What does grief look like? Well, it’s a funny creature. It’s pretty fluid, it looks different for every person. There are some consistencies although it is also a walking contradiction. It doesn’t discriminate. It’s not racist or sexist or ageist. It is always unwelcome. No one ever wakes up and says “I would love to experience grief today.” It intrudes, it invades, it disables. On the one hand it can make you hurt, cry and despair and on the other it completely numbs you out. It comes in waves but also feels constant. It leaves you apprehensive, looking around for a solid place to land your feet but just when you think you’ve found a rock to stand on it moves again and all you feel is shifting sand.

It is every sigh, it is the burden of loss. It is a mask we wear because we hope that if we can convince others that we’re doing okay we might just fool ourselves as well. It’s a million little things and a multitude of big things. It’s some specifics and lots of feelings that you just can’t name or put your finger on. It’s the welling of tears which are an outward expression of the storm raging on the inside. It’s an actual, physical, continual almost overwhelming ache. It’s exhaustion with an inability to sleep. It’s a hurt and pain that runs through your veins with every heartbeat.

But what does it look like for me? It’s half of a two who became one.

Grief is regret. Regret for all of the times we argued over stupid things. Regret for all of those times when I was not the wife Chris needed or deserved. Regret for all of the missed opportunities to spend time together because “life” got too busy. Regret that I didn’t tell him more that I loved him, was proud of him, was grateful for him, was proud to be his wife, what a great dad he was. But my biggest regret is not having the chance to say goodbye. Grief is regret.

Grief is anger. Anger that he’s not here anymore. Anger that a beautiful girl now has to live a life without her father. Anger that Chris won’t be there to see her grow up to be everything she should be because of the way he loved her. Anger because he won’t see her graduate from school or get married. Anger because I was supposed to experience all of those things together. Anger because decisions are now being forced upon me, decisions I neither want to make or face. Anger because when I talk to Chris with good, bad or indifferent news it’s now a one way conversation. It’s anger because he was taken way too soon, too young, too suddenly. Grief is anger.

Grief is sadness, almost unbearable sadness. Sadness when I turn to reach for his hand and realise it’s not there. It’s watching the clock still expecting to hear his car pull up in the driveway and then being swamped with a wave of sadness because 5:30pm will continue to come and go and his ute will never pull into the driveway again. It’s the silent tears I cry as I tell my daughter everything will be okay, knowing I’m lying to her and myself because a life without Chris is NOT okay. It’s sadness because no amount of photos scattered around the house will fill the hole that Chris has left behind Sadness because our house is no longer home because home was where he was and he’s not here anymore. It’s a sadness that sends me retreating to a sleeping place because dreams are now the only place I can hold him, feel him, touch him and it’s sadness when I wake up and he’s not lying in the bed next to me. Sadness because this new pathway through life feels unbearable most of the time. It is a sadness that makes me feel like I am always living in the rain. Grief is sadness.

Grief is helplessness. It’s crying, needing Chris to hold me and tell me that everything is going to be okay but feeling helpless because he’s not here. Helplessness because I just don’t know how to live without him here with me. It’s helplessness because the life I now live is not the same life it was when he was in it, a life I can never get back again. It’s helplessness because no matter how hard I try I just can’t make things fit because the puzzle I call life has changed. It’s sadness because I MISS him. It’s helplessness because there is nothing I can do to get just one more hug, kiss, laugh. It’s helplessness because there is nothing I can do to help ease the pain and grief of all of the people who loved Chris and miss him too. It’s helplessness because the sun has gone and I have no idea when it will come out again or when this hallow feeling will go away. Helplessness because thoughts of Chris bring happiness but what quickly follows is the truth of this season and once more my head has to tell my heart that no amount of pleading, hoping or bargaining will bring Chris back Grief is helplessness.

Grief is the ups and downs, it’s living every day wishing he was back but also being thankful he was here. It’s smiles and frowns, confusion and uncertainty about the future. It’s being sure that life will never be the same again. It’s melancholy, sorrow, despair and a heart broken into a million pieces. Grief is the room that won’t light up because Chris is not here to walk into it. It’s the laughs with him and because of him that won’t happen now. It’s the loss of my best friend, partner in crime, protector and one man cheer squad. It’s a daughter who misses her dad. It’s wondering does he really know how much I love him and miss him. Can he see how much our lives have changed in a few short weeks that actually feels like forever. When I talk to him about home, work, family, life, does he hear me? Grief is all of these unanswered questions. Grief is a life that will always be second best. Grief is a lot of “can’ts”, can’t breath, can’t see, can’t bear the burden of grief. Grief is looking in every nook, every corner, every crack to make sure that this place we find ourselves is not just one big nightmare from which we’ll wake up at any moment. Grief is being inconsolable because one moment he was here and then he was gone from this world forever.

Finally, grief is the certainty of one thing, that I will love Chris and miss him my whole life!

Always & forever…..