Presence of Absence

I went to a webinar on grief and loneliness, and the speaker used the phrase “presence of absence,” part of a quote by Edna St. Vincent Millay. It was an “aha” moment of recognition of how I was feeling, especially with the fresh grief of the death of my 19-year-old cat. This was the first time in my adult life that I was the only living creature in my home. She seemed to be just out of sight, and when I turned, she wasn’t there. Or I’d expect her to be in her usual places, and they were empty.

Although I’ve experienced the deaths of grandparents, relatives, and friends prior to Mike’s death, none left me with the deep presence of absence that my husband’s death did. It has become the great divide in my life, before and after. In the early days of grief, I felt his absence in the way the laundry felt when my daughter brought me a towel that my dad had laundered. It felt stiff and hard. I remember crumbling to the ground in tears, saying to my daughter, this isn’t how they felt when dad did them, as he was the one to do all the laundry. Mike was in the empty recliner that he always sat in, the curve of the bed where he once slept, or the absence of his embrace when I would walk into the kitchen in the morning. The weight of grief now occupied the space where he once stood.

My mom slowly slipped away before her actual death, as dementia and illness diminished the once vibrant woman I knew. It was painful to see the changes in her, shrinking each time I saw her both in size and her ability to remember things. She would still surprise me with her humor. Although we lived on opposite sides of the country, I always enjoyed hearing her on the phone, especially how she made me feel so special when she repeatedly told me how proud she was of me. Slowly, those conversations fell away, too. I had never heard of ambiguous loss until after my mom died. I wouldn’t give myself permission to grieve that I was losing her because she was physically present. I wish I knew then what I know now, as it has complicated the grief I feel for her as I try to process both feelings.

My dad was my rock, especially after Mike died. He was the one that I turned to for advice and guidance. Even if I had made up my mind, it was nice to know that he was always thoughtful and wise in the information that he shared with me. I loved getting calls from him, even if they were short. As he aged, he would tell me a story I’d heard before, always with the caveat, “Stop me if I’ve told you this before.” I never did. Caring for my mom took a lot out of my dad, though he never complained and was glad to be there for her. After Mom’s death, he began to fade, too. I put it down to grief at first, knowing the toll that grief took on my memory and focus after Mike died. It was only when I went back for the first of what would be the last two trips to be with my dad that I saw how much he had declined. Once again, although he was physically present, I was losing my dad to age, dementia, and illness. On the first visit, he was still present enough that we could visit and enjoy our time together. During the last visit, which was less than two weeks later, the dad I knew had slipped away so fast. He had some lucid moments, but they became more fleeting until death finally took him as well.

Living in the presence of absence is the longing I feel for my loved ones that I can no longer see or be with. These moments hit when something happens, positive or negative. I want to reach out to my loved ones but can’t. I want to call my dad and tell him about a movie he’d like, something in the news, or just to say hello. I want to tell Mom about my life, ask her more about her life and feelings, or talk to her when I’m not feeling well. I want to share with Mike all the ways I’ve grown creatively, to speak to him about the kids or music I’d think he’s like. Our lives were so intertwined that even as I keep walking forward in the world without them, I still yearn for the physical connection I will never have again.