An email pops up on my screen, bold and striking: “C got married over the weekend. So… how are you holding up?”
How am I holding up? My first thought is, “I’m fine, truly happy for him. Wishing him all the joy!” But then, a wave of emotion washes over me, and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe.
My former son-in-law is embracing a new chapter, but all I can think of is the bittersweet memory of nearly two decades ago when he stood beside my vibrant daughter, Lily, and vowed, “I take you, Lily Collins, in sickness and in health.” And he did just that, for two and a half years. He didn’t abandon her, as often happens in the cancer community. Instead, he stayed through her struggles, watching as the vibrant woman he loved faded away. He remained steadfast, loving her until her last breath and beyond, never once complaining.
So, how do I feel now? Happy for him but sad for myself. I feel a deep weariness, as if I’m losing yet another connection to Lily, someone who truly understood and loved her alongside me.
Over the years since Lily’s passing, family and friends have gradually moved forward, embarking on new adventures. Like others from “Lily’s Crew,” C now gets to laugh, love, and live freely, unshackled from the shadow of death.
In the past few years, I’ve experienced fleeting moments of joy, feeling alive and playful again, but they come and go. Watching those around me “move on” makes me cling tightly to what I know, unable to release my bond with Lily, my essence, my breath. Yet, I realize I also need to carry on, or risk fading into a slow death myself. These cherished friends and family members honor Lily’s memory by living fully, something she would want if the roles were reversed. If I remain stagnant, cancer will have taken another part of my life, and I can’t let that happen.
Deep down, though, I feel a pang of envy. I wish I had never faced such a painful loss. I long to breathe deeply, laugh without reservation, and escape the shadow that lingers at the edges of my mind.
When I examine my emotions closely, I realize I also feel abandoned. Does anyone else miss Lily as much as I do? It’s hard to express this innate sadness that sometimes grips me unexpectedly, interrupting laughter and joyful thoughts. I retreat back into myself, into shadows where colors fade to gray. It feels easier to hide than to pretend to enjoy social interactions when I feel so detached. But this “safe” place is draining my spirit. I want to choose life.
Yet, whenever I do, anxiety creeps in, making me wary of experiencing another devastating loss. I’ve become overly protective, worrying about my loved ones to the point of insisting my grandkids wear bike helmets even when they use the bathroom at night. My husband jokes about my fear of a giant rock looming above our home, ready to crush us like a bug. I hear about earthquakes and find myself counting seconds until I wake up in our apartment, fearing the walls will collapse around me. “What are the odds?” he asks. I know they’re small, yet the odds of losing a child were also small, and that happened.
It’s important to remember that healing and grief don’t follow a timeline. My love for Lily is unique, which is why I sometimes feel alone in my sorrow. But C’s love is also unique, and we both carry the memories of Lily in our hearts forever. Getting married doesn’t erase her existence.
Is that what I think “moving on” means? I react strongly to the term because it seems to imply forgetting or leaving behind. It reminds me of pioneers who had to part with cherished belongings to continue their journey. I don’t want to abandon Lily, leaving her behind on some dusty trail just to reach an uncertain destination. Or maybe I fear that if I don’t think about her every day, she might slip away from me. That thought is unbearable. But what if she is ready to move on? Where would she go? Who would be there for her in her loneliness? If her husband can’t, shouldn’t I? And if she does move on, where does that leave me?
The beauty of memories is that they ensure no one is truly abandoned. They stay with us, providing comfort wherever we go. Even the pioneers carried their memories. Anyone who loved Lily will never forget her. Through my memories, I will continue to care for her, and she will care for me. Perhaps instead of “moving on,” I can think of it as “carrying on, with you.”
So, how do I feel about C’s wedding this past weekend? I’m grateful that he gets to carry on, to experience life anew, filled with joy! I admire his bravery in loving again, without fear.
This announcement stirred feelings of sadness and loss, but maybe I can allow myself to join C and others in “carrying on.” This doesn’t mean letting go of Lily; it means she will walk alongside me as I move forward, encouraging laughter and love. She would want that for me.
So how am I really doing? Publicly, I say, “I’m fine!” Internally, I whisper, “One step at a time. Carrying on. Thank you for asking.”
In Summary
The journey of grief is complex, filled with emotions that can be overwhelming. While we may feel the urge to hold onto memories tightly, it’s also essential to reframe our understanding of moving forward. Instead of viewing it as leaving behind loved ones, we can embrace the idea of carrying them with us, allowing their memory to inspire us to live fully.