Traditional weights and balances for industrial scales at the cheese market in Edam, the Netherlands.
Nearly six months on from David's death, I have discovered that grief is not for the faint-of-heart. Turns out that grief encompasses a tsunami of emotion so huge and overwhelming, it can be handled only in small increments. Viewing the big picture at once could be enough to crack one's heart wide open; one might be tempted simply to burrow into a corner of the sofa and never get up. So I look at images of moments and events: bring them into the light and examine them, one by one. I search cherished memories for signs, for clues, for benediction, for grace. Then I carefully tuck the photos and recollections away for a brighter day, when - maybe, just maybe - I'll feel less fragile and more adept at handling the onslaught of conflicting emotions.
Meanwhile, I juggle frustrating estate-related bureaucracy in three countries, in turn laughing, crying and cursing at the absurd obstacles hapless bureaucrats place in my path. I remind myself that I am strong and can handle whatever comes - because surely the worst already has happened. My oft-repeated mantra is "just keep going," as I traverse this rocky, uncharted path.
I am buoyed by support and kindness from family, longtime friends and friends I've never met. I am dismayed and incredulous by those who have been guests in our homes in two countries, yet respond to the tragic news with silence. I wonder how such thoughtless people once were welcomed into our circle of friends.
No need for dieting as pounds are shed, along with tears. I reacquaint myself with the late great chef's stove and make miniscule meals. I drink tea with friends. I busy myself with bureaucracy and finance and essentials. Unexpected household demands include a new dishwasher, as well as replacing shattered stones on the front porch. I find myself so distracted by numerous requirements of this abrupt change-of-course, that I do silly things like buy a magazine (that I won't read) that I already have at home.
I avoid listening to music, lest tears flow unbidden. I rearrange furniture and cut flowers from the garden. I try to read or sleep, but a constantly-racing mind proves challenging. So I channel my energies and focus on one thing at a time: a single accomplishment; an object of beauty; a distraction that offers a moment's peace.
"Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving." - Alfred Einstein
I sit on the deck and feed the majestic swan, which has lingered past its usual June departure. I watch the birds in the garden and the Great Crested Grebes in the canal. I clear cobwebs from the ceilings and survey dusty floors with alarm. I purge files and papers and books and clothes and fill recycle bins with things no longer needed. I hire a notaris to draw up a new will and power-of-attorney, to meet requirements of changing laws. I try to understand Dutch, while reading official documents and newspapers. I watch Danish television series and French news reports. I drift through days and nights in a dream-like fugue of sadness and acceptance, straining to hear echoes of hope.
I play tour guide for friends visiting from England. I walk paths without destination and venture by train to places I've never been. I plan a memorial service in London. I write obituaries for various publications. I answer email, but can't keep up...
Resilience
Some days I allow myself brief moments of anticipating the future without him: a long-delayed visit to family in the US; journeys to foreign climes; creative projects. I remember how much David loved me and believed in me and wanted the best for me. But without him, I feel so forlorn - and a little guilty contemplating the prospect of joy - that I set aside those plans for another day.
Even through the veil of sadness, I can see that day will come. After all, I didn't get this far without being an optimist. A brokenhearted and disillusioned optimist, but an optimist, nevertheless. Slowly, I re-learn to rely solely on my own strengths and abilities. Someday I will again stand in the warmth of the sun. And the memory of David's smile will sustain me.
I haven't visited your blog in a while. I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am for the loss of you husband. Keep moving, step by step and know that he is always with you.
Posted by: Gail | 07 November 2015 at 03:29
What a beautiful tribute to your amazing husband, your relationship and your beautiful drive and optimistic attitude. I wish you comfort as you find the peace you so deserve. Thanks so much for this wonderful moment in time through your writing. I find it both comforting and encouraging.
Posted by: Margaret Dukeman | 18 October 2015 at 17:06
Hello Tara
Hopefully you will remember me. I am the Canadian that worked with David at the OECD in gosh way back in 2002 -2003. I remember many great meals in your home typically on the day I arrived in Paris. You introduced this Canadian to sweet potato pie. And then there was the time I arrived and David asked me if I liked Bruce Springsteen and there we were at the Springsteen concert in Paris. Today here in Canada I was at a tax event where I heard the news about David. I'm just so sad to hear of his death. I just needed to tell you how much I enjoyed working for hiim. He was so kind and made me feel like I was part of the team even though most of the time we were working with a 6 hour time difference. I have had many jobs over the years and have worked and collaborated with many people but the time working with David at the OECD was one of the best. Please take care and my sincere sympathies to you and your family
Posted by: Joanne | 30 September 2015 at 04:27
My dearest Tara, I long to see you but respect your need for space and time. I hope you will reach out when you are ready.
In the meantime, please know, I totally get you. I totally can understand how hard these times are for you. I dread to imagine how it must be like to lose the love of your life. David is there in spirit, watching over you. I believe, you will go though this slowly but you will get there. I send you all my love. I am happy to drive to you, anytime.
NIna xxxx
Posted by: Nina Aziz | 21 September 2015 at 13:23
You've been in my thoughts, though I've been offline through much of the summer. I'm so sorry for your loss of your beloved and for all you are going through on top of grieving... Take things one day at a time and be gentle with you. Sending prayers and love to you, dear Tara. xox
Posted by: Terri | 24 August 2015 at 10:43
Oh, my dear, There are no words that I can say to you to help you in your grief. It is yours and you are coping. Each of us, who has had to go through this, walk with you. Silently, holding your hand, in complete understanding.
Posted by: Maryellen Bess | 14 August 2015 at 21:45
My heartfelt love is being sent to you...........Walk slowly through grief my precious one. The depth of your grief is the depth of your love. There will forever be a hole in your soul and I don't believe the words time heals all. It just gets a little tiny bit easier in small small baby steps.
Much love
Jeanne
X0X0
Posted by: Jeanne | 08 August 2015 at 16:12
So glad to see your post and learn that you are making progress on your journey back to light and happiness. I have thought of you and checked the blog for a message. Hoping this will be a day for the warmth of the sun, at least for a time. Marken
Posted by: Marken | 07 August 2015 at 06:10
Tara.. Greetings from Alberta. I am happy to see you writing again..open and honest about your journey... continued strength as you move forward... sending you hugs from across the pond. T.
Posted by: Trish | 06 August 2015 at 05:57
No words can touch the grief you feel. Your post is poignant and real. I wish you comfort and that time will be kind and heal. This is a difficult time on so many levels. Sending good thoughts your way. Like others, I think of you often. Thank you for posting.
Posted by: Helen | 05 August 2015 at 12:28
Tara,
Your posts are so pure of heart. I knew what you were facing when you first learned David was ill. I could tell from your posts. The sucker punch you feel in your throat when many questions are answered is brutal. Remember to breathe and slowly put one foot in front of the other. They do not need to be big steps, just slow steps. If you feel up to reading an extra card or two, please send your address. My other laptop crashed and what they say about always backing up is true.........
Posted by: Mary H. | 05 August 2015 at 03:00
You are often in my thoughts and prayers. Sending a hug.
Posted by: Marilyn | 05 August 2015 at 02:40
Dear Tara,
Thank you for sharing your honest feelings and progress on your journey. I saw this today and thought you might like it too-- making a Memory Pillow out of your Beloved's favorite shirt:
http://www.ducklingsinarow.com/2012/03/diy-pillows-made-from-daddys-shirts.html?m=1
You are an inspiration to me.
Posted by: Carole Mayne | 03 August 2015 at 17:34
It takes a lot of fortitude, to keep putting one foot in front of the other in the face of catastrophe. Sending good thoughts.
Posted by: Vicki in Michigan | 03 August 2015 at 16:32
I am, in spirit, holding your hand. I have known your grief first-hand. One day you will remember only the love and it will comfort you. Meanwhile, keep swimming because sinking is not an option.
Posted by: Colette | 03 August 2015 at 15:58
You were loved and you loved. These are the greatest gifts anyone can have.
Posted by: Jo | 03 August 2015 at 09:16
What a remarkable woman you are. Candace and I deeply regret that our timetables made it impossible for you and David to join us in Paris a couple of years ago.
Posted by: Charles Baker | 02 August 2015 at 17:42