Keeping it in perspective

After Jen's diagnosis in September 2008, we both experienced a shift in perspective. The worries that had been there previously now seemed less important. We drove more carefully. We argued less. We put more effort into the relationships with people we loved.

So does this perspective continue now? Three and a half years later, does the experience of death still diminish the significance of everyday problems? At times I do reflect upon some personal conflict or stressful situation, and remind myself that it's non-fatal. We'll all still be alive in the morning and see the sun rise. Material achievements still seem paltry compared to the value of people. All we can do is make use of the time that's given to us.

There's a risk here of being too detached, of not worrying enough. Both Jen and I were conscious of reassuring our friends that what was happening in their lives still mattered just as much to us, even if it was less dramatic than Jen's situation. Reading Lily Brett's book of essays 'In Full View ', she describes growing up in Melbourne as the daughter of two survivors of Auschwitz. She was constantly reminded that nothing that happened to her could ever be as bad as what happened to her parents, but the outcome seemed to be that her very real problems were neglected. For me it's a sign of transition that Jen's death is far enough away that it's sometimes obscured by immediate events in the foreground, whether joy or sadness.

Mostly though I find that the distortion of grief is that it amplifies my problems rather than diminishes them. This is most obvious with the experience of other deaths. Grief does give a healthy reminder of the fragility of all life, especially our own, and the impact of death on others. Whenever I see on the news about any deaths, I think of those half a dozen or so of us who still think of Jen on most days, and who probably will for the rest of our lives. Beyond that there were two hundred or so people at Jen's funeral who were in some way affected by her death. I think for a moment of that impact for each death, multiplied by the overall toll, and am briefly overwhelmed.

I've been fortunate so far to be spared the death of any immediate family since Jen, but there have been two other funerals -- an uncle who died of cancer not long after Jen, and my father's cousin who died of a heart attack after dinner one evening just as his wife was bringing him a cup of tea. It's not just the death itself that resonates with Jen's death, but the encounter with other people's grief in all its variety. The unexpected death of our golden retriever, Sasha, at the start of 2012, also brought back many of the same feelings, especially as Sasha was so strongly linked to Jen herself.

Grief amplifies anger, often in a bewildering and subterranean way.  We can't reasonably be angry with Jen, and so it surfaces in other places. The household suffers from my lack of patience when I'm tired and under stress. My response to normal slights or annoyances can be out of proportion, as though I'm waiting to find someone to nail, to take out my anger upon. Thankfully that kind of over-reaction is diminishing, and I'm becoming better at recognising the causes.

Grief also amplifies my sense of being alone. Even when I was travelling for work, I always made a point of ringing Jen at least once a day if possible. In all of the 5800 days that we were married, there were only a bare handful where we didn't talk because of distance. The day she died was the end of that long conversation, though it still continues in my mind. So I've found myself being very sensitive to this kind of sudden loss. In circumstances where friends have sadly broken off contact, either temporarily or permanently, it feels like another death, another abandonment. I struggle still not to 'catastrophise' - the person is still alive, but just not talking to me. I wonder if this over-dramatisation is also an unconscious defense, a retreat into safe territory - who after all can challenge the validity of grief, and its ability to draw sympathy? 

There is a slow transition happening. The colours are coming back into life. For example, I've started to feel positive about my work, rather than just dragging myself through it.   I have wondered if there's a proper 'balanced' perspective I'll reach, between the one extreme of feeling that death is for old people, and the other of seeing life as constantly fragile. I suspect not.  The perspective will just shift depending on my focus, and the yet unknown events of life and death. Grief will remain, but it won't always block out the sun.