to do.
Right now, emotionally I feel too raw to seek out some of those opportunities.
While I realize that I have deep bonds with family and
friends, I lost the most significant bond to another human being I have known.
There is a terrible and lonely freedom in that loss. I am not prepared for that
freedom, I didn’t choose to be unfettered. I was happy in my bond to someone so
beautiful, someone who fit me so completely.
I think that is why Frankl’s discussion of liberation
resonates with me. Not because I come close to understanding suffering at the
same level as a holocaust survivor, but because I am faced with a freedom and
sorrow that I am uncertain how to navigate. I have a world of choices and
opportunities ahead of me, but my heart longs for a past I cannot retrieve.
What I love most is gone. What do I do with that unhappiness?
In reading Man’s
Search for Meaning, and in my own reflections on suffering and loss, I keep
thinking of the following Jewish meditation that a friend shared with me. I
read this at Chris’ celebration of life service:
A Meditation Before Kaddish No. 6
WHEN I DIE,
Give what’s left of me away
To children
And old men that wait to die.
And if you need to cry,
Cry for your brother
Walking the street beside you.
And when you need me,
Put your arms
Around anyone
And give them
What you need to give me.
I want to leave you something,
Something better… Than words
Or sounds.
Look for me
In the people I’ve known
Or loved.
And if you cannot give me away,
At least let me live on your eyes
And not your mind.
You can love me most
By letting Hands touch hands,
By letting Bodies touch bodies,
And by letting go
Of children
That need to be free.
Love doesn’t die; People do.
So, when all that’s left of me
Is love,
Give me away
-MISHKAN T’FILAH
I hope to give my love for Chris away through the work I am
pursuing, and through the ways I can continue to support the people I love, the
people Chris loved. It’s a journey and purpose that is still evolving as I
wrestle with my desire to give and my own exhaustion in losing him. To elicit
Covey, my emotional bank account is running on empty these days. Eventually, I
hope I can a find a way to a new contentment that honors the love I have for
Chris. In some small way, I hope his generous spirit will live on through me.
Additional food for
thought:
Some more eloquent and coherent words than mine on suffering, meaning, and happiness-
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