“Year two was the worst year of my life,” said one widow further along in this journey. “Oh yeah,” agreed another. “Years two and three? Awful. Just awful.”

I was just shy of the one-year anniversary of Brian’s passing during this conversation. I remember thinking they must be wrong; how could anything be harder than the first year? How could anything surpass the simultaneous pain and numbness of this first year?

“When others call into question our grief, defy our perennial relationship with those we love who have died, treat us as anathema and avoid us, and push us toward healing before we are ready, they simply redouble our burden.”

Joanne Cacciatore, “Bearing the Unbearable”

Today, on the two-year anniversary of Brian’s death, I understand. The numbness loosens its grip. The stabbing pain threatens to overtake me. The loneliness suffocates me. The impossibleness of the present, the fear of the future, sit ever heavier on my shoulders.

The Physical Burden

March 19, 2023, was the worst day of my life. I remember parts of the day in painful detail. Other parts elude me. Each year when the calendar turns to March my heart rate accelerates, my sleep decreases and a general sense of dread envelopes me.

Those first couple weeks after Brian’s death my facial muscles ached and were swollen from the ferocity and frequency of crying. My throat was raw from screams muffled into my pillow in the middle of the night. Food made me nauseated and the inability to sleep negatively exacerbated every emotion and feeling.

Two years out, my face doesn’t hurt anymore and I’ve reclaimed joy in cooking and eating kitchen creations, but the physical effects of this extended time of grief and stress take an ever-increasing toll on my body.

“Some losses you do not live long enough to fully grieve.”

“The Frozen River” by Ariel Lawhon

Outside of orthopedic surgeries, I was previously a pretty healthy person. But since Brian died, I’ve had hand-mouth-foot, norovirus, a nasty bout of Flu A and frequent colds. It’s not a coincidence my immune system has diminished so much.

Studies show the effects of long-term grief and trauma in a body. Bessel van der Kolk’s book, “The Body Keeps the Score,” is arguably one of the preeminent books in this field. He shows how traumatic experiences alter brain structure and function, especially those tied to emotional regulation and memory, leading to long-term physiological changes. Grief and trauma quite literally change your brain and will present themselves as physical symptoms, such as my illnesses mentioned above.

“Unlike other forms of psychological disorders, the core issue in trauma is reality.”

Bessel van der Kolk, “The Body Keeps the Score”

The book also explores how trauma triggers the body’s “fight or flight” response and parasympathetic nervous system even long after the threat has passed. What should be a temporary life-saving response becomes chronic, leading to chronic stress and hyper-vigilance.

Interestingly enough, the parasympathetic nervous system is also what misfires in chronic regional pain syndrome (CRPS), which I developed in my left foot after dropping a weight on it in 2021. Medication, physical therapy and an injection in my spine largely resolved the symptoms of CRPS. But since living in “fight, flight or freeze” for two years, which remember is the parasympathetic nervous system misfiring, my foot with CRPS has once again become symptomatic. My body is keeping the score.

“We have learned that trauma is not just an event that took place sometime in the past; it is also the imprint left by that experience on mind, brain and body. This imprint has ongoing consequences for how the human organism manages to survive in the present. Trauma results in a fundamental reorganization of the way mind and brain manage perceptions. It changes not only how we think and what we think about, but also our very capacity to think.”

Bessel van der Kolk, “The Body Keeps the Score”

When Brian appears in my dreams, there’s always a variation of me saying, “But I thought you died,” as I cling to him and he responds, “Oh honey. I’d never do that to you.” As much as I know he is gone, a part of my brain simply cannot fathom this reality.

Being Alone vs. Loneliness

Grief is lonely. Widowhood is lonely. It wasn’t until Brian’s passing that I truly appreciated the difference between loneliness and being alone. Being in a room full of people does nothing to ease my loneliness. You can very much be surrounded by people and feel lonely. You can be with no one and not feel loneliness.

My person is gone. The person with whom I share a history and with whom I was supposed to share my forever is gone. Not one aspect of life is untouched. While I’m just one of many who miss Brian, Landon, Bryce and I are the only people who have had to alter every routine in every moment of every day.

“It almost seems as though the only way to eradicate our grief would be to relinquish the love we feel—to disassemble our loved one’s place in our lives. But checking in with the wisdom of our heart, we see that is impossible. Grief and love occur in tandem.”

Joanne Cacciatore, “Bearing the Unbearable”

There is no other relationship in your life where you build a life WITH someone, where you have shared a history and make plans to share your long futures. The life we built ceased to exist for both of us on March 19. I grieve our routines, our dreams, our partnership. I grieve us. I grieve our marriage. I grieve our family unit. I grieve for and with Landon, and I help him express his grief. I grieve for Bryce, both for what he’s lost and that he doesn’t even understand what he has lost.

The Social Readjustment Rating Scale ranks the death of a spouse as the most stressful life event with a score of 100. Divorce ranks No. 2 with a score of 73.

It is heavy. It is unsustainable. And yet driving forward is my only choice. “You’re so strong,” people have said. But is it strength when there is no other option? No, it is merely survival.

The Changes

A friend who lost their spouse around the same time as Brian passed recently asked me how I have changed since his passing. It’s a hard question that requires a level of self-reflection I don’t yet have. Although it’s easy for me to see how they have changed, it’s harder to identify within myself.

On March 19, 2023, I had to decide whether Landon should come to the hospital to see Brian. My first thought was, “Talking to a 4-year-old about death and having him see a body is a huge decision. I need to discuss it with Brian.”

You can see the dilemma there.

Ultimately, Landon came to the hospital and I had the hardest conversation of my life. It was the right decision, but being the sole parent and ultimately having everything be my decision is difficult.

“Rather often I am asked whether the grief remains as intense as when I wrote. The answer is, No. The wound is no longer raw. But, it has not disappeared. That is as it should be. If he was worth loving, he is worth grieving over. … Grief is existential testimony to the worth of the one loved. That worth abides. So, I own my grief. I do not try to put it behind me, to get over it, to forget it. … Every lament is a love song.”

Nicholas Wolterstorff, “Lament for a Son”

Brian and I had an easy rapport where we tended to agree on a lot of the big decisions for our children. Parenting alongside Brian was easy (at least as easy as the hardest job in the world can be).

One of my biggest changes has been finding confidence to make big decisions and being at peace with them. From having Landon at the hospital to moving house quickly to giving him an extra year of preschool despite being age-eligible for kindergarten…all big decisions. I made each one, and thousands of smaller decisions, with confidence and have no regrets.

I’m learning how to grill. I’m dedicated to cardio and strength training, not only so I can be as healthy as possible for myself, but also so I have the endurance to keep up with these active boys.

I’ve had to grow my patience, which does not come naturally to me. (Brian would be the first to tell you I’m not a patient person!)

I’ve had to put myself out there. Although secondary losses of some friends hurt at first, I’m learning how to make new friends and rekindle friendships from earlier in my life.

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The Never-ending Race

Grief does not go away. There is no finish line. I will never “get over it.” Contrary to the popular but false belief that “time will heal all wounds,” time does not heal grief. Grief and trauma do not diminish in size; rather, I need to continue to grow around it. As I grow around it, I simply develop more capacity to carry the heavy load.

The fact that grief enters your whole remaining life flies in the face of our consumer culture that urges us to fix, numb or ignore the pain of death. The truth is, the death of our loves is something we learn to carry throughout our own remaining lives. It is endless, as is our love for them and their love for us.

Elizabeth Brady, “Oil for Your Lantern”

The darkness of year one and the loneliness of year two are bitter and vile. They are also the reality. We now venture into this third year without Brian. The darkness and loneliness will persist, but will perhaps develop fissures through which a glimmer of light may shine.

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