Grief is not a race to be won

It will soon be eight months since my mum died. It will soon be six months since my retired guide dog died. I count the months without even meaning to, but the way I feel grief has changed in the time that has gone by.

In a way it is less raw. But describing it as such doesn’t exactly feel accurate. Because sometimes it pushes its way to the front of my mind and it is all I can do to catch my breath and try and ground myself in the moment. At these times it feels as though I am back in those early days, when it was difficult to feel anything but pain. The difference is that it isn’t always like that. There are times when I feel completely normal, or at least whatever normal is for me now. I will never be the same person I was before.

It’s unexpected and complex. Sometimes I think about how much I miss my dog and question whether I was good enough and kind enough when she was working, and then I want to call my mum to tell her how sad I’m feeling, and suddenly my losses are piling up and I do not know how to escape them. Of course I do eventually, and I am back on even ground.

I feel like I’m not supposed to talk about it. If I do, people will assume I’m not moving on. Nobody likes a person who lingers in the past. But I am not lingering, or at least I don’t think I am. I am grieving and healing, but that process takes time and it is not linear. We are misled to think there are five stages that you move through one after the other. There is a definitive end point to the process. “There, you’ve made it to the finish line, congratulations.” The reality is different. Perhaps those stages exist, but they are constantly moving. Sometimes they overlap. Sometimes they drift apart and you find yourself mired in anger or sadness. Sometimes, you do feel like you have left them behind until you turn the corner and suddenly there they are in front of you once again.

They will never get another summer. They will never get birthday presents or go outside or stand by the sea. My mum will never call me. Isla will never disappear in to the trees, following a path that only she knows. And isn’t that so fucking unfair?