Quote from Deleted user on June 2020, 4:22 pm

Is Life Without You Unendurable? 

By Patricia Flasch

Yesterday, I was reading a novel by Eileen Goudge called, “The Second Silence.” There was a paragraph where an older couple were sitting on a park bench holding hands, saying that each wanted to die first because living without one another would be “unendurable,” and I began thinking “is life without you unendurable?”

Yes, oh yes, sometimes yes. Yesterday was one of those days. It was an empty day with no structure, and I bore this ache, this hollow, this place that I couldn’t name, yet knew it was the absence of you. Missing you is a living breathing thing. Some days, I don’t know how I will get from early morning to late at night. I don’t know how to endure. I break it down. Let’s just get from 7-8 AM, maybe write or walk, and it goes on all day, hour to hour. Covid-19 has revealed how deep this hollow is and how pervasive.

I cannot look into the future. Life without you is unendurable. I can see that after four years and one month, I have endured, but only with your presence, your messages, and your loving kindness.

It is seemingly impossible to endure the loss of your body and our soul connection is so very real. You promised, dear man, when you were dying that you would find a way to breakthrough the veil and join me. Thank you for keeping your word.

Life Without You Is Endurable

A few years ago, Stephen and Ondrea Levine, favorite teachers of mine, were in the midst of their dying process. Since they were in the field of death and dying (see “One Year to Live”), they offered fireside chats, sharing their wisdom about what dying is like. The part that most touched my heart was that they both wished the other would die first to spare their partner the grieving process.

 It’s been almost 1500 days now that I have lived without you. At first, I thought I might have a mental breakdown so severe that I would be bedridden. That sure didn’t happen. From the first day since the moment you died, we have remained soul mates. The very moment that you died in my arms and I looked into your eyes, I remembered the day I met you, and I could see my reflection in your eyes. I KNEW YOU and I knew that I had been with you before, as if we had always known one another.

This very real sense of connection is the ground from which I endure your loss. Two days after you died, I was sitting in your rose garden, which was in full bloom. Suddenly, the song, “Lullaby of Broadway” was playing in my mind. It is not a song I am familiar with, yet the lyrics came through perfectly. That was the first time I received a message and I knew I could endure from there; I was really not alone. 

Then one day just after you died, I was eating breakfast at the Chocolate Maven with all the friends who were at your bedside through the dying process, and I said, “I think I need a miniature pot belly pig.” We all laughed until we cried. It was you, David, coming through and it sustained me. It was your humor and your capacity to bring light to a sad situation. 

Just the other day, I was so down in the morning, just running around the living room yelling, “Help! Help! Help!” I asked for a sign that you were here. Then, while watching “The Mentalist,” the song “What a Wonderful World” came on, and that was one of our favorite songs. The song came on again ten minutes later, just to make sure I received your message.

Whenever I bring my troubles to you, you respond. It’s your voice that guides me through them. The English garden saves me. Your generosity of Spirit, throughout life, death, and in the afterlife make my grief journey endurable.

Saying “yes” to anyone that offers support has made me resilient. Prayer and meditation are also places of respite for me. My sense of love and companionship has buoyed me up.

I have the privilege of talking with two soul companions every morning, and I have a much wider circle of friends who are always willing to listen. These dear friends cover some of the space you left, though no one can replace you. All of these things make it possible to endure your loss one day at a time.