You would think after more than two decades, one would have adjusted to life without a loved one in it. This has been the case for me, learning to be whoever it is that I am, without my sister in my daily life. But every now and then, I will have an experience that reminds me that things were different once, and that they would be different now, “If only.”
The “If only,” obviously, is “If only Joyce were here.”
This idea is related to one that I have been studying in my dissertation work. It is the idea of “relearning who we are” after a loved one dies. Dr. Robert Niemeyer, whom I have referenced in this blog before, is a noted psychologist who is an expert on grief-related issues. Niemeyer has written extensively on this process of adaptation for those who grieve, suggesting that we are compelled to confront the essence of who we are when we undergo the grief process.
Your whole world changes when you lose someone, because that person held a special place in it, contributing to your life experiences by being a part of them. The hobbies you enjoyed together, special occasions that you routinely celebrated together, traditions you shared, all are different when a key person in the equation is missing.
In the first few years after Joyce died, I did many things by myself. That is, I did many things by myself once I developed the fortitude to do anything at all.
I declined party invitations, “Happy Hour’s,” even wedding invitations, because I simply did not know how to venture out socially without my sidekick, Joyce, to accompany me. Mind you, I was in my early 20s when I lost my sister, so I had not developed my “adult life” yet and was only beginning to figure out what that might amount to through full-time employment and the development of adult relationships.
At the time, I was free-falling through my grief. I did not have a handle on my emotions, so tears were always just below the surface if not obviously spilling forth. I wasn’t in control (insofar as we ever are “in control” of our feelings) and I was not strong enough to put myself in a position of vulnerability, particularly around anyone outside of my “inner circle.”
So I spent a lot of time alone, or with my parents, or occasionally with my brothers. There were occasions when a cousin or friend would call or stop by out of the blue, to take me for a ride in their new car, or treat me to an ice cream cone to get me out of the house and offer a chance to vent.
In hindsight, I can see how the relearning experience was working for me. I began to develop new relationships -- close kinships with a couple of cousins, new friendships with coworkers -- wow, looking back, it is like reading a scientific study, the way I “found” people to fill something of the void.
Gradually, I became stronger. I also found ways to avoid grief. I buried myself in work. Any work. My job as a newspaper reporter became nearly round-the-clock, which isn’t saying much, perhaps, since reporters tend to be “on call” all the time. What I mean is, I spent far longer hours in the office than I should have, using that space as a haven for distracting my thoughts and keeping me busy.
I learned that going to the movies can be a good escape. Outside of the discomfort I felt initially in stepping up to the window to utter, “One, please,” I could hide in the comforting darkness of the movie theater and let the film take me away. Today, it is rare that I see a movie alone, but it has become a comfortable form of relaxation for me whether I have company or not.
For all the “growth” and relearning I have experienced through the years of “Life Without Joyce,” I am sorry to report that there are still bursts of unexpected sadness and regret at her absence in my life. Guess what? This is normal.
My latest reminder: After several months of kicking around the idea of taking an exercise class, I finally picked a start date and decided to check one out. A friend had planned to meet me there, so I felt good about trying out an unknown place to do something I had never done before, at an age in which my flexibility and coordination are, shall we say, not what they used to be. It would be fun to try this out with someone I know, who will laugh with me when I misstep and encourage me through the hour of potential torture. That's how it was with Joyce and me, so I jumped into this activity with a familiar mindset.
Unfortunately, my buddy was a no-show. Most days, it may not have bothered me. It just so happens, I had dreamt about Joyce the night before, and it left me feeling a bit out of sorts and sensitive. There must have been something reminiscent of my teenage years with Joyce that made this particular experience difficult, but I had no way of knowing it would whack me on the head this way.
“Joyce would never have blown me off,” I was thinking. “Joyce would have at least called me.” She was true-blue, dependable, and respectful. These are high standards to hold everyone else in my life to, but that’s the way it is.
The short of it is, I got through the class just fine, laughing at myself instead of with someone, when I didn’t quite master the moves. The “lesson learned” for me was a bit difficult. Yet, valuable. Thinking through this little episode reminds me of how far I have come since losing Joyce. I became an extremely independent person as I embarked on the process of discovering myself in a world without her.
Thanks to my friend’s unintentional absence, I recaptured an old memory of Joyce and me in our sweats at the old Gloria Stevens fitness center, and can give new thanks for that time in my life. Getting used to her absence may be a lifelong practice, but I know that there are good memories keeping us together.
Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan
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