December 21, 2014 marked three years since Cliff's death. For the past six months I've been cycling, kayaking, and climbing, feeling strong. This year I made plans to go snowshoeing with one friend on the 21st and have dinner with another. I thought I would try being social on the anniversary of his death instead of isolating as I have done. But those plans fell through a few days before. Even an outing the previous day was aborted when our car hit black ice and spun into the ditch, leaving us stranded for a couple hours until a tow truck came to rescue us.
So events conspired to ground me. I'm never sure what to expect on these anniversaries. I think I'm doing well. I felt pretty normal as the day approached, other than noticing a decline in my physical stamina. That seems to be the most predictable sign of on-coming grief. Then I find myself feeling easily irritated and running into obstacles (like the car going into the ditch, things just not working out). Until I simply accept that grief is here and I might as well hole up for a while and ride it out, not try to make things any different than they are.
I get frustrated with that, too, that grief lasts longer than a day or two, that I'm not being as active as usual and I'm eating more, that I cry at unpredictable and often inconvenient times, that I know I seem rude or awkward at work when everyone else is excited about Christmas, that I'm not able to just put all this aside and be "normal". I guess this is a skill like any other -- learning how to be compassionate with myself through this and eventually, I hope, as a result being kinder and less irritable with others who are having a very different experience at this time of year.
Grief is another side of love, a different facet of the same diamond. I don't understand it, I don't yet have the wisdom to handle it skillfully, I don't know what to do with it. I love you, Cliff. I miss you. I wish more than anything that you were happy and healthy and here.
