It’s been three years since Amy died. Since that moment when my world was forever changed, I’ve written of my journey through grief. I’ve shared some of these thoughts publicly, but most I’ve kept private in my journal or discussed with a few close friends. We could argue my motivation for sharing. Some may say that I continue to seek sympathy as the grieving husband. Others suspect that I’m struggling to somehow keep Amy alive - living a life of denial. The more noble story is that I’m sharing what the process has been for me to help others. Quite frankly, it’s a mixture of all those and other things - a cocktail that varies from day to day.
Even after three years, my grief-driven lows can still strike with an unnerving velocity and intensity. It can be like a sudden, unexpected summer thunderstorm that rolls across the mountain, catching me far from home. A full week of sunshine that is blotted out by ominous, dark clouds as the air becomes charged with an electrical force that is more felt than seen. This tingling alarm is followed by blinding flashes of lightning, a cacophony of deafening thunder, and a flood of drenching rain. It can be overwhelming and emotionally violent. But more often these days the storm is a low, distant rumbling with a light, almost gentle, soaking shower. Some storms last for minutes. Others continue for hours. On increasingly rare occasions, they can last for days.
These emotional storms can be triggered by a song or place or gathering or any number of sensory stimuli. Some, such as birthdays or holidays, can be forecast and are anticipated. Others come upon me without warning. While both cases can be disorienting in the moment, I’ve learned that regardless of the circumstances, the clouds eventually lift, and the sun shines once again.
It’s in this middling space between the storm and sunshine that the rainbow appears.
In the weeks and months after Amy’s death, I doubted I would see the sun again. I zombie-walked through each day, unsure whether I could breathe in enough oxygen to live. But slowly, over time, my capacity to smile and laugh without guilt is returning. I realize that I still have the ability to give and accept love. In the most surreal moments, I recognize that sadness and joy; hopelessness and hope; sorrow and happiness; and loss and love can all occupy that rainbowed space between the storm and light. I’ve come to look for these metaphorical rainbows as an assurance that even the fiercest grief storms will not destroy me and that somewhere beyond those dark clouds the sun will certainly shine.
I miss Amy. Hardly a moment passes that she doesn’t come to mind. Her death is a constant reminder that life is fragile. This fragility reminds me daily to readily forgive others, to tell people I love and appreciate them, and to be kind. I’m trying to keep short accounts.
And
I’ve gained a new appreciation for rainbows.
