Ghost

On Sunday it'll be two years since Karl died. I still have his favorite things; a football jersey, sunglasses, a drawing he'd commissioned with plans to have done as a tattoo that never happened, his box of baby memories. I keep these things not out of grief or mourning or, I admit, even good memories. I keep these items out of guilt for feeling none of those things.

My grief was over by the time he passed. My mourning was done in the months before he died; it was poisoned away by chemotherapy and the endless sickness that comes along with it. It was spent in countless hours in the emergency room. It was numbed by exhaustion, dulled by the disappearance of the man I'd married -- a good man, a loving man, a kind man -- as he was replaced by a stranger who didn't know me or the kids, who called all of us names, who was confused all of the time, who hallucinated and heard voices. It was absorbed in the pain etched in deep crevices on his face and by the bones cracking in his body as the cancer ate through them.

In the end, all that was left for me to feel when he died was shock. It finally, really happened. This thing we've known was coming, but seemed to never truly BE coming, finally came and with it came shock. Shock and a feeling of being lost; this thing my life had centered around for two years was gone. I was so used to orbiting something, I didn't know what to do with myself. And finally a sense of freedom I had forgotten existed.

And yet this new found liberation was tarnished by guilt and a feeling of still being alone; the rest of his family was grieving the grief I had already felt and was done with. They hadn't been there for the majority of the illness, they saw just a few pieces of the time he spent dying. For them, this thing I'd had two years to come to terms with was very new. This was not their fault. They had lives and jobs and kids of their own to carry on with. But in watching their mourning, I was an outsider. I wasn't a part of the group. My real feelings -- the liberation, the elation -- yes, elation! -- at finally having room to breath again couldn't be spoken out loud to his parents, his siblings, even my best friend, who is the youngest sister. Because love me though she may, it was still her brother and it would be unfair and insensitive of me to tell her what I really felt. I certainly couldn't tell my kids. They'd kept on their rose-colored glasses, as kids can do, and been in denial of the obvious truth I didn't realize, much to my regret, I needed to speak aloud. Their dad's death was as fresh for them as it was for the rest of the family. I held them and loved them but I couldn't grieve with them.

So I kept it to myself and let myself be alone, and really, being alone was nice. It was nice to just be left alone. I fell in love again quickly, which further alienated me from his family, who were entirely unable to have empathy for what I was feeling because it really was so alien to them in their fresh grief. I understand that and I forgive it. These people I'd known since I was ten. Some of whom still have no interest in talking to me and thus have blown off their grand kids/nephews and niece as well. Even as I moved on, I felt guilty that I couldn't take part in their grief. I felt guilt over feeling no grief over this man for whom I'd felt and gone through so much. And so his things still sit in my hall closet, gathering dust and silently keeping the ghost contained to that one area.

This weekend, these things are leaving my house. I have come to terms with the fact that I have nothing to feel guilty over; we all grieve in our own way and our own time. Sometimes that time is much shorter than we imagined and that's ok. My grief was my own and however I did it, I'm normal and ok. It's time to let this ghost go.