The email pops up on my screen in bold letters: “Mark got married last weekend. So… how are you holding up?”
How am I holding up? My initial reaction is to say, “I’m great! Thrilled for him! Wishing him all the happiness!” But then, reality hits like a ton of bricks, and I find myself gasping for air.
Mark, my former son-in-law, has found new love, yet all I can think about is the bittersweet memory of 18 years ago when he stood joyfully next to my late daughter, Anna, and said, “I take you, Anna Claire Thompson, in sickness and in health.” And he meant it for the two and a half years that followed. He didn’t run away, unlike many in the young adult cancer community. He stood by Anna as she transformed from a vibrant, witty woman into a shadow of her former self. He stayed, loving her fiercely until her last breath, giving up a piece of his youth without a single complaint.
Now, years later, how do I feel? Happy for him, yes, but also sad for me. I’m filled with a sense of loss, feeling as though I’m losing yet another connection to Anna. Those who were part of her life seem to be moving forward, while I feel stuck in a moment of grief. Mark is now free to laugh, love, and embrace life without the weight of sorrow dragging him down.
In the past four years, I’ve had fleeting moments where I feel alive again—bright colors seep in, laughter bubbles up, and for a brief time, I forget my pain. But those moments are rare, and when I see others moving forward, I cling to what I know, terrified of losing the memory of Anna. I realize that I must find a way to carry on, or I risk being left behind in my own stagnant grief. Those who celebrate life in Anna’s memory are honoring her spirit; she would have wanted that. I tell myself that stagnation means cancer wins, and that thought is unbearable.
But honestly? I feel envious. I wish I had never faced such a devastating loss. I long for the freedom to breathe deeply, laugh heartily, and escape the ever-looming shadow of grief.
Digging deeper, I grapple with a feeling of abandonment. Does no one else miss Anna the way I do? It’s hard to articulate this profound sadness that creeps up unexpectedly, disrupting my moments of joy. I retreat into myself, where the vibrant colors fade to gray, a safe space to cry alone. It feels easier to hide than to pretend to enjoy social interactions when all I feel is emptiness. Yet, this so-called “safe” place is draining the life out of me. I want to choose life.
But when I do choose life, anxiety kicks in. I’m terrified of facing another loss, wondering if I could survive it. My vigilance about keeping loved ones safe has reached absurd levels. I panic over trivial things, like my grandkids wearing helmets to the bathroom at night in case they trip. My husband jokes about my fears of the boulder perched above our house, worrying it might come crashing down. I hear about earthquakes and start imagining our apartment shaking apart. “What are the odds?” my husband asks. True, the odds are slim, but so were the odds of losing a child.
Tiny steps. Slow steps. Grief and healing have no deadlines. My love for Anna is mine alone, which is why I sometimes feel isolated. Mark’s journey is unique to him, and we both carry Anna’s memories in our hearts forever. His marriage doesn’t erase her existence; it simply adds to the tapestry of our shared experiences.
Is what I think of as “moving on” really about erasing memories? It invokes images of pioneers discarding cherished possessions to lighten their load. I refuse to leave Anna behind in the dust just to reach some unknown destination. Maybe my obsession with her is a fear of losing her memory. What if she’s ready to move on without me? I can’t bear that thought.
But here’s the beauty of memories: they never truly leave us. They provide comfort and accompany us wherever we go. Even pioneers carried their memories. Anyone who loved Anna will never forget her. In my memories, she lives on, and we continue to care for each other. Instead of “moving on,” I can choose to think of it as “carrying on, with you.”
So, how do I feel about Mark’s wedding? Grateful. Grateful that he has the chance to carry on, to embrace life with renewed joy.
While the news has stirred up sadness, perhaps I can allow myself to join Mark and others in “carrying on.” This doesn’t mean letting go of Anna; it means she travels with me, supporting me as I choose to breathe, laugh, and love. She would want that for me.
So, how am I really doing? Publicly? “I’m fine!” Internally? “One step at a time. Carrying on. Thanks for asking.”
Summary
The author reflects on the emotions surrounding the marriage of a former son-in-law, navigating feelings of loss and envy while honoring the memory of a deceased daughter. Instead of focusing on “moving on,” they choose to embrace “carrying on,” recognizing that memories of their loved one live on.