Our words have been absent these long months since Herald died.  (Is it really just five months?....) What more could we say about a loss that has been so profound and deep that all of us who loved Herald are still trying to come to terms with, and handle the grief.  Sometimes the grief is like a rain of pebbles; other times, boulders from a highway avalanche knock me down.  No one prepared me for waking up each day, for the leaden feeling that weights down my chest when the reality of death hits once again.  Oh yeah….Life Post Herald….

I have come to know as Truth, that Time does blunt edges, but does not provide a shield.  At first, the small moments of not having grief totally dominating or lurking in the active background, seem like small betrayals.  How can I NOT be thinking of him constantly and feeling the heavy sorrow.  Other times, I find I can now laugh at something that reminds me of my dear brother.  Some of those times, I keep on smiling.  Other times, the laughs end in tears springing unbidden into my eyes and I go quiet. The laughter ends in a deafening silence.

Above all, what has most surprised me is that I cannot predict when or where emotions will hit me.  I know to avoid the obvious movies about a sister losing her brother, about a family losing their husband and father, and I carefully screen recommended books for themes fraught with potential danger.  I normally do not pay attention to commercials on television, but now have one I both love, and dread coming on.  Mostly, I love it.  It is the Citigroup ad with the dad laughing and playing with two little blond girls, one clinging to each leg, as he does an exaggerated silly walk, lifting them off the floor as he walks to their shrieking giggles and the song lyrics, “Something’s gotta hold on me!” bounce off the cheery house’s walls.  My nieces.  My brother.  A bygone, happy time.  Gone, but living on in our collective memories.  The commercial pierces my heart every time.

I can leave the room when ads come on; I can fast forward through dvr’d programs.  I can avoid movies, television shows, and books that send out warning signals.  What I cannot avoid, are the everyday moments that spring ambushes on me.  They give no sign that they are there, until they are.  Last week, I was grocery shopping.  Next item on the list was a bag of organic potatoes.  I looked through all the bags of potatoes and none were organic.  On the other side of the potato produce display, I tripped the wire.  There they were.  My heart pounded, tears welled up, and after an endless moment staring, I turned my shopping cart away and through blurry eyes, and made my way to the next aisle, any aisle.  I had not found the organic potatoes.  I had found multiple bags of Fingerling Potatoes.  Fingerling Potatoes. They were one of the few foods Herald actually wanted to eat in his last days, and could handle with all the immunotherapy drugs, side effect drugs, and radiation therapy.  Just seeing that food item ripped open the Grief Scab. 

No one can prepare you for your own grief.  I have learned that grief is personal and as individual as every human being is.  The phrase “collective grief” really means grief of a shared person or persons.  Or it can be banding together with those who are experiencing grief for different persons.  It is all of our grief collected together to share, or not share, to talk about, or to weep about alone. But we all will, or have experienced it.  Grief is part of what it is to love and to be human.

What have I learned in these last five months that my brother is no longer with us on Earth?  I have learned that Love expands even more when a final breath is taken.  I have learned how much my family loves me and that without my loved ones, my grief would be almost unbearable.  I have forged new bonds with both loved ones, and people heretofore strangers to me who loved my brother.  My faith in humanity has been strengthened, and my spirituality renewed.  And I have learned that more Fingerling Potatoes are out there, but that I will survive them, in whatever form they appear.

Love and Peace from Manassas, Virginia