Grief Landscape

One of the prompts that I had in Writing You Grief was to write how your landscape had changed. When I was a child, I would watch scary movies that always seemed to have quicksand in them. I was always terrified of falling into quicksand, though I didn’t live in an area where there was any. That image came to me when I wrote about my grief landscape.

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My landscape has changed three times in 10 years. The first time was when my husband Mike died suddenly. After that, the world changed from solid ground to quicksand. Each step I took was filled with uncertainty, not knowing if I would sink into the abyss, being pulled under by the weight of grief. Each step I took was shaky, knowing that it could all disappear. People around me said it was solid ground; keep moving, you’re strong and doing great. They didn’t realize that the world could implode at any moment. There was no safety on the path. The minute the ground felt solid, my feet would begin to sink, and I wasn’t sure if I was going to get up again. It took me time to learn that the world had always been that way; I didn’t get it until Mike’s death.

When my mom died on January 23, 2022, the quicksand returned, tugging at my feet, making it hard to find joy in the world. “She’d want you to keep going and do the things you love,” they’d say. So how do I do that when my hand reaches out to be held and comforted, but people are walking around the path where I’m sinking? 

As I was slogging through the quicksand, finding moments when the land was solid and I had instances of respite, my dad died on July 24. The difference was I was there in his last week of life. I watched him as he drifted from this world to the next. Not only did my world crumble once again, but it also reignited the grief I had for Mike and my mom’s death. 

The world is not the same as I carry death’s weight. So, no, I can’t just go out and do the things that brought me joy. I’m trying to walk through this quicksand, not the garden full of colors and light. 

You can’t fix this, and I don’t want you to. But, it can be eased when you listen to me, cry with me or be present. That’s what I need.