Picking Up the Pieces

First comes denial.

I tell myself that because Lynn and I got to say all those goodbyes, because she knew how much I loved her, because we had no regrets about our choices, my grief should be shallower or shorter than most. In post after post, I emphasize the positives—as when, just two days after she died, I describe riding around Central Park looking forward to my life ahead.

But really, I am in shock, as when your body and mind conspire to shield you from the pain of an accident. For more than six years, I’ve been driven by one goal: To help Lynn stay as fully alive as possible. Now, in an instant, both the love of my life and the purpose of my life are gone. Suddenly I’m alone, and I don’t know what to do.

When the shock wears off, I discover that in fact I am no different from anyone else. I am adrift in a merciless sea, and the grief will have its turn.

Trying to Reassemble the Pieces

Sunday, February 28, 2021        

My desire for Lynn grows in the darkness. Each morning, I wake before 5 and lie in bed thinking of her, talking to her, calling her back to me. I want the tears; I want the grief; they remind me of my love for Lynn and all the ways she changed me.

We have acres of medical supplies scattered around the house, stacks of unopened packs of adult diapers. There is a hospice sticker on the refrigerator reminding me not to call 911 under any circumstance. Taking it down, removing any of these things, would acknowledge that Lynn no longer needs them. I am not ready for that.

In a comment to a post I wrote shortly before Lynn died, our friend Ann offered a metaphor and prediction that I now hold close to my heart: that, after sitting in my grief for a long while, I will assemble the shattered pieces of my life into a new mosaic, one that includes Lynn (how could it not?) and allows me to move forward. It is no surprise that I am nowhere near that.

I find myself moving between moments of calm and moments of extreme grief as if navigating between the shards, standing first on one and then another, trying to find my balance. But I am complicit in this. When I have felt okay for too long, I feel guilty. I am not ready to be at peace. I want Lynn with me, so I find another shard to stand on where I can feel her loss more keenly.

Sifting Through Pieces of Her Life

I kiss the hard plastic brace, now dirty, which supported her broken neck and cradled her head. And I smell her pillow, where the scent is already beginning to fade. I take out my phone and scroll through the photos in which Google has kindly identified her face.

When I knew Lynn was dying, I started paying attention to the traces of her—her shirt draped over a chair, her toothbrush in its holder, her boots where we dropped them the last time we came home. I was trying to desensitize myself, knowing that once she was gone, these things would trigger my grief. So far that is working; I can look at them without crying.

But grief finds its way in. Last night, friends in the building invited me for dinner. When I got there, I realized this was the first time I’d sat in their dining room without Lynn, the first time her place at their table was empty, and the grief welled up. I cannot desensitize myself from everything. I don’t really want to.

This excerpt is from Carrying the Tiger: Living with Cancer, Dying with Grace, Finding Joy while Grieving, by Tony Stewart.  Copyright © 2025 Anthony Stewart. Reprinted with permission from West End Books.

Visit Tony Stewart on his website.

Read more about spouse-loss: The Emotions of Spouse Loss – Open to Hope

 

Tags: cancer, dying with grace, wife dying