Growing Through Grief: A different kind of pain

By Angela Clement
@AwakenYSJ

There is a different kind of pain that comes after losing someone who was ill. When you are the caregiver, there are long days of trying to hold everything together while, at the same time, finding a way to look after them in the way only we know how. I remember those days quite vividly. There were so many moments where I found myself breaking down when no one was watching. It happened a lot when I was washing the dishes in the kitchen while he was in the bedroom, or at night, quietly, before I fell asleep. Those days were gut-wrenching, and yet somehow I just kept going. There was no choice. I was doing what I vowed to do. I made a commitment to Blaine in sickness and in health, and I didn't let him down.

Still, there were a lot of questions that arose following his passing. Did I do enough? Maybe if I had done more research, I would have found a better way. Maybe we should have travelled to another country and found better treatments. Should I have pushed harder? Done more? Should I have spent more time looking into his eyes, enjoying his presence, holding his hand?

My experience was 10 months of being a caregiver. I know people who spent 10 years caring for their loved one. It becomes what you do. It becomes part of your identity. When they are gone, you feel relief that their suffering is over and, at the same time, overwhelming guilt and sadness. We often have no idea what to do. So we search for a way to rewrite the ending, thinking somehow that knowing what we did wrong will make things better. Yet there is no escaping the fact that they are gone, and we can't change how it all played out.

I am willing to bet you were like me. You sat in the waiting room. You learned all about the medications. You drove to appointments. You advocated, worried, and searched for answers that would save their life. You held onto hope. You stayed positive as much as humanly possible, and maybe even more. You were tired, but you kept going. Yet all you did, and all your love, was not enough to save them. That is very hard to accept. It was hard for me to accept that my love, as deep and profound as it was, could not save my husband.

There are illnesses we can't stop. We can't force our bodies to heal. And we cannot fight battles for someone else, no matter how much we would like to. Loving someone through illness is one of the heaviest things a human being can carry. Yet you did it and I did it, even though we were terrified, sleep-deprived, heartbroken, and doing the very best we could. We did it amazingly well, and we would do it again if we had to.

We have to give ourselves some grace for how we showed up and for doing what we could in a way others will never quite understand. You cannot do better than your best. You did the best you could with the information and resources you had. Believe it.

I know that Blaine is looking down in love and appreciation for what I did. I know without a doubt your loved one is too. They are proud of who you are, who you are becoming, and everything you will do in your days here. They are cheering you on from their vantage point. They walk with you and cherish you each and every moment of each and every day. Love never dies. Carry it with you moving forward and be proud of what you were able to do. You showed up. You cared. You loved them in the best way.

I see you, I acknowledge you, and I applaud you. It wasn't easy, and still somehow here we are. Still taking those steps forward.

Lots of love, Angela