The day I write this is a dreary day. Gray, cloudy, quiet and holds no promise of a cheerful sun coming out. I tell my friend on a walk, “I don’t need this dreariness; I can do that all on my own.”

I know it is part of grieving over the death of husband Paul. Most readers know the stages of grief defined by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross: denial, anger, depression, bargaining, and acceptance. No one’s grieving follows a clean linear path and then it is done.

No indeed, our grief meanders up and down the stages. My statement above covers at least two — anger and depression — and I am only in my first two weeks.

Truthfully, I feel numb, sometimes detached from the event. I have said or written to friends that I am prepared or preparing for the enormity of the loss, although I am not sure what that means.

I have also had moments of profound understanding and acceptance of the inevitable end of our life together; that I would be without him, that he was old, and his body would no longer support his life, that he and I were lucky to have 54 years of a loving relationship together, that we are intended to turn living over to the generations that follow, and that life would never be the same.

How mature, how wise, how fleeting … alas, more brain than heart but, at least, I know what part of acceptance feels like.

Grieving

As readers of this column know, this time is not my first episode of grieving, but it is the final.

I have been grieving in blocks for two years as Paul was disappearing. Each plateau he dropped into after the loss of some part of his physical and/or mental abilities became a time for grieving followed by adjustment.

There were many and Paul and I learned strategies for adapting so we could accomplish our goal set out at the onset of end-stage heart disease. We would strive to have as many days together as possible before he died.

We met that goal and experienced more than 700 days in the hospice program. We were fortunate because Paul’s condition was not painful, and he had enough strength to participate in transfers to and from wheelchair to bed or commode. We both did our part to earn those days.

Now, I am well-practiced in grieving and find myself at the final intersection at which I must choose the right direction. It is so much harder because his physical presence is gone. There is no sweet loving man to tell me he loves me every day more than once.

‘Spacey’

Our bodies do a great job of protecting us. I have been what I describe as “spacey” since Paul died. The numbness I describe is part of the protection. The way I see and have seen it in others is that I will feel more and more sorrow as my body and spirit decide I can handle it.

The other cause of “spacey” for me is I have maintained a strict routine in managing Paul’s care plus household responsibilities, which after two years is no longer needed. I can feel my body pulling me back into the now obsolete routine.

Then I realize there is no need, and I feel relief.

I did not drive for a week; I worried I would be distracted by my own pain. When I started driving, I went my usual routes and made myself focus.

I did not want to eat much after Paul died, and my body did not mind until three days ago when I felt hunger pains. Even then, I did not relish food except for the lemon pastry a friend left for me.

Gratitude

I have posted my columns about our journey to death on Facebook and posted the last on Wednesday.

Family and friends have followed the journey there and respond with enormous support and love, many I am sure because they are either experiencing something like it or know that someday they will.

People I have not met have responded with sympathy, empathy and caring. In all cases, they hear our love and loss and are compelled to share it with me. Their words read like poetry.

The outpouring helps me cry and not feel alone. I read Facebook and other sent messages more than once and will again and again into the future.

I have attentive friends, a stepdaughter and a stepson who watched over Paul and me and now, the alone me. I would be lost without them.

I am enormously grateful to the Assured Hospice nurses — Ashley, Laurie and Merissa — who over two years grew to be our friends. Their knowledge and expertise guided us from the beginning to the end when Laurie swaddled Paul for his final travels.

I am especially grateful to Amelia, our Hospice aide, a constant helpful caring presence for most of the two years. She visited twice a week to assist Paul in his shower and made several additional visits to help him revisit his landscaped yard. She brought a balloon on his birthday.

At the end of one of their last visits, he said to her, “I love you.” And he did, as I do.

Amelia positioned him in peaceful comfort for his final days.

So much to be grateful for, especially, the last 54 years of my life with Paul. We always thought we were very lucky. Paul left carrying a big part of my love, and he left a big part of his love with me, which was one of my final reminders to him.

Another reminder I will share with you is something we would often read together. Years ago, I copied it off a bulletin board in Ashland, Oregon. It was labeled as being from Peer Gynt, the Ibsen play I presume.

“But someday you’ll come,

I know you will come

And I will wait for you

As I said I would.”

Bertha Cooper, an award-winning featured columnist with the Sequim Gazette, spent her career years in health care administration, program development and consultation and is the author of the award-winning “Women, We’re Only Old Once.” Cooper and her husband have lived in Sequim more than 25 years. Reach her at columnists@sequimgazette.com.