The years in between

Today marks 15 years since my husband’s death and that means I am doing a lot of reflecting. Some of that reflection is about the pain of losing Paul (it is still there), and some of it is about the number of years I’ve been on this earth without him. And the number of years into the future that I expect to live without him Yes, I still grieve for the future we never had; the broken dreams hurt as much as the broken heart sometimes.

I heard someone talking about a poem called “The Dash” a few years ago. It recounts a fictional eulogy whereby someone speaks of their friend’s life in the “dash” between their birth and death dates. That dash, we’re told in the poem, is the living. It’s all the life that takes place between the dates, hopefully more happy than sad; hopefully more healthy than sick; and hopefully full of meaning and love rather than emptiness and regret.

Since first learning of the poem, I’ve heard countless references to “the dash” and the importance of how you spend the years of your dash. But it has also made me think about the wider meaning and the stories we get from headstones. The telling signs of faith or occupation; hobbies and interests; families and love. The photos and epitaphs; icons and carvings; and dates. Dates that indicate birth and death, and sometimes marriage or other significant life events.

I’ve long been interested in the stories we can glean from headstones, and I can spend countless hours exploring headstones and monuments in old (and new) cemeteries. And on shared headstones, there are several life stories in one place. Parents and children; marriages and remarriages; generations of life stories on a single stone, sometimes hinting at stories of sorrow, of waiting, of longing, of missing…

It’s those shared headstones I tend to ponder most, especially the lives of a husband and wife. I look at the death dates and I find myself wondering what life “in between” was like for the last to die. If they died within a year of each other, I wonder if the second death was hastened by grief. And if there was a long span between their deaths – 10, 20, 30, or more years – I find myself wondering if they spent those years alone and I wonder if that’s my future, too.

But I also think of the widowed partner, and I wonder if they found happiness between the date of their partner’s death and their own. Did they find another person to love in between? Did they find meaning, joy, and purpose in between? Or were they sad and lonely all those years? Were they filled with grief? With relief or even guilt? Were they left in poverty or able to live a comfortable life? Did they talk with their partner, cry to them, long for them, pray for them… or did they put them out of their mind and banish their memory to the deepest recess of their memories?

What about those young widows who were left behind too soon? Did they find new adventures and forge new paths to rebuild their lives? Or did they stand still, living in suspended animation, unable to move forward without their partner? Were there friends and family around them or were they all alone? Did they hide away in the darkness, or soak up the sun’s rays with gratitude?

Experience tells me it’s more complicated than one emotion or one reaction. And that emotions and reactions will change and be revisited over the years. Some of these “in between” feelings will last the entirety of the earthly separation, whilst others will come and go or fade away into distant memories.

Indeed, when I think about my “in between” years, I know I have felt sad and lonely at different periods. Not always, and indeed, not mostly (well, mostly sad and lonely in the beginning). But the sadness and loneliness lurk beneath the happiness and friendships; rearing its head at the most inopportune times – like when I reach otherwise joyful milestones in life or when I’m enjoying myself on an adventure on my own.

Other emotions come and go or have faded away almost completely. The raw, unbearably painful, early emotions of grief have subsided leaving me with just “normal” grief. And whilst the grief might swell and become overwhelming at times (anniversaries, stressful events, or random memories), it is generally a silent companion that lives within my heart and soul as I move forward through my grief. And I imagine it will live within me for the rest of my in between years.

As I wonder about the in between years of others, I sometimes wonder how my own in between years will be pondered when I am gone. Will people wonder about my levels of joy or sorrow? Will they wonder if there was a second love or what new paths I may have followed in my grief? Will they question how I spent those in between years? Or will anyone even care in generations to come?

Of course, I know I have had a lot of living in these 15 “in between” years. And I expect (or at least, I hope) to live another 20 years on this earth. That’s a lot of life between Paul’s death and mine. And whilst I know there will be sadness in the coming years, I am hopeful that there will be more happy than sad; more healthy than sick; and hopefully full of meaning and love rather than emptiness and regret.

But no matter what these remaining years bring, I know that I will always miss Paul, I will always love Paul, and he will live in my heart forever. He was, after all, my first love. And that love helps me to carry on.