Into the filmy past

And so another grief-share drifts into the filmy past.
Last night (Wednesday, August 1, 2012) was grief-share number four.
The grief-shares are every Wednesday through October 10.
I know for a fact I can’t attend two, September 19 and September 26.
I have out-of-town commitments September 20 and 27 that involve long auto-trips September 19 and 26.
I also don’t know if I can last through October 10.
But I feel I should, since I don’t seem to have assimilated my wife’s death.
It’s been over three months, but I keep feeling she will return some day.
That’s probably a grief-effect I think a grief-share can help me with.
I also know that of most people I’ve met since my wife died, the people in this grief-share seem to better know where I’m at.
They’ve experienced the same loss as me, or similar.
Outside the grief-share are those that claim to know how I feel, but obviously they don’t. They’ve never experienced a loss as catastrophic as mine.
But I feel out-of-it at this grief-share.
It feel like the others haven’t experienced a loss as catastrophic as mine, a beloved spouse of 44 years who I was apparently very attached to.
Except for a couple, who’ve lost children. One seems devastated, the other angry and hurt.
A lady who lost her husband to suicide in 2005 seems to have accommodated.
My loss is fairly recent, so my emotions, so I’m told, are raw; they seem rawer than the others.
This grief-share has the advantage of being nearby. All the suggested others were too far away.
Two weekends ago I attended a celebratory buffet for my grandniece who just graduated high-school.
I of course felt out-of-it and bored.
My sister-in-law Carol was there, age 70. (First of my wife’s brother’s four wives.)
She immediately asked about how my so-called “support-group” was going, as if the grief-share was supposed to make me feel better, that is “get-over-it.”
HELLO. A grief-share is not a grief-cure. There’s no cure for being devastated and heartbroken. It doesn’t go away; you just learn to live with it; that is, accept it.
A lady at the grief-share told me last night “things get better,” and then admitted her comment was rather trite.
“I sure hope so,” I said. I’ve heard that comment a zilyun times.
I feel like I’m getting worse.
And at the same time it seems I’m getting slightly better; my confidence has returned slightly, perhaps enough to get my motorcycle inspected before the month runs out. —PrevIously I had no confidence at all.
But at 5:03 this afternoon, when I awoke from my post YMCA nap, I started crying.
“Time to do the carrots,” I said to my dog through tears. “Despite being heartbroken. And then feed the dog.”
My guess is others in the grief-share are as discombobulated and confused, perhaps even bored, as I am.
I know one feels responsible.
As such my attendance will probably continue.

• My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. She was 68. I miss her dearly.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named their “Wellness-Center,” usually two-three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. I worked out there Thursday, August 2nd. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where I live in western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles away.) Working out at the YMCA leaves me utterly smashed, in need of a nap.—I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (as in “Scarlett O’Hara”) a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is our sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder]. By getting a rescue-dog, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad.)