But life is different now. I need to try to put that difference in words.
When C. died, I saw my world through the fog of grief. For the first six months, I could barely breathe through it. Every single thought/word/step/action was made in the context of grief. I had a son. He died. My heart thumped out that rhythm over and over.
It was as if I was living on some Newfoundland outcrop, enveloped by that pervasive sea fog. Breath in the dampness. Feel it on your skin. Strain your eyes into that whiteness.
You know that something exists on the other side of the fog, but there is no way for you to reach it. You are frozen in time and place.
As time passed, it was easier to bear. There were good people along side of me, peering off the edge of the cliff into the mist. Maybe it was clearing a bit.
As we went through our year of trying to conceive, it was like a smoggy Toronto day. I could see where I was trying to go. But the thick air still hung around me. It wasn't great, but you can live in Toronto. There are good people there. They can be friendly and caring.
What this doesn't describe is the intensity of pain that I feel. The intensity hasn't diminished much. What has left is the feeling of walking around in a fog of grief all the time. I have a bit of mental clarity back.
Our second child has given me that gift. The gift of clarity, purpose, and joy in my world that was previously defined by mists of confusion and pain.
A Canadian perspective on my current state of grief as we go into this long Victoria Day weekend.