Grief is a ninja

My husband Greg died on December 6, 2013 after 61 years on this earth, and I was lucky enough to have spent almost all of the last 24 of them with him, 18 years as his wife. Right now I'm having trouble imagining life without him. I thought writing about him, about our life together and about the amazing life lessons I learned from him, might help ease the ache in my heart. It may be sporadic, it may be short, but maybe it will help others as I try to help myself.

The most recent lesson I have learned is that grief is a ninja. It sneaks up on me silently, in the most unexpected of places, and destroys my carefully crafted composure with one well placed kick to the psyche. I've expected the attack in many places, like our bedroom, the intersection where he was killed, the theater where we spent the majority of our social time and where we held his memorial service, and I've built up shields to protect myself from the onslaught of overwhelming emotions that come there. It's the unforeseen assaults that I have trouble with. Who would have thought that the smell of Home Depot would be a deep emotional trigger? Or the theme song to 'Two Broke Girls'? Or a package of hummus?

I've learned to let the ninja score his points and just let the tears come. I know it won't be a fatal wound, and will usually be more damaging if I try to hold it in. And I know that while the attacks will become less and less frequent, the ninja will never be completely out of my life. As long as I hold Greg's memory in my heart, there will be those moments of pain when I see something unexpected that reminds me of him, or I experience something new that I know he would have loved.  The ninja will wait in the shadows and strike without warning for as long as I love Greg, which will be forever. So, bring it on, ninja of grief. I'm ready for you.