Shortly after my husband died, I woke to the sound of a garbage truck coming down my street on its routine early morning pickup. I usually dislike those noisy garbage trucks grinding away as they slam trash cans around, but now a sense of comfort washed over me. How strange, I thought, that such an ordinary thing helps me regain a sense of normality. My connection to the outside world was momentarily restored. I began to welcome trash days knowing that for a few moments, I would relax – something that had eluded me in those first months of grief. It was a small sense of relief, but with a noticeable impact.
The totality of losing a spouse or long-term partner is overwhelming, hard to grasp and even more difficult to talk about. The magnitude is apparent when someone asks: “How are you?” It is an impossible question to answer. Even the social formality of saying “fine,” which at other times might feel sufficient even if only partly true, at this time feels highly incongruent with reality. It is an uncomfortable and stark reminder of how there is no shorthand for expressing grief.
But I could describe to friends how I missed the little things: his greeting when I came in the door, sharing an anecdote from my day or a piece of news about one of our grown children. I missed getting a hug. The stuff of daily life. Other people easily understood these subtleties. It was harder to convey how empty the house felt, the dread of facing a lonely future, how anxious I was at my core and how life’s meaning had been stripped away and washed of color.
I also found myself reacting to small things in ways I never had before. A minor inconvenience such as having to wait in a short check-out line in the grocery store that previously never bothered me now felt unbearable. Having to call to schedule a home repair seemed like too much. Or being put on hold once I did call enraged me. Internal resources are depleted while grieving, so minor stressors become engulfing. Taking a moment to breathe, going for a walk or doing yoga stretches helped restore some balance.
After the immediate loss, I sometimes found it hard to cry except in response to small things – a touching sentiment in a card, an innocent comment about “Popi” from my young grandson. It would catch me by surprise. But it was welcome. Blanketed by a constant ache, with no compass, no way out, no way to navigate through, crying gave movement and direction to the pain. Letting go was a relief because the grief mostly just sat there, a constant weight. I felt helpless in its grasp for a long time. But bit by bit, by expressing tears over little things, grief found its way out, moving me along my healing journey.
It was also small acts of kindness from others over time that helped me heal. Luckily, I had many supportive friends and family members in my life. Their thoughtful gestures helped. A neighbor who called from a grocery store to see if I needed anything, for example, reminded me that I was connected to others who cared about me. My kids, who were also hurting, sharing memories about their dad, and making sure I wasn’t alone all the time, brought meaning and color back to life.
One of the most touching moments I had after my loss was in a Home Depot. I found that doing small projects around the house was quite comforting. Repotting a plant, reorganizing a cupboard, or figuring out how to repair something small that my husband would have normally fixed gave me respite from the grief and worry. It was soothing and meditative to focus only on the task at hand. Also, each successful project helped me discover new strengths and I was reminded of my creativity and competence.
One day, I needed to buy some mesh to keep my newly acquired mini-poodle pup (a way of bringing life back into the house) from escaping through a fence. When I got to the store and found the right aisle, I asked an employee about what I needed. He had greying hair and kind blue eyes. I blurted out that I had lost my husband and that I was trying to do it myself and wanted help getting the right materials for the job. He looked at me thoughtfully, took a long pause then proceeded to tell me that he knew what that was like as he had lost his wife some years earlier. I almost burst out crying. What a relief. I wasn’t even aware of how much I was holding myself together to take on this challenge. I felt an immediate kinship with him that touched me deeply. After getting me what I needed, he gave me his card and said if I ever wanted help in the store to please ask for him. It was a small gesture, but it meant so much to know that someone out there was willing to help. I also sensed that our momentary connection meant something to him too. Even though we were total strangers, the mutual recognition of the grief experience was palpable.
Holding yourself together can itself become painful, like a muscle that is held too tight for too long. And when you can begin to let go, to find small creative ways to work through pain, the journey gets easier. Perhaps, through sharing the small stuff, we create the shorthand for expressing the deepest parts of grief. Telling your story little by little, taking on new challenges no matter how tiny, discovering new aspects of yourself, recognizing your strengths and weaknesses, grabbing onto moments of self-compassion and connection whenever possible. Those are what help you through.
And that is no small thing.