The notification pops up on my screen in stark black letters: “C married over the weekend. So…how are you holding up?”
How am I holding up? My first instinct is to respond with a cheery, “I’m fine! Thrilled for him. Wishing him all the happiness in the world!” Yet, as those words form, my heart sinks, and I struggle to catch my breath.
My former son-in-law has found love again, but all I can think of is the bittersweet moment 18 years ago when he joyfully pledged his love to my late daughter, Emily. He stood there, vibrant and alive, as he vowed, “I take you, Emily, in sickness and in health.” And he meant it, staying by her side through her harrowing battle with cancer. He witnessed her transformation from a lively woman to a frail shadow of herself, yet he never wavered. He loved her until her last breath, sacrificing a piece of his youth in the process.
Now, how do I feel? Happy for him, yes, but also an overwhelming sadness washes over me. I feel like I’m losing yet another connection to Emily, another piece of the shared history we had. Over the 16 years since her passing, many family members and friends have turned the page to new chapters in their lives. Like others before him, C now gets to rediscover joy, laugh freely, and embrace love, unshackled from the specter of death that once loomed over him.
In the last few years, I’ve experienced fleeting moments where I can see life in vivid colors again, breathe deeply, and feel a sense of joy. But those moments remain rare. As I watch others “move on,” I find myself clinging to the past, unable to let go of the memories of Emily, my essence, my breath. Yet, I know that I, too, must find a way to carry on or risk fading away. Those who loved Emily celebrate her by living fully. She would have wanted me to do the same, I remind myself. If I remain stagnant, it feels as though cancer will have claimed yet another life, and that’s not what Emily would have wished for me.
Truthfully, I feel envious. I feel lost. I wish I had never experienced such profound loss. I long to breathe deeply, to laugh openly, to escape the shadow that lingers in my mind.
If I dig even deeper, I confront a sense of abandonment. Does no one else feel Emily’s absence as deeply as I do? Is my grief so singular? This pervasive sadness often catches me off guard, disrupting moments of joy and leaving me retreating into solitude, where colors fade to gray. It’s easier to isolate myself than to pretend to enjoy the company of others when I feel so disconnected. But this so-called “safe” space is slowly draining the life from me, and I yearn to choose life.
Yet, every time I take a step toward living fully, anxiety grips me. I fear facing another potential loss, questioning whether I could endure such heartbreak again. I’ve become hyper-aware of my loved ones’ safety — even insisting my grandkids wear helmets when they get up at night to use the bathroom. My partner jokes about my irrational fears, like worrying about a boulder above our home tumbling down and crushing us. When I hear news of disasters elsewhere, I can’t help but envision similar tragedies befalling us. My husband often asks, “What are the odds of that happening?” I know they’re slim, just as the odds of losing a child before a parent are. Yet, it happened.
Taking tiny, gradual steps is essential. Grieving and healing have no set timeline. My love for Emily is mine alone, and that’s why I often feel isolated, not because others care less. C’s journey is unique to him, too. We both hold onto Emily’s memory in our hearts, forever entwined. Her life doesn’t vanish because he’s chosen to marry again.
Is that what I think “moving on” signifies? Perhaps I react strongly against it because it feels like an erasure, a forgetting, a leaving behind. It brings to mind the pioneers who discarded cherished keepsakes to lighten their load for their journey ahead. I don’t want to abandon Emily along the way. What if I fear that if I don’t think of her daily, I’ll lose her completely? But what if Emily is ready to let go of my grasp? If she moves on, where does that leave me?
The beauty of memories is that no one is ever truly left behind. They carry no weight yet provide immense comfort. Even pioneers took their memories with them. Anyone who knew and loved Emily cannot possibly forget her. In my heart, I will continue to honor her, and she will honor me. So, perhaps I can redefine “moving on” as “carrying on, with you.”
So, how do I feel about C’s marriage? I’m grateful he gets to carry on, to experience life again with vibrant joy. I’m thankful he can love deeply once more, free from past burdens.
The news of the wedding has brought forth a wave of sadness and loss, but in processing this, I may find the strength to join C and others in “carrying on.” This doesn’t mean I’ll forget Emily; rather, it means she walks alongside me as I rediscover laughter and love. If she could, she would want that for me.
How am I doing? To the outside world: “I’m fine!” To myself: “One step at a time. Carrying on. Thank you for inquiring.”
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Summary:
In navigating the complex feelings surrounding loss, the author reflects on the journey from feeling abandoned to reframing the concept of “moving on” as “carrying on” with the memories of a loved one. The emotional struggle of reconciling joy and sorrow in the face of loved ones finding happiness is explored, ultimately leading to a revelation of gratitude and hope.