You know that song? — There were ten in the bed and then the little one said roll over, roll over… ..
Except in my life, I mean, life after Ferdinand, people keep telling me move on, move on…
And I want to just step out of my shoes and tell them, “Here, you wear these shoes and walk a mile and then come talk to me while I go suck on a lemon under that shady tree over there.”
Except, of course, those shoes are power-glued onto my feet. You’d better not envy those shoes. They ain’t made for walking.
Just this evening my very own husband had told me, It’s time to move on!
Holy crap, are the stars finally properly aligned for that? Is everything in place, and I am ready to blast off? Is there really exactly a time for moving on? Haven’t I been moving all the time?
Some people think we bereaved like to waddle around in grief mud. Like, it’s fun and glamorous. They think we are masochists who put our fingers under whirling chain-saws and chew on glass chips. They think we actually like being sad and mournful.
Oh, come on already.
My uncle, thirty years after my grandfather had died, still tears up talking about his father, whom he did not have enough time with. Does anyone ever tap him on his shoulder and say, “Move on already, move on now… …”
I am sounding like a broken down recorder but of course we move on, and death moves on with us. We carry our little ones dear in our hearts. And they ain’t heavy. They are our children, of course we remember, and of course we feel sad that they cannot be licking the batter out of the mixing bowl and strewing the house with stinky socks and leaving smudgy finger-prints on our mirrors and embarrassing us (loudly) in restaurants.
Of course I move on. I am cooking meals from scratch again. I am even finding energy and courage to try new recipes. I even make a wish-list for myself. I dare to plan (not exactly ten-year plans, but you know…) and I even tell disgusting jokes. I don’t know what makes some people think I am digging myself down a hole right here.
It’s just I move differently.
We were having brunch at a nice restaurant at a resort. I was enjoying myself. It was good food. I relished observing the two older girls trying to eat civilly with a fork and a knife and not with all ten fingers. I looked out to the beautiful setting of the resort and thought what a wonderful day this was. And I also thought of Ferdinand. I felt sad. I missed him. I felt like howling. I felt like bawling. The food in my stomach scrambled around trying to find space as grief began to swell in my core. I glanced at Lyra in her car-seat, sweetly asleep. I shuddered as a feeling of deep intense love overcame me and I wanted to just lean over and kiss her except I did not want to wake her. I saw, in my mind’s eye, how one day I will be old (yes, I am simply assuming things here) and I will be washing some fresh-picked tomatoes in the kitchen and as I turned off the faucet and wiped my hands on a dish towel, everything will come back again, like a movie right before my eyes. I will sigh and I will sit down and remember and re-live that horrible summer of many years ago. I will wish things would be different. I will see that no matter what, I lived.
I know this is how life is, and will be for me. I will find joy, of course, but joy and sorrow are sworn brothers. If you never know sorrow, how can you know joy? If you never tasted bitter, will you crave sweet? If you take time to let a bite of very bitter dark chocolate sit on your tongue, you will notice how the bitterness melts into a hint of sweet.
It just is. Memories weaving in and out, coming to the fore-front of our thoughts from time to time. This is normal.
We move on, of course we move on. We just do not forget. How could one expect us to forget our very own flesh and blood? We may allow our lives to fill up with other things, but we do not forget. I know I will always remember how close I was to the joy of holding my son, and then losing him. It is that hair-breath proximity to joy that gives such stark contrast to the devastation. So, when I recall it all, there is always that haunting shadow of the promise of sweetness somewhere, and I think I will spend the rest of my life chasing down that almost-taste.
But, yes, I am moving on. Stop standing in-front of me and telling me to move on now. I am moving.
Very insightful post. I am often taken aback by the way people tell others to “just move on already” as if it is as easy as that, like it isn’t a long process that takes places in stages.
Keep moving on darling, at your own pace and in your own stages; day by day.
I think this is a post I will often come back to. Thank you Janis.
I feel like I’m moving, too. Sadly, I have no idea where I’m going.
I think this is why I have such trouble talking about my grief with people. I never want to hear someone tell me that I need to move on. I hold it inside so I can keep it as long as I need to and come back to it whenever I please. My physical actions are moving me on, but my mind often goes back and forth. I love the paragraph about the close proximity of joy to all that we are experiencing. It is such a complex place to be. Thank you for this post.
Oh Janis. Of course you’re moving on and of course you do not forget. You’re in my thoughts.
I’ve had a few “time to move on” conversations with MY dh recently too (re: the Mother’s Day baptism we attended, & our decision to stop facilitating our support group). Believe me, I’m moving… but the dust of my experience still clings to my feet, & I know it always will. (((hugs)))
It is too bad that others can’t appreciate how we have kept going, how well we ARE functioning. But that we now too have new limitations, new memories to go back to. We have a different reference point in our lives than we used to.
I am glad you are back to your cooking
That is a big accomplishment in my understanding of you!
I guess people expect us to move via teleporter, not one small step at a time. Or perhaps in the direction or to the place they wish to meet us at, not where we are.
Too bad for them. You go mama!
I shuddered a bit recently when someone told a grieving family that time heals all wounds. I think of you and remember that time may pass but the memories will never be erased or forgotten.
People aren’t telling me (directly, anyway) to move on yet, for which I’m profoundly grateful. I think that when people say, or even hint, at this, what they really want is for us to move on in the ways that they think we should or in the same ways that they are moving. And, as you write so well, we have to move on in our own ways, wearing shoes we don’t want to wear.
Thanks for this post, Janis. I’ll be coming back to it.
I agree we do move, and when people say “move on” they seem to be saying “forget so I can too.” But the reality is that we do move and that we move with death as our forever companion. Peace.
Each moves differently at a different pace. Sigh, I move too.
My boss told me to move on- she compared it to her recent breakup with her boyfriend, how I needed to put the sadness behind me (at work, at least) and focus on the future. Her relationship came to fruition; I never saw my son’s life do that. Big difference.
They don’t know, that even if we move on, we move to a different place (in our heads, in our spirit, physically even), the ghosts of what will never be will always haunt us. You can never escape it.
Beautiful post Janis. I think we have had no choice but to move on, although I guess people expect more. I chalk those comments up to them just not knowing. I mean, really, how could anyone imagine the horror that we know? They might be able to for a second, but then they go back to their life. They don’t realize that the horror doesn’t go away. It just morphs or something like that.